The moment she arrived, she glanced about.
A pair of lovers tangled in one another’s arms availed themselves of their host’s pretty pink settee near the front of the parlor. Sparing barely a glance for the couple engaged in far different pursuits than card play, Annalee found her way to the table set up directly by the hearth.
The two gentlemen looked up from their game of whist.
“Deal a lady in,” she drawled.
A cheroot clamped between his teeth, Lord Willoughby grinned up at her. “A joy to see you, love.”
A strapping footman drew out a chair, and Annalee slid herself into the comfortable leather folds.
Muttering a slew of black curses, Beckett tossed a hefty purse across the table, which the other man happily scooped up. “Beckett was of the foolish and incorrect opinion that you wouldn’t be coming this night,” Willoughby explained at Annalee’s questioning look.
In fairness, she hadn’t planned to visit this night—the whole proper-behavior business and all that. Even so, devoted friends with Lord Willoughby for eight years now, she still found herself unable to utter that particular truth. One that would be met only with questions she’d no wish to answer. Eventually she’d have to. But not now. “Where else would I be?” She tapped the table, indicating again that she was ready for the game play.
Flawlessly and quickly shuffling the stack, Willoughby proceeded to deal the cards, letting them fly, until an ace landed and Beckett found himself the dealer for their game of vingt-et-un.
As Annalee gathered her hand, Lord Willoughby leaned forward, his own forgotten. The first friend she’d found in her descent into free living and wickedness had been Willoughby. “Well, that is a question, isn’t it? Where have you been?”
She resisted the urge to squirm under the attention paid her by the gentlemen studying her entirely too intently, and she made a show of arranging and studying the cards she’d been dealt.
A fabulous hand.
“Lord and Lady Sinclair’s.”
There was a beat of silence, and then both men promptly dissolved into laughter.
“Granted, I’d expect Sinclair’s would be a place you would have attended,” Willoughby said through his amusement, “ten years ago when the fellow was a proper rogue and not the proper, devoted papa and happily married gent.” He surrendered to his mirth once more.
She lifted her finger in a crude display that only added to both fellows’ amusement.
“What in God’s name were you doing there, love?” Willoughby demanded when he’d gotten himself under control.
“I’ll have you know,” she murmured, straightening the card Beckett had dealt her, “that I was being respectable.”
She registered more silence and looked up. Both men exchanged a look, then proceeded to howl once more.
“Oh, hush. The both of you.” She dealt them each a kick under the table.
“Wh-what . . . ?”
“It is for my Mismatch Society.” She proceeded to outline the latest trouble faced by her group. A servant came over with a glass, and her mouth dry from the hell that was this night, Annalee accepted the crystal snifter with a word of thanks.
Leaning forward, Willoughby filled her glass.
She and her tablemates lifted their snifters in toast, clinking rims and then drinking deeply.
Imbibing was certainly not in the “proper” column, and yet neither was attending Lady Wilmot’s household card parties. The night, however, called for it. She tossed back a long swallow, welcoming and relishing the comfortable burn as the silky liquor glided down her throat.
“Seems like a lot of trouble and not a lot of fun,” Beckett remarked, motioning for the card play to resume.
“I enjoy it,” she said, swirling what remained of the contents of her glass several times. “It brings me pleasure.”
“And you are ever one for your own pleasure,” Willoughby purred in silken tones.
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not in the mood.” She paused. “Tonight.”
Surely later she would be. But for some reason, after her dance with Wayland and being held in his arms, she couldn’t think of being embraced by Willoughby . . . or any man, for that matter.
They each looked at their cards and staked their bets.
Annalee added three counters.
“So tell us, how was your first foray into respectability?” From around the cheroot clamped between his teeth, Beckett asked that question conversationally.
“It was . . .” A memory slipped in . . . of Wayland with his palm upon her waist, his fingers curled into the satin fabric of her dress. She grew wet and shifted on her seat. “As tedious as one might expect,” she lied. “Now if we might return to our hand, gentlemen?”
And fortunately, the game resumed, and the questions about Lord and Lady Sinclair’s ball were at an end, along with the whole discussion about respectability. And yet, as Annalee sat there long into the early-morn hours, wagering with two of society’s most notorious rakes, she could not push back the thought of Wayland.
Chapter 9
In the world of Polite Society, the slightest thing brought scandal raining down.
In this case, it appeared, nothing more than a waltz with Annalee had resulted in the ton’s latest sick fascination.
Given her appreciation for the wicked, Polite Society could not help but notice the unlikely attendance of a certain Lady A at the unlikeliest of events—the Earl and Countess of S’s latest ball.
Polite Society also noted the sole—and unlikely—figure whom the lady danced with: Baron D. Given the illustrious Lord D’s reputation, theirs was an unlikely partnering. Yet given the gentleman’s close connection to the lady’s brother, perhaps it was nothing more than friendly devotion to the family. Or perhaps . . . there is more? If there is . . . it would throw into doubt all hope of the match society has waited with bated breath for between Lord D and Lady D . . .
Wayland sat there, staring at the two short but very damning paragraphs. Over and over.
This was bad.
It shouldn’t be.
And it wouldn’t be . . .
If there weren’t the expectation that he would wed Lady Diana. A union that was increasingly urgent for the misery Wayland’s sister was suffering through.
“Ahem.”
Lowering his copy of The Times slightly, he looked at Kitty, seated beside him.
“I would like to point out that it’s all really just rubbish. Why, it features a whole host of redundancies,” his sister said helpfully and devotedly. Leaning in, she jabbed at the tiny printed words. “One-two-three ‘givens.’ And as if that wasn’t bad enough? One-two-three-four ‘unlikelies’? In just two paragraphs and six sentences.” Kitty lifted a finger. “And if I may also point out, one of those sentences is incredibly clunky and long and awkward, and could have very easily been broken into several sentences. Terrible writing, that.”
Yes, it was terrible writing, as his sister pointed out. Terrible, however, for a whole host of reasons.
“Should I keep going?”
“Please,” he said, swiping a hand over his face.
“Not everyone is waiting on that match between you and Lady Diana. I couldn’t care less whether you wed the duke’s daughter.”