That, as in the empty card which highlighted the dearth of suitors.
“I’d argue you’re making a good deal more of a show by hitting my arm and hiding that which everyone already knows, Mama,” Kitty muttered.
Their mother balked. “Mother. You know—”
“That is right. ‘Mama’ is too plebeian,” Kitty murmured in the flawless, crisp tones of a lady. “However could I have forgotten?”
Over the top of their mother’s head, brother and sister caught one another’s eyes and shared a look.
“Where are they?” Their mother wrung her hands again. “Where are they?” she repeated under her breath over and over. “I have it on authority that they’ve arrived in London. And yet they’ve not appeared at a single ball.” She was referring to none other than the Duke and Duchess of Kipling, two of the most powerful peers, and also parents to Lady Diana . . . the girl Wayland had rescued years earlier, now grown up. “Given everything we’ve done for them, the very least they might do is throw their support behind us for your sister.”
“Given everything we’ve done?” Kitty drawled. “I daresay you and I were not present on the fields of Manch— Ouch.” Their mother delivered an effectively silencing if discreet pinch to her younger child.
“Hush. Do not diminish what your brother did that day.”
What he’d done that day was coordinate to meet up with Annalee, only to have the world turn itself upside down. Running frantically in search of her, he’d come across a flipped carriage being overrun by a fleeing crowd. He’d plucked the small girl, her maid, and her mother out, managing to save three that day.
All the while, Annalee had saved herself.
Nay, there’d been nothing truly romantic in his actions that day, even if the world had been determined to see them in that most favorable of lights.
And then it was as though he’d summoned her.
A buzz filled the ballroom, that din drowning out the orchestra’s playing and ending the previous chattering of gossipy guests.
But then she always had that effect upon any room she entered.
Nor was that response born of her scandalous reputation. Not solely. Nay, the sight of her was enough to bring any room to a halt.
“I wish I might go about dressed like her,” Kitty breathed.
Their mother gasped. “Never say something so scandalous. You would never, and will never, wear something so . . . outrageous. Ever. Have I made myself clear?”
And while his mother proceeded to launch into a lecture for Kitty, Wayland found himself drinking in the sight of Annalee. Attired in a lacy, black gauze gown over a silver satin, with a silver bow tied about her that accentuated her cinched waist, she was curved in all the most splendid places for one to be curved—deeply rounded bosom, generously flared hips, and equally generous buttocks. She was a lush fertility goddess.
And with a tiara done in collet-set, table-cut rose diamonds affixed to a crown of lush golden curls hanging loose about her shoulders and waist, she was very much a queen in every way. A potent wave of lust went through him.
And God help him, Wayland proved the bastard of a friend he’d always been where Jeremy was concerned, because in that instant, he saw Annalee as she’d once been with those curls draped about her shoulders as she’d ridden atop him.
Nor was he the only one aware of her . . . of the sight she presented.
And he, who’d believed himself long past jealousy where this woman was concerned, found the lie he’d fed to himself all these years. As she glided down the stairs, the crowd parted for her, making room as if she were Athena herself, mingling with mere mortals.
And mayhap they were. Perhaps this was Annalee’s world, and the rest of them merely lived in it at her whim.
She found a place on the edge of the dance floor, alongside a pillar, and rescuing a glass of champagne from a passing servant, she sipped at that drink, all the while taking in the ballroom.
She was . . . a study in boredom. Perfect boredom.
Or mayhap it was simply that he’d once known her so well, and so the crease between her eyebrows and the pinched set to her mouth were ones he recognized from when she’d been bored at her family’s events.
“It is absolutely shameful that she is here. Shameful, I say,” his mother said. And there could be no more effective killer of lust than one’s mother’s disapproving utterings.
“I daresay she has as much right to be here as anyone else,” Kitty defended. And he’d always loved his sister, but he found he loved her all the more for that defense of Annalee. “Certainly more than we do.”
Mother gasped. “That is utterly preposterous. She may have been born an earl’s daughter, but she does not conduct herself in a way befitting a lady. Just the opposite.”
“Mother,” Wayland bit out, infusing a warning into those two syllables. He’d be damned if he tolerated his own mother’s disparagement of Annalee.
She released a beleaguered sigh. “I know. I know. Lord Jeremy is a dearest friend, which is why we tolerate her.”
Tolerate her. “We don’t . . . tolerate her,” he said gruffly. “Tolerate” would suggest they merely put up with Annalee for self-serving reasons. “She is a family friend.” And deserving of their loyalty and support, regardless of what behaviors she engaged in or events she attended or how she conducted herself.
And leaving his mother there sputtering, he set out across the room to the last person he should be joining . . . and for so many reasons.
Wayland cut his way along the sidelines of the room, bobbing and weaving between the countess’s guests in a bid to reach Annalee. No one paid his hasty strides any heed; nay, they were too focused on the same figure whom he now headed for.
Lady Annalee.
Annalee, who rarely attended proper balls or soirees, and who, when she did, did so only because of any connection she had to the host or hostess.
Except this time.
A figure stepped into his path, forcing him to a stop.
“Lord Darlington!” Mr. Chester greeted. “A pleasure to see you here.”
“Yes. Yes, always,” Wayland lied, his focus shifting beyond the greying merchant’s shoulder to Annalee. Annalee, who herself had been waylaid by another. “If you’ll . . . ?”
Alas, Chester launched into a long-winded accounting of his latest business ventures, and Wayland silently cursed, never regretting more having committed himself to being the always respectable gentleman.
As the old fellow spoke, Wayland had to remind himself to murmur at the correct moments. And yet . . . with Chester rambling on, he frowned. Tall and wiry, with an impressive set of whiskers—if one was the facial-hair-wearing sort—Annalee’s companion, Lord Cartwright, had an arm up above the pillar so he’d framed half the room off from Annalee.
What was she doing, speaking with Cartwright? Not that it was Wayland’s business. Not anymore.
His frown deepened. But surely she wasn’t friendly with . . . with . . . that one? That cad with a reputation for being pompous as the London day was long. A pairing between Annalee and a cur like Cartwright hardly made any kind of sense.
“We do have to stick together at these affairs, don’t we?” The rotund gentleman leaned in and up, whispering, “Us self-made sorts and all.”