Self-made sorts.
Wayland bit the inside of his cheek to keep from pointing out that there’d been nothing self-made in what he’d acquired. Luck. It had been pure luck where he was concerned.
His gut twisted. Not that there’d been anything lucky about that day in Manchester. More, it had been a trick of the fates that had seen Wayland titled, and yet he would have happily given it all up to return to life as it had been before that tragic day.
With Chester’s droning on and the hum of the ballroom, Wayland’s eyes were brought briefly closed as the past ushered in a remembrance.
“I will love you until the day I die, Wayland Smith,” Annalee whispered against his mouth.
“Let us hope that day isn’t for a long, long time, love . . .”
When he made himself open them, the sight to meet him wasn’t the glowing, adoring gaze of a woman who’d always loved him more than he’d deserved . . . but that same woman, now standing too close to a man who deserved her even less.
Just then, Cartwright’s gaze dipped low, and the bastard made no attempt to conceal his interest in her daring neckline. Whatever the lady said raised a booming laugh from the bounder.
A low growl worked its way up his chest.
“Might I introduce you to my wife and daughter?” Mr. Chester was saying.
“If you’ll excuse me?” Wayland said curtly and with a brusqueness that brought the other man up short for a moment.
“Of course. Of—”
Wayland was already stepping around the merchant. This time, he marched with purpose, refusing to be waylaid by those guests whom he’d otherwise never have cut, powerful lords whose approval he’d sought so that his family might achieve the respect not automatically afforded them because of their birthright.
“Perhaps we might find a . . . fountain through which to waltz together, sweet.” The gentleman danced a bold finger along the sleeve of her dress.
A blanket of rage fell over Wayland’s vision, a crimson-black veil the color of death and blood that he’d like to pound the other man into. And it was a fury that came from Wayland’s friendship with Jeremy, and his devotion to Annalee’s family.
“I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do less,” Annalee drawled, a study in boredom that she elevated with a practiced yawn, and some of Wayland’s anger dissipated under that bold and beautiful rejection of the uncouth lout.
Cartwright’s cheeks went florid. “Given your predilection for dancing in fountains during proper affairs, I’d daresay a jaunt out with me would be more to your—”
“The lady said no,” Wayland said coolly, and the pair whipped about to face him. “And lest you make any more of an ass of yourself than you already are or have, might I suggest you take that dip in a fountain by yourself?”
The dull flush on the other man’s too-sharp cheeks grew heavier. “Shove off, Darlington. The lady doesn’t have any interest in, or need of, you,” Lord Cartwright said, curling back his lip in a sneer.
“Ah, but she hasn’t said as much to me, and she has given every indication that she wants nothing to do with you,” Wayland drawled.
Cartwright looked down his long, noble nose at Wayland. “Apparently you’re not as nice a fellow as the papers paint you to be, eh?”
Wayland took a step closer so the shorter man had no choice but to look up. “And this from a man who doesn’t know how to honor the word ‘no’ from a lady.”
The other man’s cheeks grew splotchy, and he tripped over himself in a bid to put space between him and Wayland. Then, turning on his heel, Cartwright raced off.
The moment he’d gone, with her champagne flute dangling awkwardly between her fingers, Annalee gave a little clap. “Impressive stuff, Wayland. Well done.” She leaned close. “Defending my honor, and publicly,” she purred, running a finger along his lapel. “I am touched.”
A muscle twitched at the corner of his eye. Had she thought he’d not defend her against the scurrilous pursuit of a man in whom she’d revealed no interest? Or was it simply that she made light of him? “Were the roles reversed and my sister found herself so accosted, Jeremy would have responded exactly as I’ve done.” It was not untrue, but it was also not the sole reason he’d involved himself.
Annalee’s lush mouth formed a perfect pout, lips that made a man imagine any manner of wicked thoughts for them, that flesh parted and wrapped about his length. An imagining made all the more real by the memories he carried still of her taking him in that hot, moist cavern.
“My big brother’s best friend coming to my rescue.” Annalee gave him an up-and-down look filled with so much mockery and judgment he knew precisely how Cartwright had felt to be shredded by her. “How . . . honorable, my lord.”
And Wayland’s ears went hot in that moment as she rightly called him out. Wayland, the man who’d bedded his best friend’s sister. More times than he could remember . . . and then coordinated to meet with her in Manchester.
The lady made to leave.
“It’s not because of your brother,” he said gruffly, and that managed to stop her retreat. Though everything in this moment was confused. Perhaps he should have just let her to the opinion she’d formed, and they could have gone their own ways, as they’d done since Manchester, instead of him admitting that she was, in fact, the reason for his intervention.
Annalee turned back slowly. “Ohh?”
“Come, Annalee. You know we are . . . friends.” Except, was that what they really were? Certainly, it was what they’d once been.
“Friends?” That syllable rolled off her tongue like a sinful invitation.
Sadness cleaved his chest. For all that had come to pass between them, and all the tragedy and heartbreak that had divided them, what right did he have to claim that place of friendship? To her . . . or her family?
“I’m teasing, Way,” she said, punching him lightly in the arm in a lighthearted gesture that drove away some of the tension, bringing them back to a place of familiarity and recalling the friendship they’d been speaking of. “I know you’re a friend.”
She spoke with the ease of a woman who believed those words.
And yet, had he truly been a friend to her in a long while? Even when he’d sought her out at Jeremy’s betrothal ball, he’d been motivated by his loyalty to the lady’s brother.
Annalee gave a roll of her eyes. “Oh, stop.”
He bristled. “I’ve said nothing,” he said indignantly.
“You didn’t need to. You’ve gone all melancholy. Your lips are drawn, and your muscles all bunched.” She discreetly dusted her fingers along his coat sleeve.
Those muscles jumped reflexively at a touch his body had never been able to not respond to. Annalee gave him a knowing smile.
From her tempting, barely there caress on down to her words, it was unnerving to have become more strangers than anything these past years, and yet to have her still know him so very well. Whereas Wayland? He couldn’t make out heads or tails or up or down or left or right where Lady Annalee was concerned.
Annalee went about sipping her champagne and eyeing the crowd once more. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, licking a remnant of those bubbling spirits from the left corner of her lower lip.