A Wanton for All Seasons Read online

  As though there were even such a thing as “good graces” where the ton was concerned.

  And yet oddly, this night, Annalee hadn’t found herself minding Lord and Lady Sinclair’s ball so very much. She hadn’t minded it at all.

  Reasons that had to do with the thrill that had coursed through her from being in Wayland’s arms.

  Back in his arms, rather.

  It was the first time they’d ever publicly waltzed. When they’d been all but children, playing at pretend, imagining what they thought life would be, she’d taught him the steps they’d danced tonight. Motions and movements they’d practiced only in private, he with his hand gripping her tighter, closer than the world would have ever deemed wicked. And she’d reveled in it. Those dance sessions that had ultimately dissolved and seen her on the grass with him above her, moving within her as they’d partaken in the most primitive of dances.

  Her body grew heated.

  That was the only reason she’d needed out of that ballroom and away from Wayland . . . and the memories. Because he’d aroused within her a hungering that was strictly based on the sexual.

  Even so, restlessness fueled her strides as she climbed the steps of Lady Wilmot’s palatial residence. Dutiful servants threw open the doors, allowing Annalee entry into that which was most familiar to her: a world of sin and decadence.

  Handing over her satin cloak, she headed inside.

  Long-standing gold candelabras lined the corridors, the light lent by those tapers casting a bright-orange glow upon the crimson carpeting. And as always, whenever Annalee walked these halls, she marveled at the hostess’s boldness in lighting such a path, when the ones who would be wandering it were the most intoxicated, most unsteady members of Impolite Society.

  As she passed parlor after parlor, each room converted into a makeshift gaming hall, she didn’t bother looking. Instead, she headed for the room most familiar to her.

  The moment she arrived, she glanced about.

  A pair of lovers tangled in one another’s arms availed themselves of their host’s pretty pink settee near the front of the parlor. Sparing barely a glance for the couple engaged in far different pursuits than card play, Annalee found her way to the table set up directly by the hearth.

  The two gentlemen looked up from their game of whist.

  “Deal a lady in,” she drawled.

  A cheroot clamped between his teeth, Lord Willoughby grinned up at her. “A joy to see you, love.”

  A strapping footman drew out a chair, and Annalee slid herself into the comfortable leather folds.

  Muttering a slew of black curses, Beckett tossed a hefty purse across the table, which the other man happily scooped up. “Beckett was of the foolish and incorrect opinion that you wouldn’t be coming this night,” Willoughby explained at Annalee’s questioning look.

  In fairness, she hadn’t planned to visit this night—the whole proper-behavior business and all that. Even so, devoted friends with Lord Willoughby for eight years now, she still found herself unable to utter that particular truth. One that would be met only with questions she’d no wish to answer. Eventually she’d have to. But not now. “Where else would I be?” She tapped the table, indicating again that she was ready for the game play.

  Flawlessly and quickly shuffling the stack, Willoughby proceeded to deal the cards, letting them fly, until an ace landed and Beckett found himself the dealer for their game of vingt-et-un.

  As Annalee gathered her hand, Lord Willoughby leaned forward, his own forgotten. The first friend she’d found in her descent into free living and wickedness had been Willoughby. “Well, that is a question, isn’t it? Where have you been?”

  She resisted the urge to squirm under the attention paid her by the gentlemen studying her entirely too intently, and she made a show of arranging and studying the cards she’d been dealt.

  A fabulous hand.

  “Lord and Lady Sinclair’s.”

  There was a beat of silence, and then both men promptly dissolved into laughter.

  “Granted, I’d expect Sinclair’s would be a place you would have attended,” Willoughby said through his amusement, “ten years ago when the fellow was a proper rogue and not the proper, devoted papa and happily married gent.” He surrendered to his mirth once more.

  She lifted her finger in a crude display that only added to both fellows’ amusement.

  “What in God’s name were you doing there, love?” Willoughby demanded when he’d gotten himself under control.

  “I’ll have you know,” she murmured, straightening the card Beckett had dealt her, “that I was being respectable.”

  She registered more silence and looked up. Both men exchanged a look, then proceeded to howl once more.

  “Oh, hush. The both of you.” She dealt them each a kick under the table.

  “Wh-what . . . ?”

  “It is for my Mismatch Society.” She proceeded to outline the latest trouble faced by her group. A servant came over with a glass, and her mouth dry from the hell that was this night, Annalee accepted the crystal snifter with a word of thanks.

  Leaning forward, Willoughby filled her glass.

  She and her tablemates lifted their snifters in toast, clinking rims and then drinking deeply.

  Imbibing was certainly not in the “proper” column, and yet neither was attending Lady Wilmot’s household card parties. The night, however, called for it. She tossed back a long swallow, welcoming and relishing the comfortable burn as the silky liquor glided down her throat.

  “Seems like a lot of trouble and not a lot of fun,” Beckett remarked, motioning for the card play to resume.

  “I enjoy it,” she said, swirling what remained of the contents of her glass several times. “It brings me pleasure.”

  “And you are ever one for your own pleasure,” Willoughby purred in silken tones.

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not in the mood.” She paused. “Tonight.”

  Surely later she would be. But for some reason, after her dance with Wayland and being held in his arms, she couldn’t think of being embraced by Willoughby . . . or any man, for that matter.

  They each looked at their cards and staked their bets.

  Annalee added three counters.

  “So tell us, how was your first foray into respectability?” From around the cheroot clamped between his teeth, Beckett asked that question conversationally.

  “It was . . .” A memory slipped in . . . of Wayland with his palm upon her waist, his fingers curled into the satin fabric of her dress. She grew wet and shifted on her seat. “As tedious as one might expect,” she lied. “Now if we might return to our hand, gentlemen?”

  And fortunately, the game resumed, and the questions about Lord and Lady Sinclair’s ball were at an end, along with the whole discussion about respectability. And yet, as Annalee sat there long into the early-morn hours, wagering with two of society’s most notorious rakes, she could not push back the thought of Wayland.

  Chapter 9

  In the world of Polite Society, the slightest thing brought scandal raining down.

  In this case, it appeared, nothing more than a waltz with Annalee had resulted in the ton’s latest sick fascination.

  Given her appreciation for the wicked, Polite Society could not help but notice the unlikely attendance of a certain Lady A at the unlikeliest of events—the Earl and Countess of S’s latest ball.

  Polite Society also noted the sole—and unlikely—figure whom the lady danced with: Baron D. Given the illustrious Lord D’s reputation, theirs was an unlikely partnering. Yet given the gentleman’s close connection to the lady’s brother, perhaps it was nothing more than friendly devotion to the family. Or perhaps . . . there is more? If there is . . . it would throw into doubt all hope of the match society has waited with bated breath for between Lord D and Lady D . . .

  Wayland sat there, staring at the two short but very damning paragraphs. Over and over.

  This was bad.

  It
shouldn’t be.

  And it wouldn’t be . . .

  If there weren’t the expectation that he would wed Lady Diana. A union that was increasingly urgent for the misery Wayland’s sister was suffering through.

  “Ahem.”

  Lowering his copy of The Times slightly, he looked at Kitty, seated beside him.

  “I would like to point out that it’s all really just rubbish. Why, it features a whole host of redundancies,” his sister said helpfully and devotedly. Leaning in, she jabbed at the tiny printed words. “One-two-three ‘givens.’ And as if that wasn’t bad enough? One-two-three-four ‘unlikelies’? In just two paragraphs and six sentences.” Kitty lifted a finger. “And if I may also point out, one of those sentences is incredibly clunky and long and awkward, and could have very easily been broken into several sentences. Terrible writing, that.”

  Yes, it was terrible writing, as his sister pointed out. Terrible, however, for a whole host of reasons.

  “Should I keep going?”

  “Please,” he said, swiping a hand over his face.

  “Not everyone is waiting on that match between you and Lady Diana. I couldn’t care less whether you wed the duke’s daughter.”

  And ironically, Kitty was the main reason he ultimately needed that formal union.

  With a curse, Wayland tossed down the gossip pages.

  “Now, that there would really scandalize them, brother,” she said, waving a heavily buttered biscuit his way. “You swearing at the breakfast table in the presence of a lady—” She laughed as he grabbed up the newspaper and playfully swatted her on the arm with those sheets. “Oh, come, brother dearest. It’s really not so bad as all of that. Why, I think this is perhaps the most interesting thing about you in . . . in”—she wrinkled her nose—“why, years!”

  “Thank you for that devotion,” he said wryly, picking up his coffee. He blew on the still steaming contents.

  She patted his hand, leaving a greasy bit of butter atop. “You’re quite welcome.”

  She’d always been hopelessly inept when it came to identifying sarcasm, and any other time her innocent response would have raised a smile.

  This time . . .

  It was the likeliest outcome—gossip. Gossip followed Annalee, trailing her like the king’s finest bloodhound on a hunt.

  Wayland glanced down once again at the same newspaper he’d been reading that morning. The same blasted one now being read all over London, at every table in every polite household. Including . . . Jeremy’s. The duke and duchess, as well as Lady Diana, were reading that gossip.

  His gut tightened.

  Bloody, bloody hell. This was bad. No matter which way one looked at it.

  “I for one do not think there was anything wrong with it, brother,” Kitty said softly, cutting into his panicky musings. “It was just a dance, and it was just Annalee. Why, you were friends when you were children.” She wrinkled her nose. “They don’t mention anything about that now, though, do they?”

  His response emerged tired to his own ears. “No, they didn’t.”

  But that was because, to the ton, Wayland’s life before Peterloo may as well have not existed. They knew he was a blacksmith’s son, but beyond that, no one delved into the life of a common man. No, they were content to focus on the title he’d been granted, and forget the past he’d come from.

  “And you looked happy, Wayland.”

  Happy . . .

  There’d been the same thrill that had always been there when taking Annalee in his arms for a waltz or quadrille or country reel. She’d always been filled with an effervescent joy, radiant like the sun, but that orb had blazed brighter, all but consuming her since Peterloo.

  The furious echo of footfalls reached the breakfast room, and he and his sister looked up.

  “This is a disaster,” their mother cried, brandishing a thoroughly rumpled version of the same scandal sheet he and Kitty had been speaking over.

  Kitty held up the remnants of her chocolate pastry. “I agree most strenuously. There were but three chocolate-covered biscuits . . . three . . . and they are gone.” And in a grand flourish, she slapped the back of her spare hand across her brow.

  God love his sister. His lips twitched in the first real humor he’d felt since waking up to find that damned gossip sheet.

  “Biscuits.” Their mother’s lower lip trembled. She grabbed the chair on the other side of Wayland before one of the two footmen could, a suspension of decorum from a woman who’d committed herself entirely to it that spoke volumes of her upset. “I am not talking about biiiiiscuits.”

  Any other time he would have been impressed with the extra three syllables she’d managed to squeeze into that particular word.

  Kitty cupped a hand about the side of her lips, visible to their mother, and mouthed, “Sorry . . . I tried.”

  He winked.

  “Are you paying attention to me, Wayland?” Mother cried, jerking his focus back her way.

  “Yes, yes. Of course.”

  Kitty ripped off another piece of her biscuit. “As though he could be focused on anything else with your yelling,” she said around that mouthful.

  “All anyone is talking about is the fact that you danced with that woman.”

  “‘That woman’ is Lady Annalee,” he said tightly. “Also Jeremy’s sister, and—”

  His mother shoved the newspaper with the words he’d already committed to memory in his face, interrupting the rest of his defense. “I know who she is, but she is not respectable.”

  No. He tightened his grip upon his cup. Her reputation was not what it had once been. Even so . . . “She is an earl’s daughter.”

  “Who drinks, Wayland.” His mother proved unrelenting. “Who drinks and smokes cheroots and wagers.”

  “IIII think she is quite fun,” Kitty said casually. Having moved on from biscuits to toast, she was now buttering a thick slice of bread.

  Their mother gasped, her eyes bulging enough that he worried they might actually pop from their sockets. “Not another word, Kitty Smith.”

  His entirely unrepentant-looking sister made a show of marking an X across her closed lips, before returning to her toast.

  Dragging her chair closer to Wayland, his mother continued on in her tirade. “This will never do, Wayland,” she said quietly. “We are outcasts as it is. You . . . well, you are largely fine. Accepted enough. But me and Kitty . . .” She gave her head a sad shake. “We shall never be welcomed unless everything about us is above reproach, and that includes you not engaging that woman so . . . so intimately,” she said on a hushed whisper.

  Now she opted for discretion. As though she’d not just come screeching into the room, airing their family’s business before their servants.

  “It was one dance,” he said, as much a reminder for himself as for his fretting mama. It shouldn’t result in this level of scrutiny . . . even if it was Annalee. “One dance,” he repeated.

  “And he danced two with Lady Diana.” Kitty’s reminder came muffled from the bite she still chewed.

  Their mother leaned around Wayland so she might better turn a frown upon her daughter. “Do not talk with your mouth full. It is very plebeian. And I’ll remind you both, there are certain rules and expectations which must be followed by respectable members of Polite Society . . .”

  With that, their mother proceeded to dole out essential lessons that they need remember. As though he weren’t entirely aware. As though he hadn’t dedicated himself these past years to being respectable and honorable and proper. He gritted his teeth. And now because of one dance with Annalee, he’d find himself not only the subject of gossip throughout every breakfast room and parlor but also the recipient of a lecture from his mother.

  His sister leaned in and whispered, “What is more plebeian than a blacksmith’s kin, though, eh, big brother?”

  “Indeed.”

  Even as they shared another commiserative-sibling smile, his gut clenched.

  Blacksmith’s c
hildren was what they were, and what they would always be. And while he’d come to accept how the world viewed him, he’d never be at peace as long as Kitty was treated as she was by Polite Society. Shunned. Mocked. Nay, there could never be humor in those words she’d uttered. Not when she was an outcast amongst the ladies, a wallflower without even a dancing partner or suitor.

  His mother spoke, bringing him back from his troubled musings. “Two dances with Lady Diana is still only one more than a set with . . . with . . . Lady Annalee.” She wrung the edges of that paper in her gloved fingers, staining the white satin with ink as she did.

  “But three”—Kitty waggled three of her fingers—“is tantamount to an offer of marriage.”

  “Which is the goalllll,” their grasping mama whispered furiously. “The whole world knows that.”

  More than anyone amongst Polite Society, his and Kitty’s mother had bought into the romance of a future match between Wayland, the heroic rescuer, and the duke’s beloved daughter. When Diana had been a child, it had been easy enough to not give any real thought to the expectations society and his mother had for them. But now that the lady had made her Come Out, he was being forced into a place of having to actually commit—or not—to that union.

  Kitty furrowed her brow in an overexaggerated confusion, and even with the misery of the day, Wayland found himself smiling. “The goal is . . . marriage?”

  Mother threw up her arms. “Of course.”

  His sister sat forward, dropping an elbow on the table. “So marriage between Wayland and Annalee is the goal?”

  He promptly choked on his swallow, and the force of his paroxysm sent the black brew spilling over the sides of his cup.

  “Oh, dear. I’ve gone and given you a fit, brother. I was simply teasing.”

  Teasing about him and Annalee . . . when no one knew anything of his former relationship with the lady, no idea that marriage had been something they’d dreamed of and spoken of before . . . life had interfered.

  Kitty thumped him hard between the shoulder blades, only sending more droplets splashing.