For so long, all the years since that fateful day in Manchester, Annalee had thrown herself fully into living an existence free of the constraints that had once bound her, the ones that shackled ladies to rules so very one-sided where the genders were concerned. Only recently had there been a feeling of . . . emptiness to it all.
Sylvia cleared her throat. “There is, however, still the matter of our membership to consider,” she said cautiously. As their members slid looks her way that were equal parts disapproving and stunned, she rushed to clarify. “I am not saying that we should change our ways—”
“Then what are you saying?” Isla Gately demanded of their apparently not-so-fearless leader.
“I am saying that there is a difference between asserting our views of the world and being mired in scandal. These constant scandals? They threaten everything we’ve established. Everything we hold dear.”
And yet . . . Annalee’s stomach sank. The truth remained—they did have to pay some mind to what the world said . . . not for themselves, but rather . . . for one another. For the young ladies who were here to learn new perspectives and challenge the norms and think for themselves, out from under the thumbs of their domineering mamas and papas, could do so only if they didn’t offend the world too greatly. It was a delicate waltz they danced. Challenge the existing order, but do it too wildly or too outrageously and the very existence of the society would be threatened. And the young ladies who attended could find themselves instantly recalled by a disapproving parent.
“I for one do not want Annalee to change,” Anwen Kearsley announced to the room at large. “I’d have her just the way she is.”
And perhaps Annalee was tired from the endless night that had been her brother’s betrothal ball. Or mayhap it was simply that she was going soft, but at that gentle show of support from the young woman, a wave of emotion filled her throat. The polite sort didn’t defend her. Why, even the members, until now, had viewed and treated her as more of a fascinating oddity. Or that was what she’d believed anyway. Clamping the cheroot at the side of her lips, Annalee looked to her friends. “There are no worries; I’ve no intention of changing. Now, if we can return to Thérèse?”
And this time, the ladies took out their copies, and Annalee found herself spared from any further questioning or concern about her latest descent into madness.
There was only one certainty . . . The women here were dependent upon her, and she’d an obligation to get her bloody mess of a life together and start behaving in a way that didn’t jeopardize everything they’d created.
Chapter 7
“Nothing exciting happens here.”
Standing on the side of Lady Sinclair’s ballroom’s crowded dance floor, with guests throughout the room sipping tepid lemonade and conversing amongst one another, Wayland couldn’t agree more with that unusual-for-her whining pronouncement from his sister.
For Wayland, however, “nothing exciting,” following Peterloo, was what he’d come to strive for, and had also committed himself to.
“Nothing at all,” Kitty continued muttering to herself. “With the exception of last evening at Lord Jeremy’s, that is.”
Alas, his spirited sister proved of a wholly different mindset.
He tweaked a dark, perfectly formed curl. “And here I believed you couldn’t imagine anything more exciting than attending a London ball.”
His sister’s mouth puckered with her annoyance. “That was before,” she muttered. “Must we remain?”
He had opened his mouth to tease once more when he caught the strain at the corners of her eyes and the tension on her lips. And he followed her stony gaze out . . . across the ballroom to where a quartet of young ladies stared boldly back, tittering behind their hands. The white-clad misses made no attempt to conceal their mockery.
His gut clenched.
“Stop it, Wayland,” his sister whispered.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re looking at me all pityingly, and you’re only going to make it worse.”
Make it worse, as in the bullying that had been directed her way—rather, their way—from the moment he’d been granted a title. The bullying toward him? It had faded . . . mostly. He had a title. It eased Wayland’s way, but still did not make it better. His sister would always carry the stigma of being, to Polite Society, just a blacksmith’s daughter . . . unless he made a respectable match. One that his mother and the world desperately wished to be with Lady Diana for the romantic roots attached to their connection. Of course, only Wayland seemed to realize there was nothing heroic about him or what he’d done that day . . .
He steeled his jaw.
But he would not fail Kitty. His sister, whom he could spare pain and hurt . . .
“It will get better, Kitty,” he said quietly.
She rolled her eyes. “No, it won’t. We will never belong. You will. But certainly not me. And they will never be kind, and that is fine.” She patted his shoulder. “Now, if you will please let it rest.”
Let it rest.
Let her suffer unkind cut after unkind cut? He’d sooner lop off his own limbs. Nay, it was why the match his and Lady Diana’s mothers expected him to make was vital. That union the ton cheered for would be that which made it so for Kitty. He knew that. He’d resolved himself to ultimately making that match. For his family. He didn’t love Lady Diana. He’d already given his heart. But he admired her. He respected her. And he didn’t doubt, in time, there could—or would—be more. “I’m going to make it better for you, Kitty.”
She snorted.
“I promise.” He gave another curl a playful tug.
“And furthermore, don’t go about pulling my curls.” She frowned. “Though, if I had my way, I’d yank all these ridiculously tight ringlets out.”
Their mother should choose that precise moment to join them. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Your ringlets are lovely. The most perfect of all the ringlets. Tell her, Wayland.”
“They are—”
His sister gave him a look that singed and threatened all-out burning if he so much as agreed with their mother.
Their mother was new to the nobility and, in her quest for their family to fit into this new world, determined to turn Kitty into a model of ladylike decorum and propriety in every way, down to her presentation.
“And do hush,” Mother said on an outrageously loud whisper as she turned this way and that, layers upon layers of noisy crinoline crackling loud enough to be heard over the racket of the ballroom. “I’ll not have either of you offend our host and hostess.” She wrung her gloved hands together.
She, herself, was as garishly and ridiculously attired as Wayland’s unfortunate sister.
“Well, I should say it hardly makes a difference one way or another if we are invited to attend this or any other ball when I don’t even have invitations to dance.” As if to emphasize that very point, Kitty lifted the card dangling on her wrist. The neat bow twisted and twirled forlornly, a kaleidoscope of blank spaces where there should be names of a suitor or partner.
Their mother slapped at Kitty’s wrist. “Do put that down, dearest,” she whispered. “We cannot go about drawing attention to . . . to . . . that.”