Her father sat behind his desk like some great, overblown king of yore, her mother, his perfect counterpoint queen, pacing before him. And with the rant she’d been on since they’d assembled, speaking enough for all of them.
From where he stood beside the hearth, Jeremy’s features were drawn.
His gaze condemning.
Over the years, Annalee had come to find that, when dealing with the fallout of a scandal she was at the heart of, there was a pattern to her parents’ behavior, usually with her mother in charge of the Lecture.
First, there came the cataloging:
“No, it wasn’t enough that she was discovered alone with Lady Bedford’s vicar son just a fortnight ago, constructing a champagne tower in the middle of that family’s betrothal ball.” Her mother trilled a patently false laugh as she paced. “Or that she was seen accompanying that terrible earl into that outrageous gaming hell just last evening.” That terrible earl was none other than Annalee’s dear friend Lord Willoughby. Willoughby, who’d also proven more loyal than her parents and brother combined.
Then, of course, came the parental woes and lamentation:
“Why must she be so difficult? Why must she live to make our life mayhem?”
“I do not know, dearest,” Annalee’s father said from his place behind his desk. He slid his gaze Annalee’s way, and the sadness within those blue eyes hit her like a kick to the stomach. It always did. For she remembered when he’d swung her around and let her dance upon the tops of his shoes. He moved his stare back to the countess, and Annalee was forgotten . . . once more. “She was not always this way.”
No, she hadn’t been. As they resumed their parental rant, she stared blankly off to where her brother stood. None of them knew the reasons for her transformation. Of course they didn’t. It had been far easier for them to never have to acknowledge what she’d faced that day in Manchester. It had been easier for all of them to make believe it had never happened. And Annalee? She had been the greatest at that game of pretend. Throwing herself fully into a life of distractions.
Her mother’s pacing grew frenzied, indicating this latest exchange was coming to a head. “Whatever are we to do with her?” the Countess of Kempthorne seethed. “Whatever are we to do?” She repeated that question, slowing each word down to agonizingly precise syllables.
Annalee stilled.
For, on occasion, there was also the most terrifying response to her scandal: her mother’s furious musings.
Whatever are we to do with her?
They were the most chilling words spoken by Annalee’s mother. For Annalee knew she pushed the boundaries of their patience. It had been a delicate dance, conducting herself in a way that allowed her the freedom and escape she sought in life, while not pushing her parents beyond the point of what they tolerated. Keeping company with the fringe members of society as she had, she was well aware of the fate awaiting the daughters and sisters and wives who displeased.
Isolation.
Banishment.
Institutions.
And mayhap that is the perfect place for you . . . You are, after all, stark raving mad.
That silent voice taunted Annalee, as it so often did, with what she’d become. A woman not in control of her own faculties or senses, who couldn’t keep the nightmares at bay. A woman who at times forgot where she was and couldn’t sort out past from present.
“Annalee.” She blinked slowly. “Annalee.” That furious whisper pulled her from her thoughts, and she looked to Jeremy.
“Are you even listening?” he whispered.
And for another moment, she could believe he was still on her side—her hero, her champion of a big brother.
But then he shook his head in disgust.
That shoulder of coldness was the greatest cut of all.
A pang struck her chest. Her gut clenched.
Her parents’ disdain she’d come to expect and accept, but facing that same coldness in her brother? Even if, for all intents and purposes, she was deserving of his outrage and contempt?
After all, she’d gone and turned his betrothal ball to the illustrious, respectable Miss Oatley into a scandal. Annalee’s latest scandal, that was.
She couldn’t care less about what a single person in attendance this night thought . . . beyond the one six feet apart from her at the other end of the mantel. And yet, if Jeremy despised the changes he saw in her? What would he say . . . ? How would he treat her if he discovered all the times she wasn’t in control of her own faculties? Nay, it was something he could never learn. Something no one could ever discover.
“And what is it with her and fountains?” Annalee’s father was asking. He sounded on the verge of tears.
“It is always the fountains,” her mother hissed.
The countess may as well have been reviling Satan himself for the loathing in those five words. “I love fountains,” Annalee said indignantly, feeling a deep need to defend them.
Her parents gave her a look, and she resisted the urge to squirm as she had when she’d been a child called in for getting grass stains upon her white skirts.
The moment the earl and countess returned to their discussion, Jeremy, where he stood at the hearth, glanced her way. “Really?” he mouthed.
Annalee brought a shoulder up. “What?” she returned silently. “I do.” At least fountains had given her comfort after Peterloo. They were made of stone but always dependable in helping her chase away the demons and monsters.
Closing his eyes, Jeremy gave his head a shake, and turning dismissively, he returned his focus to their parents’ discussion.
Annalee slouched in her seat. She really did love all fountains. The small watering ones. The stone and marble sorts.
But she particularly loved the enormous, life-size ones.
She loved dancing in them. Dipping her toes in them. On occasion, she’d even been found sleeping in them. That was, after a night of excess. She loved how the waters within were a cool balm that never failed to wash away the nightmares.
This time, she’d not been caught sleeping in the fountain. But for all the scandal she’d caused this night—of all nights—she may as well have been.
Though in fairness, if they’d learned the truth—that she’d been out of her head in a moment of insanity—it would perhaps have brought even more of their deserved horror.
Or worse . . .
A panicky little giggle bubbled up her throat, and Jeremy fixed a warning glare on her.
Repressing the urge to shiver from her hopelessly wet gown, Annalee edged closer to the blazing fire at her back.
Seventeen minutes already, and an endless tirade of her parents talking about her and not to her.
Yes, this had all the makings of one of the never-ending exchanges . . .
“Do you have somewhere to be, Annalee?” her mother snapped. “Are we keeping you?” she demanded before Annalee could get a response in.
That had done it, then. A possibility loathsome to the countess: that her daughter would dare dictate any aspect of this exchange.
“Of course not,” she said with a flourishing hand to her breast. “I would never dare leave my big brother’s betrothal ball.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
Her brother winced.
“You are a scandal, Annalee Elise,” her mother hissed, that hideous pairing of almost identical-sounding names falling from her lips for a second time. “A shameful, wicked scandal.”