A Wanton for All Seasons Read online

  “We”—she waved a palm back and forth between them—“are not on the same team. You are on Mother’s side.”

  “I am on the side of seeing you safe and cared for,” he said in solemn tones, willing her with that gravity to both see and hear his sincerity. “And your future secured, and if that makes me a bad brother, Kitty, then so be it.”

  Silence followed his quiet pronouncement. She searched her eyes over his face for a long while.

  Perhaps . . . she could be reasoned with, after all. Kitty was emotional, but she also possessed a keen logic and mind. Perhaps—

  Kitty released a shriek, fit to challenge the perseverance and quality of every piece of crystal in the room. She punched him harder in the chest this time, in one-two-three rapid succession, and stormed off.

  “Kitty!” he called after her.

  “Go to hell.” She swept out into the hall and slammed the door hard behind her, rattling the frame and sending the crystal adornments upon the sconces tinkling.

  Wayland dug his fingertips against his temple.

  It was his lot in life to fail where all females were concerned.

  Looking forward to the upcoming carriage ride with his mother and sister with the same eagerness as a man might feel facing a firing squad, he made his way to the foyer, where he found the tense, unspeaking mother-daughter pair. Grateful when they arrived a short while later at the duke and duchess’s residence, they made their entry, waiting in stiff silence to be announced.

  Wayland glanced around the packed ballroom.

  When he’d first entered events hosted by members of Polite Society, the crowds had gawked with fascination at him, an interloper amongst their ranks. A king might grant a title, but that title did not automatically transfer societal approval. Far from it. Originally, almost always and only met with the cut direct, he had felt that coldness recede eventually, and the people thawed—somewhat.

  In time, with the support shown him by Jeremy and his family, and some of the more benevolent lords and ladies, a greater courtesy had been extended to him. But that approval was contractual . . . dependent upon how well he adhered to the expected steps. A requirement made all the more important by the fact that his sister had never really found herself the recipient of the acceptance Wayland had been shown.

  “Not one word from you this night,” his mother said as the party before them prepared to be announced, and she, Wayland, and Kitty slid into place behind them.

  “I’ve not said anything. Not that I would say anything to you anyway,” Kitty said from the corner of her mouth, her lips unmoving. “There is nothing I wish to say to either you or my traitor of a brother.”

  Traitor of a brother? “Oh, for the love of—” Wayland’s clipped challenge was cut short.

  “The Right Honorable Lord Darlington, Miss Smith, and Mrs. Smith.”

  “Smile, dears,” their mother urged, plastering the most painful-looking one on her lips as she swept forward.

  And as he trailed behind, with a furious, unsmiling Kitty on his arm, he cursed this night . . . that undoubtedly could not get any worse.

  He reached the bottom of the steps and froze, his gaze landing on the tall, statuesque lady with one of the duke’s Doric columns as her only company.

  “Annalee is here!” Kitty exclaimed animatedly, the happiest he’d seen her that night. She gave an exuberant wave, and across the room, Annalee lifted her fingers, giving them a little wag. All the while, her taunting stare remained locked on Wayland.

  His heart thumped hard.

  After she’d quit the Viscount St. John’s offices, he’d thought their paths wouldn’t again cross. But it appeared, between this and the invitation she’d extended to Kitty, the lady wasn’t quite done with him.

  He was in trouble. There was nothing else for it.

  Chapter 15

  Annalee had, as a rule, come to appreciate that one could never truly rely upon other people completely.

  Oh, it wasn’t cynicism that lent her the belief. It was life. And simply put, the reality of it.

  Her parents hadn’t a use for her, following Peterloo. Her brother, well, he’d even less use of her upon his return from the Continent, when he’d discovered her transformed from the innocent sister he’d called friend to a wicked wanton whose honor was long past defending by that point.

  Why, even the Mismatch Society hemorrhaged its members to the marital state—first Sylvia was gone and married, and now gone altogether. And then it was Emma.

  Even that group of some dozen ladies staunchly defended her and supported her, but neither were they and their families rushing to send any invites Annalee’s way to their respectable affairs.

  It was also that cold, hard reality that accounted for Annalee dusting off Wayland’s rejection, as the Dowager Viscountess St. John had encouraged, and continuing without his help.

  Proper and respectable. She could do that. At least until Sylvia’s return.

  Hell, since Peterloo, Annalee had mastered both.

  And she’d been doing swimmingly this evening at the Duchess of Fitzhugh’s ball . . . until Wayland had been announced.

  Of course, it made sense that he would be here. At one of the most respected events, hosted by the estimable duke and duchess. It was the perfect affair for him to attend.

  When she’d coordinated an invitation for herself that night with the assistance of the Dowager Viscountess of St. John, Annalee had only had one purpose in mind—rehabilitating her image.

  She’d not allowed herself to think about seeing Wayland here.

  Now, she was as hopeless as she’d always been where the gentleman was concerned to do anything other than drink in the sight of him.

  For all the ways in which he’d set to fit in with Polite Society, he’d forgone the puffs at the sleeve heads as favored by nearly all lords. In his figured silk waistcoat, snuff brown in shade, he stood apart from the many gentlemen who donned black, thinking themselves dashing in darkness. Deep-brown breeches. A wool jacket in emerald, and wide cravat and loose bow, on the arm of his sister as he was, he epitomized the role of devoted, loving brother.

  He always had.

  It had been one of the reasons she’d so admired him. Contrary to how some older brothers went out of their way to avoid an under-the-foot sibling, Wayland had been the kindest, sweetest big brother when Kitty was nearby.

  Not unlike Annalee’s brother.

  A wave of unexpected melancholy filled her.

  Kitty offered another exuberant wave for Annalee, which she returned. These events amongst the members of Polite Society were deuced uncomfortable, and . . . lonely. It was a rarity that she was welcomed, and it was kindness that meant so very much to her.

  The girl slipped her arm from Wayland’s, and leaving his side, she joined their mother.

  Annalee forced her focus away from that trio.

  Wayland’s mother had once been so welcoming but had since made a habit of giving Annalee the cut direct whenever their paths crossed.

  Nay, she’d hardly approve of Annalee. Not now. Not anymore.

  Just as her son didn’t.

  He wouldn’t have approved of anything where she was concerned since Peterloo. Those unexpected moments of madness that seized her, crippling her mind and paralyzing her to all except the horrors of that day.

  God, she desperately needed a drink. Her throat ached for it.

  She followed the trays being carried about the room, those flutes bubbling and sparkling with the pale, frothy spirits within.

  Annalee bit the inside of her cheek and repeated the mantra she’d set out with this night:

  No champagne.

  No brandy.

  No whiskey.

  No cheroots.

  Annalee had rattled off that litany while Valerie had helped her make her dress selection for the Duke and Duchess of Fitzhugh’s overflowing ballroom.

  Get in. Be respectable. Get out.

  A handsome footman with a tray aloft came cl
oser, and everything within her arched toward his offerings.

  Her tongue heavy, Annalee stretched out her fingers.

  Mayhap just one champagne flute.

  An elegant figure stepped into Annalee’s path, stealing that opportunity for the relief brought through libation, and killing temptation’s pull. “You’re doing splendidly, my dear,” the dowager viscountess said, flanked by her three eldest daughters.

  This was doing splendidly? Hanging out on the fringe of the ballroom, a pariah to the respectable? And barred from the pleasure of drink? “There isn’t anything that feels good about any of this,” she said, unable to call back those mutterings.

  “Well, I for one would have you stay unchanged— Oww.” The dowager viscountess killed Brenna’s defense with a decisive pinch that was even less discreet than the young lady’s shriek.

  “We are not attempting to change her. We are attempting to”—Lady St. John lifted a palm, moving it higher as she spoke—“elevate her.”

  Annalee smiled for the quartet, more loyal than her own family, and certainly a good deal more loving. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “Nonsense,” the dowager viscountess scoffed—slashing that same hand prone to wild gesturing up and down. “No thanks necessary. Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I must coordinate partners for these three.”

  “Mother!” Anwen implored.

  “Yes, yes. I’ll be discreet about it,” the eccentric matron promised, also ruining that vow with her less-than-careful tones.

  “Would you like to join us?” Cora asked hopefully. “I’m certain Mother would dearly love to find you a match.”

  “Just for dancing. Just for dancing,” Lady St. John said exasperatedly. Like they were two peas in the pod of the same exact opinions, she held Annalee’s eyes and rolled her own. “Unless there is love, men only serve two purposes: one”—she stuck up a finger—“a good dance partner, and two . . .” The older woman waggled her brows, earning blushes and groans from her daughters and a laugh from Annalee. The first real one she’d managed that night.

  Clapping her hands, the dowager viscountess marked the discussion at an end, and her three daughters fell into a neat line behind her like devoted little ducks, trotting off.

  And for a second time that night, Annalee was riddled with envy at that evidence of another loyal, loving family. Not unlike Wayland and his sister, the Kearsleys exuded a deep, abiding love for one another.

  They were a family whose devotion wasn’t contractual, dependent upon one’s child’s or sister’s obedience to the rules of decorum and propriety Polite Society held so dear.

  Alone once more, Annalee turned her attention out to the crowd.

  Get in. Be respectable. Get out.

  No champagne.

  No brandy.

  No whiskey.

  No cheroots.

  She could do this. Nay, she was doing this. And she would do it without—

  Him.

  Her eyes collided with Wayland and his family. Nay, not just his family.

  Also the Duke and Duchess of Kipling and their daughter, Lady Diana.

  Had there ever been a more perfect pairing than those two?

  The woman Wayland had saved, and received a title for rescuing. In those earliest days following Peterloo, Annalee had lain in her bed, staring sightlessly at the window. Maids would slide in and out, bringing trays and offering to assist her with her daily ablutions. She’d bathe, change, and then climb into bed, not eating, and then repeat that same routine over and over. All the while, she’d remained trapped inside her head, a prisoner of the hell of that day, the gunshots pinging around her mind, blaring as loud as they had on those fields that had run with blood.

  She’d tortured herself with thoughts of the hell Wayland had faced. Wondering what those moments had been like for him. Because though they’d experienced that same macabre scene of suffering and strife, there’d been enough infinitesimal differences to mark each experience, each person’s own personal hell.

  When she’d fought through the stampeding crowd, abandoning her friend Lila, her only thoughts had been to get to Wayland. Even as her instincts had screamed to flee, recognizing the futility of her search, she’d been compelled deeper and deeper into the melee.

  The crush of bodies, threatening to pull her down and suffocate her.

  The numerous times she’d slipped, thinking she was about to meet her end, only to somehow find her way back to her feet.

  After that, she’d never believed she could face a crowd again.

  Which was, ironically, why she’d first sought out the biggest, noisiest, wickedest affairs. Because the only way to control her demons was to confront them.

  And she’d been successful with it.

  Sweat coated her skin, slicked her palms.

  Perhaps it was the sight of Wayland here with his Lady Diana. Perhaps it was that she’d made herself relive those darkest minutes of her life. But the weight was back in place, a thousand bricks upon her chest, crushing off her breath, and with every struggle to get air into her lungs, little pricks of light flickered before her vision.

  The laughter swelled, distorted in her ears like a macabre twist of poisoned mirth. The smiles on the faces of the guests around her at odds with the terror winding like venom in her veins.

  A servant came close, and panting slightly, she grabbed for one of those crystal flutes. Her movements clumsy, Annalee splashed several droplets over the side, staining her gloves. And she downed the glass, welcoming its trail. Welcoming the bubbling warmth.

  Oh, God. It didn’t help.

  No champagne.

  No brandy.

  No whiskey.

  No cheroots.

  Stand down . . . stand down . . .

  Ping—ping—ping.

  The ricocheting gunfire popped and peppered her mind. Or the air? Were those shots coming from here? Except that didn’t make sense. She was in London. In a ballroom.

  You’ve done this before. You’ve talked yourself through it . . .

  Except she’d only found that distraction through the very things she’d vowed to avoid this night.

  Stop. You have greater self-control.

  Have you seen my baby . . . ?

  My baby? That didn’t make sense in the duke’s ballroom. But then perhaps that meant she wasn’t in the duke’s ballroom. Perhaps she’d been transported back to that field of evil and ugliness.

  A sweat broke out on Annalee’s skin.

  “My lady . . . or tell me . . .” A hand tugged her sleeve, and wild-eyed, Annalee stared blankly at that appendage gripping her.

  Nay, it wasn’t gripping her. It was stroking her. That was different. And it was a man’s hand, not the callused, bloodied one of a woman in search of her child.

  “Tell me what I should do . . . pleeeease.” The mother’s pleas as she’d screamed over the rioting crowd, begging Annalee for guidance in finding the lost child, filled her mind.

  And then suddenly, she came crashing back from the past, breaking its hold over her, her entire body jolting from the shock of her return.

  She registered several things, all at once.

  Lord Welles’s less-than-discreet hand, stroking the curve of her hip. The leer on his face. And the looks from several nearby guests.

  “Hmm?” Lord Welles purred. “Tell me what you’d like to do, love . . . where you’d like me to meet you . . .”

  Annalee stared dumbly back, registering all the details that had found clarity through that moment of madness and that she’d just succumbed to Baron Welles making bold of his touch.

  “Somewhere away from the noisy crowd, yes?” The baron leaned down and whispered in her ear, the brandy scent on his breath only making Annalee hunger for those spirits all the more. And he mistook the hunger that brought her lips apart for something more than it was. “Oh, yes . . . let’s find a place, love.”

  Her skin pricked and burnt, the feel of a thousand stares upon her in that mo
ment. Nay, it was just one. One person, one man whose gaze had the power of a touch upon her. She glanced past the yammering baron’s shoulder and found him almost instantly.

  Wayland.

  Stricken.

  Like he’d been physically hurt, but by what?

  It was preposterous.

  Why, when she’d even teasingly suggested a real courtship, he’d been a study in the word “horror.” He wouldn’t care whom she kept company with.

  Furthermore, in the unlikely chance that he had felt . . . something . . . about seeing her with Welles . . . if either of them were given to such sentiments in that moment, it was her witnessing him and his Lady Diana. Diana, who’d been with him at Peterloo, and who’d shared all these years in between with him, too. The “post life,” as Annalee had come to think of it. Everything before that summer’s day in Manchester. And then everything to come after it.

  Except, it was the wrong thought to let creep back in.

  Nausea roiled in her gut.

  She wasn’t going to make it this night.

  Oh, God. It was too much.

  Tripping over herself in her haste, Annalee took flight along the perimeter of the guests.

  Her fingers shook as she pressed her flute into the baron’s hand. “Splendid,” he purred. “Where shall we . . . Lady Annalee . . . ,” he called after her. “Lady Annalee?” That query grew more distant and blurred in her mind as she rushed along the side of the dance floor, taking the first doorway out and not breaking the pace she’d set for herself. She ran and kept on running until she’d found a way out.

  Her breath grew raspy in her own ears, the pounding of her heartbeat deafening.

  She reached the end of the hall that spilled outside, and fumbling with the handles, she managed to get herself free.

  The air, thick and hotter than usual for a London spring, however, proved no balm. It only further blended the lines between past and present, where it was the oppressive heat of an August day weighting the air and sucking the breath out of her.