He followed that gesture. “What is it?” he managed, completely captivated by that delicate pink flesh. Hell, the ballroom could have been on fire and he would have stood there, consumed, before he could pull himself away. But then Annalee had always been a master when it came to seducing him with subtleties. With . . . anything, really. Where the other was concerned, they’d both been skilled in that regard.
“Your mother.”
The last thing he cared to think about in this moment was . . . his mother.
“She quite disapproves,” Annalee murmured from the corner of her mouth.
“Not at all. She’s . . . she’s . . .” Yes, there could be no disputing or doubting; his mother was less than pleased.
Annalee winged up an eyebrow. “Usually glowering?”
“It could be the countess’s lemonade,” he pointed out, discreetly motioning to the untouched glass held in his mother’s hand.
An adorable little snort filtered past her lips.
“It could be,” he said as they engaged in a private little jest about his glowering mama across the room. “Why, she does look like she’s sucked a lemon.”
Joining in the false somber contemplation, Annalee captured her chin between her thumb and forefinger and made a show of studying Wayland’s mother. “Yes. Yes. I daresay, you might be right. There’s something—”
“Tart?”
“—about her. Hmm. Yes . . . exactly that! Why, even—”
“Sour-faced?”
Even clear across the room, he made out the way his mother’s eyes bulged.
He and Annalee shared a smile . . . a real one. A private one that came from a teasing and mirth they’d shared long, long ago.
Capturing his sleeve, Annalee pressed herself against him. “Should we give her something to really be scandalized by?” she whispered in a throaty contralto and his shaft stirred.
It was all a game of pretend and jest, and yet his body knew nothing of games.
Her words were a tempting proposition that ushered in more wicked thoughts, recent ones with her straddling his thigh, panting and moaning, as she’d sought a climax. A climax he’d desperately wished to provide her.
She cast him a look, and through that haze of lust, he recalled an answer was needed. “No.”
“Methinks your protest is half-hearted and belated,” she rightly noted on a full, husky laugh that ended on a regretful sigh. “Alas, it appears our fun has come to an end . . .”
Fortunately, Kitty came to the rescue, pulling at their mother’s arm, forcing her to look away from Wayland and Annalee. His sister, God love her, caught his gaze and winked before tugging the older woman off.
He firmed his jaw, annoyance coursing through him at a mother so concerned with their reputation and standing that she’d be publicly cold to Annalee. She’d not always been that way where Annalee was concerned. Once upon a lifetime ago, she’d even urged him on to a match with his best friend’s sister, seeing it as an entry to a better life.
“You do know you’re tempting scandal by conversing alone with me,” she remarked.
He scoffed. “I’d hardly call it a scandal.”
“For me, no,” she allowed. “For you?” She waggled her perfectly shaped golden eyebrows. “Absolutely.”
He stole a glance about, realizing the number of stares now upon them. Most of the earl and countess’s guests stared baldly on at him . . . and Annalee. Slightly curious, but not the rabid gawking that usually was directed her way. Some of that a product of the ton’s knowledge of his connection to her family.
Annalee held out her half-empty champagne flute.
He waved off that offering.
With a little shrug, she finished the contents of her glass. In one fluid movement, she deposited it upon a passing servant’s tray, all the while, with an impressive simultaneousness to her agile movements, retrieving herself another.
Folding her arms at her chest, she inadvertently plumped that already voluptuous bosom, and his mouth went dry as he stared at the olive-hued flesh of a woman who’d always loved the sun on her—
“I take it you’re doing reconnaissance for Jeremy. Keeping an eye on his most wicked sister.”
He laughed . . . before she sluiced a sideways look his way, and it hit him. “You’re serious.” He was unable to keep the indignation from creeping into his response.
“Generally, as a rule? No. In this—”
“Of course I’m not here because of your brother,” he snapped, now having a taste for what ole Cartwright had felt.
“La”—she pressed a satin-gloved hand against her bosom, and this time, he fought the pull to gaze upon that glistening skin like the enrapt schoolboy he’d once been—“how utterly silly for me to think so, given the fact that you searched me out three times last evening.”
“My hide-and-seek skills have improved exponentially from when we were younger,” he said.
Annalee stared at him for a long moment, and then tossing back her head, she laughed. It was the unrestrained, freeing sound of a woman content in her right to surrender to her own happiness and amusement. It was also one of the things he’d first fallen in love with about her. And with her cheeks flushed from laughter he’d brought her to, he was reminded all over again just how much he’d loved her laugh and, more, making her laugh.
When her mirth faded, she gave her head a wry shake. Annalee finished off her drink, and then summoning a servant, she deposited her empty flute. Instead of taking another, however, she issued a word of thanks and waved off a third glass.
“Though I am surprised to see you here,” he admitted when they were once again alone.
“Where should I be?”
“I . . .” He felt his neck go hot. “No, that is not what I mean.” What had happened to the ease with which he’d once been able to speak to her? Or, for that matter, anyone? Since his entry into the peerage, he’d lost the ability to be comfortable in his own words. “I’m, of course, glad to see you here and—”
“Not at a more wicked affair?” she supplied.
“No. Yes. I—” He reached for his cravat, but Annalee deftly caught his fingers.
“Relax, Wayland.” She leaned close. “I’m teasing,” she whispered, her body arching toward his, and as it did, he detected a hint of rose blossom upon her. It was a different scent than that which she’d used to dab behind her earlobes—apple blossom.
There was a sultriness to the fragrance that filled his nostrils; it tempted.
“Of course,” he said, his voice hoarse and rough to his own ears.
He recalled belatedly that he still held her hand in his. For at some point when she’d grabbed his fingers, he’d curled them around her palm. He made to draw his hand quickly back, lest he bring them any more attention than he already had . . .
But Annalee gripped him more tightly. Retaining a hold upon him, she brought her other palm to rest on his sleeve.
“I would be honored to dance this set with you,” she murmured, perfectly skilled at steering them away from scandal . . . and onto the now filling dance floor.
And as they took their place amongst the sets of other dancers, he wasn’t certain which posed the greater danger: the risk of scandal they’d raised this night or the taking of Annalee into his arms.