A Wanton for All Seasons Page 15

  He folded his arms at his chest. “I’m afraid you must be a trifle clearer.”

  She sputtered. “As though you do not know? Do not play games with me, Wayland. This is nothing to make light of. We have a reputation to consider.”

  “And I’m forbidden from being in any of the places that Lady Annalee is?” he drawled.

  “Yes. Do you truly believe I think this was a coincidence?” she demanded. “You took your sister with you and met that woman, and you’d flaunt her in front of Lady Diana?”

  A curtain of rage briefly hazed his vision. “‘That woman’ is Annalee Spencer,” he said in quiet tones, icy enough that it seemed to penetrate the boldness his mother had stormed in here with.

  She faltered. “You would defend her because of your relationship with her.”

  “Tell me this, Mother . . . Why was it, when I was nothing but a blacksmith’s son, you were always encouraging me to pursue a relationship with her, but now that I’m a titled gentleman, you don’t have need of her?”

  “Because she is not the same woman she was, and you know that,” she said quietly.

  He jerked. Restless, he wanted to flee. He wanted to run from this talk about Annalee and his mother’s reminder about the changes that had overtaken her . . . after that day in Manchester. “I will not cut her. I won’t do it.”

  “She didn’t want anything to do with you following Peterloo, Wayland.”

  It was a testament of how dire his mother found his suspected relationship with Annalee for her to mention that day. The only references she allowed their family about Peterloo had pertained to how his heroism had “saved them,” and the beautiful friendships they’d forged because of it.

  He remained there, frozen to the floor, his arms locked at his chest, unable to call forth a single word in response. But really, what was there to say?

  “You wrote her,” she reminded him viciously of memories he didn’t need. Ones that had haunted him for years. “You sent her notes.” His mother’s scent for blood was even greater than the Duke of Kipling’s hounds’, and she was as merciless, maternal bond be damned. “And did she ever write you? Hmm?” She didn’t allow him a chance to answer; neither, however, did he suspect she needed or wanted one anyway. “And do you know why?”

  No, and it had broken him. Left him shattered and more crippled than the broken ankle he’d suffered that day. A wound set by the duke’s finest doctors, healing so that the scars were invisible to all . . . but Wayland.

  “She didn’t write because the same way you committed yourself to being a different man, living respectably and honorably, she committed herself to shameful, hedonistic pleasures, putting only herself first.”

  “You don’t know that,” he said, his voice toneless and dead.

  “How else do you account for her shameful living, hmm?”

  He couldn’t.

  He couldn’t understand why she’d ended their affair by refusing to respond to his letters. He couldn’t understand the scoundrels she opted to keep company with.

  Pain cleaved through his chest, like a fiery lance that slashed him open, and let free all the agony, all the resentment, and all the jealousy that he’d bottled up within him, emotions he thought he’d ceased to feel. And in that moment, it wasn’t Annalee he resented, or even himself for his failings of her.

  It was his mother.

  “I’m not certain what you want me to say that will appease your worrying. Nor am I certain I altogether care,” he said coolly, wringing a gasp from his mother.

  “Wayland,” she whispered.

  “However, I’ve told you numerous times now that there is nothing between Annalee and myself. So do not come to me with scandal sheets and your baseless worrying, built on nothing more than gossip and your own aspirations.”

  Tears gleamed in her eyes, and she clutched a hand at her chest. “I just want to know that you and Lady Diana will find the happiness her family and I all know you can achieve together.” She rested a hand upon his sleeve. “That was your fate, Wayland. She was your destiny.” On that note, she left.

  Diana was his destiny.

  They were words he’d heard entirely too often where he and the young lady were concerned. At the time, she’d been a child. Now, a woman grown, that expectation had morphed into something more real . . . for her family. For his mother. And . . . even for him.

  Because marrying her made sense. They were compatible. They had a shared past. And yes, there was the fact that her connection would only provide a greater security for his own family.

  And yet, these past two days, he’d not thought of all that he’d committed himself to: respectable, honorable living. Instead, he’d been walking around in a haze of lust and confusion because of Annalee.

  She’d exploded into his life all over again with all the passion and exuberance she’d always moved about with. A veritable firestorm that consumed anything . . . and everyone . . . in her wake.

  Only, there could be nothing respectable with her. For the simple reason that she didn’t want that . . .

  And if she did . . . ?

  His mind shied away from that . . .

  Because she didn’t. She’d been clear in her silence all those years ago, and her avoidance of him, and her movement in other circles, that she and he were entirely different people and the furthest thing from a suitable match.

  A knock sounded at the door, and he glanced up.

  A bewigged footman entered. Clutched within his white-gloved palms was a silver tray with a sheet of vellum upon it. “A missive arrived, my lord,” he announced.

  Wayland straightened, his heart knocking a quicker beat when the young servant stopped before him.

  He quickly grabbed for the note and then froze as his gaze took in the harsh, bold strokes of an unfamiliar hand.

  Not the sweeping and almost airily fun and light strokes belonging to a certain woman. And also a woman who hasn’t written you in years. Pathetic fool.

  The servant blinked. “Beg pardon, my lord?”

  And she had him talking to himself. “I . . . was just remarking upon the academic rule that’s surely responsible for such . . . impressive pen strokes. Always been something of a connoisseur of good handwriting.” Stop. Just stop. He winced at his own pathetic explanation.

  “Uh, yes, right, my lord,” the young man said with a suitable—and certainly appropriate—degree of perplexity.

  “That’ll be all,” Wayland said quickly, and considering the speed with which the footman bowed and raced off, it was hard to say who was more relieved by that reprieve.

  The moment he’d gone and Wayland was alone, he returned his focus to the note belonging to not the person he’d initially hoped—that was, thought—it had belonged to. “You are a fool, you know,” he muttered under his breath as he slid his fingertip under the seal.

  What foolish nonsense was this? Thinking that she’d written him? He gave his head a hard shake meant to dislodge that fleeting insanity.

  Cracking the seal, he unfolded the page and read.

  Darlington,

  I’m aware of your opinions on the proposal of Lord Lansdowne’s Act in Parliament. I thought we might speak of my thoughts on the proposed legislation, along with several changes that I’d like to put forward. As there is a matter of urgency, I’d request your presence this morn quarter past eleven o’clock.

  ~St. John

  An urgent summons from the Viscount St. John.

  One requesting Wayland’s consideration of a bill he was attempting to see passed. There couldn’t be anything more different or more proper than this particular missive.

  And it was a timely reminder that it was best, and safest, to continue the course he’d set himself upon. Not the scandal he’d flirted with at Madame Bouchard’s. Or in the Earl of Kempthorne’s conservatory or hall with Annalee.

  Steeling his resolve and commitment, Wayland quit the billiards room, and a short horse ride later, he found his way to the viscount’s re
sidence. The viscount’s very bustling residence. Servants streamed about, carrying trunks and valises past him, to the three carriages waiting outside.

  Furrowing his brow, Wayland took in that activity, then allowed himself to be shown in by the butler. A footman immediately came forward to take his cloak.

  “I don’t like this. I don’t like this one bit.” Even over the noise made by the servants at work, that less-than-quiet announcement echoed around the spacious foyer, and Wayland followed it up . . . to a bevy of girls lined at the balustrade above, who frowned down at him. Well, not all of them. One had her head buried behind her book.

  The girl next to her, an identical match marking her a twin, threw a sharp jab. “He’s here,” the lady whispered, and the book was instantly lowered, and he found yet another glare turned his way.

  The youngest one, however. It was the youngest one, with her angry little stare, who inspired the most unease. And then, she took a little finger and made the motion of drawing a line . . . across her throat . . . and then jabbing that same finger Wayland’s way in a message that couldn’t be clearer. By God, he was amassing quite the collection of young ladies who seemed to have him on their lists.

  “Worry not.” That emotionless tone came from St. John’s sister clad in all-black mourning skirts. The young lady stepped forward and leaned slightly over the railing. “You’ll not die at Eris’s hand.”

  He forced a laugh. “Well, that is certainly reassu—”

  “It’ll be in a garden,” she murmured. “When you are old and very wrinkled and very grey.”

  “More’s the pity,” one of St. John’s ruthless sisters muttered, her lamentation met with a flurry of agreement.

  “There’ll be a dog, too,” the eerie Kearsley sister continued with her enumeration of his demise.

  The youngest—Eris?—stamped her foot. “He doesn’t deserve a dog.”

  Anwen Kearsley patted her shoulder. “No, he doesn’t, dearest. You are right.”

  Nay, he’d been wrong. Each of St. John’s sisters was a bloody terror in her own right.

  He gulped and briefly eyed the door out of this madhouse. St. John’s sisters certainly took his parliamentary work very seriously and . . . very personally.

  The rules where propriety were concerned surrounding an exchange such as this eluded even him. “Uh . . . good morning.” He dropped a bow.

  Only more glares came his way.

  A whistle echoed.

  “Girls, come away from there.” The Dowager Viscountess St. John swept over to the gaggle of girls still glowering.

  “But—”

  “I know. I know,” the woman interrupted one of the identical twins at the middle of that row.

  The butler cleared his throat. “This way, my lord.”

  Never more grateful for a reprieve, Wayland sprang into motion and followed the servant. And he’d thought the woes were great with the challenge of one spirited sister. God help St. John. It was a wonder the man hadn’t bypassed grey and white and gone straight to bald with that merciless crew.

  As they walked the corridors, frame after frame of each of those young ladies’ likenesses followed, and he found himself quickening his step. The Kearsleys were a decidedly terrifying, and also interesting, lot.

  The butler brought them to a stop at the end of the hall. “Here we are, my lord,” the servant murmured, letting Wayland in and hastily backing up, closing the door behind him.

  Wayland stepped forward. “My—” His words died quickly, and he stopped even faster in his tracks.

  It took but one glance in the viscount’s offices to ascertain one key detail.

  It wasn’t the viscount who awaited him. The enchantress wore a silk creation of seafoam, trimmed with a white lace along the bodice of her gown that accentuated generous orbs that didn’t require any embellishment. She was lush, a veritable Venus, and a man’s gaze needed no further urging when she was near. With the viscount’s desk a perch behind her, it immediately put Wayland in mind of Botticelli’s rendering of that goddess born of the seafoam, emerging from her shell. “You are not the viscount,” he said hoarsely.

  Annalee’s lips tipped up. “Decidedly not.” And then, temptress that she was, Annalee played with the deep vee between her breasts, stroking a finger along that crevice.

  He instantly went rock hard.

  Her knowing gaze slowly dipped and then lingered upon that telltale tenting, an uncontrollable response he had whenever she was near. It appeared even when he was slated to meet with one of London’s most respected, powerful gentlemen.

  Annalee’s smile widened, and she advanced, her movements a cross between a march and a glide, those steps graceful, her efforts determined.

  Oh, hell. This was . . . bad.

  With a quiet curse, he glanced frantically behind him.

  “Annalee, you cannot be here,” he said sharply. All the while he backed up, scrabbling behind him for the door handle. “You’re courting ruin.” Hers and his. “If the papers have commented on a dance between us and a chance meeting at a shop on New Bond Street, what do you think they’ll say about . . . about . . . this?” he asked.

  She stopped when she reached him. “Well, interestingly, Wayland,” Annalee murmured. She brought her hands up . . . but she was only adjusting a cravat he didn’t recall rumpling. “That is what I’d like to speak with you about.” Then she began to smooth her palms over the front of his jacket.

  “Courting ruin?” he croaked.

  She trilled a laugh. And then abruptly removed her hands from his person and stepped away. “Please . . .” She motioned to the viscount’s pair of wing chairs. “If you would?”

  He followed her gesture. “If I would . . . what?”

  “The chairs, Darling. I’m indicating the chairs. I’m urging you to sit.” She swept off, making for those seats.

  And fortunately, with the fragrant rose scent of her not invading his senses or her tempting touch distracting him, his desire faded, and he’d a firm grip again on his self-control. “Annalee,” he said tersely. “Our being alone together is scandalous. I’m meeting the viscount.” Fishing out his watch fob, he consulted his timepiece. “In fact, he’s overdue and will arrive any—”

  “You’re not.”

  He paused.

  “You’re meeting me.”

  His patience snapped. “Damn it, Annalee.” He stalked over. “Not everything is a jest. I was summoned by the viscount about matters pertaining to Parliament and—”

  “You’re not understanding me, Wayland,” she said calmly, without her usual teasing and seductive whispers, but rather all business. “You were not summoned by the viscount.”

  That brought him up short again. “I . . .”

  “You are here because of me. The viscount and viscountess were so good as to coordinate a private meeting.”

  He rocked back on his heels. “You’re jesting.”

  “Usually, yes. But in this, no. This time, I am deadly serious.” With that, she settled herself onto one of the leather chairs and stared expectantly at him.

  Chapter 13

  Annalee wasn’t a woman who found herself unsettled often. Or really, ever.

  She didn’t give in to nervousness—certainly not about or around a gentleman.

  She was confident in who she was and all her actions, and in all meetings and exchanges.

  Until now.

  And with . . . Wayland. A man whom she’d known since they were children, the man who’d been her first lover and her one true love—back when she’d believed in a thing called love.

  Now, with Wayland unmoving and the time passing, she wasn’t at all certain whether he intended to follow her requests, after all.

  Except, this was, of course, a new Wayland. A Wayland who was a stranger to her.

  Wayland of old would have not only hopped onto one of the viscount’s luxuriant seats but also pulled her atop his lap for whatever discussion she’d intended for them to have.

&nbs
p; And as such, this stark difference in him and the way they’d been together only heightened the unease that came . . . not just from meeting Wayland but from her chances of success. She’d promised Sylvia he would take part in her ruse, but . . . Annalee really hadn’t had any place giving such assurances. He owed her nothing. And they were . . . nothing. She was merely appealing to him as a friend of old.

  At last, he sat, and immediately spoke. “Annalee, is this a game—”

  “I’ve already told you,” she interrupted. “No game. I’ve asked you here on a matter of some seriousness.”

  His brows drew together sharply, the harshly beautiful angles of his face becoming a perfect mask of concern. “Are you in . . . peril?”

  And that transformation stirred the flames of hope that perhaps it wouldn’t be so very difficult after all to convince him to take part in this ruse. He also offered Annalee the perfect opening with which to put her request to him. “Well, funny thing, that, isn’t it? There are many different types of peril.” She just happened to be more aware than most respectable ladies of the deadly kinds. And the wicked ones.

  Wayland sat forward on his seat; his penetrating gaze did a sweep of her face. That stare. It was the stare that had first made her once girlish heart beat all the faster, eyes that sliced through one’s soul, stealing in like measure a woman’s breath . . . and her secrets. And even now, though she’d known sexual pursuits of all kinds, his eyes still had the ability to leave her breathless and weak.

  “Annalee.” He spoke her name, and there was a greater urgency, and a deepening of the worried lines at the corners of his entrancing green eyes. “What is it?”

  “My Mismatch Society is . . . facing some difficulties. Temporary ones,” she rushed to assure him. The whole world, her family—they’d all expected she’d bungle it. And she already had and would no doubt continue to do so.

  “What is it?” he asked again.

  “Recently, with the support of the Viscountess St. John, the Countess of Scarsdale, and Valerie, whom you met just yesterday . . .” Except that was the wrong thing to say, as it resurrected that moment at the modiste’s when he’d been moments away from kissing her, before the young Lady Diana had entered and Annalee had been left with questions about the lady’s relationship with him. “We founded a society of women, by women who—”