A Wanton for All Seasons Page 13

  Her friend guided her hands back down.

  Annalee turned a pout on Valerie. “You are no fun.”

  “Which is why I’m the perfect person to help you with this particular decision.”

  With a last sorrowful look, she laid the article down. “I’ll have you know it’s more a shade of scarlet. Not exactly the same as red,” Annalee mumbled as they continued their quest.

  Valerie fingered the lace fringe of a pale-yellow muslin. “Hmph,” she said, her gaze not on that fabric but on the front of the shop. “It is tiresome,” she remarked.

  Annalee chuckled. “There is much tiresome about modistes and Polite Society. You have to be more specific, dear.”

  “It’s just that she’s still debating whether to serve you, and yet she’s rushed off to provide assistance to a man and his mistress, so mayhap she’s not as respectable as all that.”

  A man and his . . . ?

  Endlessly intrigued, Annalee looked to the front of the shop and froze, her heart thumping funnily in her chest. For the pair on the floor now, speaking with the modiste, were no wicked woman and her protector. It was . . .

  “Wayland?” she whispered.

  She felt Valerie’s questioning stare.

  After all, she’d have to be looking at the other woman to have seen it. As it was, all her focus was entirely reserved for the broad-muscled figure conversing with Madame Bouchard.

  What brother bothered to accompany his sister to a place as tedious and miserable as this one?

  Between being oblivious to her relationship with Wayland and returning from the Continent all those years earlier and finding his sister the talk and scandal of London, Annalee’s own brother couldn’t have been bothered to defend her honor. Nor, for that matter, would she have ever wished him to do something as foolish as duel because of her. He’d been more of a friend, even when they’d been children, treating her as one of “the lads,” as he’d called the three of them. He’d enjoyed her company when she’d been fishing and shooting and racing him and his best friend. But neither had Jeremy been the manner of devoted brother who’d go about escorting her to fittings.

  “Is he one of your lovers?” Valerie asked curiously.

  “Hmm?”

  And then it registered what her friend was asking—whether Wayland was one of the men she’d taken to her bed.

  Oddly, the answer was both . . . yes and no. It had been a lifetime since she’d made love to Wayland. He’d also been her first, the man she’d happily surrendered her virtue to. “No,” she finally brought herself to murmur. Those moments belonged to another time, between a different woman and a different man from a lifetime past. “He is . . . a friend of my brother’s.”

  “Ahh.”

  Valerie’s murmuring belonged to someone who thought she’d pieced together a connection, and yet . . . she couldn’t know, truly. Because no one knew about the years Annalee had been head over heels in love with the gentleman. Back when she’d believed in love.

  Just then, Madame Bouchard squired off Wayland’s sister, a bundle of blushing cheeks and guileless eyes and so much innocence and—and the oddest pang struck, and for the oddest reason. She didn’t miss the woman she’d been. And yet . . . Annalee’s gaze locked on the crimson fabric she’d haggled with Valerie over.

  The young woman’s eyes landed on Annalee, lighting not with the disdain so familiarly turned Annalee’s way.

  “Annalee!” she exclaimed, and with an absolute lack of ladylike decorum that Annalee fell a little bit in love with her for, the girl rushed over. “It is ever so good to see you here in London! I have missed seeing you.”

  “I . . .” A swell of emotion filled Annalee’s throat at that unexpected pronouncement from the younger girl. “May I introduce my friend, Miss Valerie Bragger.”

  All of London knew Valerie Bragger—at least they knew of her name from the scandal sheets. And given Wayland’s full immersion in Polite Society, there could be no doubt his sister was well aware of the other woman’s reputation.

  “How do you do?” Valerie murmured with a deep curtsy.

  “Oh, no. None of that at all!” Kitty Smith brushed off that politesse with a wave of a gloved hand. “I forbid it. I despise that formality!”

  Surprise lit Valerie’s eyes.

  Kitty turned back. “Wayland!” The young lady waved her arms exuberantly. “Look who I have found!”

  Annalee’s eyes slipped over to the devoted brother, who paused in his conversation with the head shopkeeper. His gaze slid away from Madame Bouchard, and he froze, and in that moment, it was as though time ceased moving altogether, and everyone else within the room melted away but for her and Wayland.

  Annalee’s mouth went dry as recognition flared within those striking green-blue depths, and her body recalled all over again that slight tightening of his fingers as he’d sunk them into her hip. And Lord smite her for the wicked creature she was, her imaginings took an even more forbidden turn as she imagined straddling him and him gripping her that same way. She bit her lower lip hard, and even with the space of the shop between them, she caught the narrowing of his lashes as his focus locked on her mouth.

  The moment was shattered, and time resumed its movement, with a dizzying rapidity. “Wayland!” his sister called out as she once again motioned for him. “Do come over.”

  Wayland murmured something to Madame Bouchard, and a pretty blush stained the young shopkeeper’s cheeks.

  A tart taste filled Annalee’s mouth, and she followed his approach. He’d always been a charmer. From the girls in the village where they lived to, by the reports she’d read within the papers, all the most respectable ladies in London. He’d always possessed a way of making a woman feel as though she were the only person present. She’d not, however, witnessed . . . that charm in action. On other women, that was.

  Wayland reached their trio and immediately doffed his hat, tucking the elegant article under his arm. “Look, Wayland,” Kitty said happily. “I’ve found Annalee.”

  “I see that,” he murmured, his eyes sliding to Annalee’s once more, and doing all those dangerous things to her belly, flutterings and flips that she’d forgotten with time’s passing and then buried with the jaded course she’d set. Apparently, those butterflies had been resurrected by the power of Wayland’s piercing eyes.

  He sketched a bow. “My lady.”

  Alas, that singular focus proved entirely one-sided as he slid his attention away all too easily.

  Madame Bouchard swept over. “Viens, viens, mon cher. Il y a beaucoup à faire.”

  Kitty beamed, offering another enthusiastic wave. “Perhaps you would be so good as to keep my brother company for a short bit?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said quickly, too quickly, as his sister rushed off.

  “Forgive me,” Annalee said after the girl had gone. “Lord Darlington, allow me to introduce my dear friend, Miss Valerie Bragger.”

  She reflexively positioned herself closer to Valerie. Wayland of old would not have ever been anything less than welcoming and warm to a woman of Valerie’s reputation. The new Wayland, married to respectability and his good name—and reputation—was a man she didn’t know. And as such, she knew even less how he’d receive—

  “Miss Bragger,” he murmured, offering a deep, respectable bow. “It is a pleasure.”

  “My lord,” Valerie said with the usual cool she reserved for men.

  “I have read much of yours and Annalee’s work with the Mismatch Society.”

  Annalee tensed.

  “I think it is admirable that you and she have taken on such an important venture.”

  He did?

  “Do you?” the other woman said gruffly, though without the same amount of her earlier vitriol.

  Wayland lifted his head. “Indeed.”

  “Thank you. It is . . . a pleasure meeting you, as well, my lord,” Valerie murmured.

  He dropped a bow. “Any friend of Lady Annalee’s is a friend
of mine.”

  And if she were capable of falling in love again, it would have been in this moment, with this man who didn’t cut her friend, and who might disapprove of her society but had also spoken respectfully of it to Valerie.

  Dropping a hasty curtsy, Valerie slipped off.

  And with that, she left Annalee and Wayland . . . alone.

  Leaving was the wisest course.

  He’d exchanged the suitable degree of politeness, with greetings and proper formality. As such, dropping another bow and heading in the opposite direction while he waited for his sister was the safest thing to do.

  Particularly after the scandal that had come from just a dance.

  Whatever would the world say to a coincidental meeting the next afternoon following the set that had the ton talking?

  A meeting that was, in fact, chance, but the world wouldn’t see it that way.

  And yet knowing all that and committed to avoiding scandal for the sake of his family, still, something kept Wayland frozen to the floor.

  Go.

  He made to bow . . . but the earlier hesitancy had cost him.

  “I daresay the world would be agog if we were seen here, conversing,” Annalee murmured. “As such it would be best for you, Lord Darlington, if we parted ways as quickly as possible.”

  A challenge dwelled in the slight up-tilt of her intonation.

  She’d always dared him.

  Nay, they’d always dared one another in various pursuits or games.

  “You expect that I will leave.”

  “I expect you will,” she said. “But then, I expected you should not have anything nice to say about my Mismatch Society, and you proved me wrong just moments ago.” And that quiet murmuring didn’t contain the usual brash confidence and jest.

  “I surrendered my rebellious roots, but that does not mean I cannot admire what you have created and what you attempt to do for women.”

  Her jaw slipped and her lips parted, and standing as close as he was, he caught the breathy little sigh. “I liked your rebellious roots, Wayland,” she said softly.

  “No good came from them.” Certainly this woman, more than any other, should have realized that.

  “Yes, well, not all of us have the luxury of abandoning our rebellious ways. Women aren’t afforded the same luxuries as men.”

  “No. I am aware of that.”

  “Speaking of rebellious ways,” she whispered, leaning close. “What will the world say to your speaking here with me now?”

  Absolutely nothing good. It would fuel the gossip, and throw further fire upon the ton’s fascination with him and Lady Diana, and the frustration that the romantic match the world craved was being so thwarted.

  Given the state of his sister’s ostracism by Polite Society, all that should matter most.

  And yet . . .

  “I don’t care,” he said quietly.

  And found . . . there to be truth in that admission.

  Annalee started.

  Be her friend . . . she needs you . . .

  All Harlow’s and Jeremy’s separate urgings slipped forward.

  She dampened her lips. “Well, that . . . is quite surprising.”

  Sadness swept through him. “Then that is because I’ve been the most miserable of friends.” He’d failed her . . . not just at Peterloo. But after, too. He’d made so many mistakes.

  “Not the most miserable,” she protested. “The most absent, perhaps.” She gave him a slight playful nudge with her elbow. “Well, then, as you are interested in stepping forward as a friend, I must really insist you help me.” And then she slipped her arm through his, and with that one exchange, he may as well have transported them back a lifetime ago to when they’d been both friends and secret lovers. “I am going for respectable, and the modiste is otherwise busy,” she said as they began a stroll through the shop.

  Together, they looked over to where the shopkeeper tended Kitty. Kitty, who’d arrived after Annalee.

  She’d been given the cut direct by the damned modiste. He’d been so consumed with how Kitty had been shunned, only to have failed to see that Annalee had found herself . . . suffering that same cruelty? How had it taken Jeremy pointing out just how much Annalee was and had always been deserving of his support?

  He glared at the modiste.

  “Oh, do stop. It’s really quite fine,” Annalee said on a rush, so very accurately reading him and his outrage.

  “It isn’t,” he gritted out. In any way. “She’s no reason to deny you service.”

  “She’s not denied me. She’s just . . . made me . . . wait.” She smiled up at him, the radiant expression that dimpled her cheeks and lit her eyes, and always made a muddle of his mind. It never failed to.

  Except . . . this time. This time, rage consumed him. “I’ll not tolerate it.”

  “Well, you have no choice,” she said firmly, “because I do, and I’ve found that it is best to know which battles are worth taking up. And this? This is decidedly not it.”

  He remained there, his entire body tense, staring at the modiste. Warring with the need to stomp over and demand she respect a woman deserving it, when Annalee lightly squeezed his arm.

  “She’s done me a favor, Wayland.”

  A muscle ticked at the corner of his eye, and he forced his gaze away from that viper and over to the woman at his side. “I daresay you’ll have to enlighten me as to how.”

  Annalee briefly leaned her head against his shoulder. “Why, there isn’t a better person to help me achieve proper than you.”

  “Thank you,” he said dryly as they started their walk around the edge of the shop.

  “I meant that as the greatest of compliments. I do have a need for respectability, you know.” She brought them to another stop, this time alongside a table littered with fabric. Collecting a crimson bolt in her long fingers, she held the material aloft. “Eh?” she said, molding it to her frame.

  Images slithered forward, of her draped in that shimmery red silk and him tugging it free and kissing each swath of skin exposed. He resisted the urge to tug at his cravat. “Uh . . .”

  “I’m teasing.” She tossed it down and gave a roll of her eyes. “I’m not quite so hopeless.” With that she held up another, bringing it close to her person. A blue so pale it was as though the weaver who’d created the fabric hadn’t known whether to wish for a white or sky blue, and had managed to meld those shades and hues along with several others within. She cleared her throat. “What do you think?”

  He stared, riveted—frozen. Completely captivated by this . . . vulnerable, hesitant woman before him. Wayland’s gaze locked with hers. “Perfect,” he said quietly. “Utterly and completely . . . perfect.”

  And along the way he’d ceased to speak about the fabric and was capable of seeing and talking about only her.

  Her arm wavered, the bolt slipping, and she drifted close, and just several days ago . . . he would have cared. He would have cared so very much.

  Somewhere at the front of the shop, he registered a slight tinkling of a bell.

  Perhaps those were warning ones in his brain?

  The slightest whisper of rose water wafted over him, filling his senses. It was the delicate scent of her, gardens and glory.

  “Annalee,” he began hoarsely.

  “Wayland!”

  And just like that, the moment came to a jarring and miserable halt.

  They looked as one to the owner of that voice.

  A bright-eyed, white-skirt-wearing young lady rushed through the shop to meet him, waving as she went.

  Oh, hell.

  His stomach sank.

  “I thought I spied your carriage outside, Wayland, and I hoped to see Kitty, but you are here, too!” Diana’s smile wavered as she looked to Annalee. Annalee, who’d gone silent and made an impressive show of studying the fabric. “Oh . . . hello. You have . . . a friend.”

  And ironically, there it was. That term applied yet again to his former lover, and from this
woman, whom Polite Society all expected him to wed. He cleared his throat. “Forgive me. Yes. Lady Diana, may I present Lady Annalee. Lady Annalee, Lady Diana.”

  Annalee dropped a curtsy. “How do you do, my lady?” she murmured.

  “Ever so well.” And much the way Annalee had done moments ago, Diana joined her arm with his. “Now that I’ve seen Wayland. Our friendship runs deep”—she lifted a simpering gaze to his—“does it not?”

  Oh, God. I am going to throw up.

  “You know one another through Lord Jeremy . . . do you not?” The duke’s daughter chatted happily, as though she were not talking to his first and only love. Because she couldn’t possibly know. No one ever had.

  “We do,” Annalee said, the stronger one of the pair of them, who was actually able to formulate coherent words. “Jeremy and Wayland were the dearest of friends, and they were”—she looked his way briefly—“good enough to allow me to tag along.”

  Diana sighed. “He is ever so thoughtful, isn’t he?”

  “Ever so,” Annalee murmured, and Wayland couldn’t sort out heads or tails of what she was genuinely thinking in that moment.

  “Diana!” That sharp call from the duchess cut across the shop.

  Diana pouted. “Oh, dear. Mother calls. It was so lovely meeting you.”

  Annalee curtsied. “The pleasure was all mine.”

  Another smile lit the girl’s face as she turned her adoring gaze up to his. “I promise to return after I make my selection, Wayland.”

  “I . . . look forward to it.”

  Giving him another little wave, she hastened off.

  The moment she reached her mother’s side, the duchess started speaking quietly and sternly. Then Diana stole a stricken glance over her shoulder toward him and Annalee, and his stomach fell all the further.

  He’d never allowed himself to really imagine a match between them. She’d been a child at their first meeting, and in his mind that was how she’d remained. And yet that didn’t erase the possibilities that came for Kitty from a marriage between him and Diana.

  “I . . . I should go. I”—Annalee picked up the bolt of blue—“did not anticipate just how quick this trip would be, but it was, thanks to your help.”