Wayland winced. Could he, though? Could Jeremy know precisely what his faithless mother had said? “You know my mother,” he said carefully. Though that was likely the lesser offense to worry about. Nay, his having danced with Annalee had raised questions amongst Polite Society. And it was to be expected that Jeremy might have those same—
“Because you know my sister,” Jeremy said, and the unexpectedness of those words sent heat up Wayland’s neck, and he prayed for a second rescue. This time, he’d even take it from his damned status-climbing mother. Anything. Anyone.
“Uh . . .” Nothing. Wayland had absolutely no response to that. For he did know Annalee. Intimately, in ways that would have likely ended not only his friendship with Jeremy but also Wayland’s life.
Jeremy looked him in the eye. “Annalee brings scandal on all she comes into contact with.” The other man began pacing. “And now she’s brought scandal to you.”
So caught up in his own guilt and musings about Annalee, Wayland took a moment to register what the other man had said. He blinked slowly. “Come again?”
Jeremy abruptly stopped that annoying back-and-forth stride, and grabbing the chair vacated by Kitty, he seated himself. “You were gracious enough to dance with my sister, and I’m grateful to you for extending that courtesy. But I also came to apologize for . . . for . . .”
Wayland fell into his own seat. “You are thanking me for dancing with your sister . . . ,” he echoed dumbly.
“And apologizing, of course.”
Apologizing.
Wayland attempted to sort out which was worse from a faithless brother . . . the apology or the gratitude. And between first his damned mother and now Annalee’s disloyal brother, all the earlier unease at having his name in the papers faded. “I don’t need an apology or your words of thanks,” he said curtly. Nor did he point out that Annalee had pulled him onto the dance floor because, well, hell, it really didn’t matter.
Jeremy rested a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t deserve your friendship, old chum. This”—he grabbed his well-worn copy of The Times and held it up—“I know is everything you seek to avoid. Scandal. Shame.”
Yes, after Peterloo, Wayland had pledged himself to everything his friend now spoke of. And yet, to hear him speak so . . . of his sister? Of Annalee . . . Even if there was truth to what he said, it grated. “Nothing shameful transpired last evening,” he bit out. But plenty shameful transpired years before it, a voice jeered and taunted, calling him out for that faithlessness that he’d never paid a proper price for. He stormed to his feet. “Nothing at all. It was a damned dance.”
The other man blinked up at him. “No. I . . . I wasn’t suggesting that it did. I didn’t mean to. Rather, I was just saying that simply being with my sister—”
“I know what you’re saying,” he snapped.
Jeremy continued to stare wide-eyed.
Oh, bloody hell.
In the end, Wayland found himself rescued.
The door burst open, and they both looked over.
Kitty had returned, like an avenging warrior. “I require saving.”
The hell she did. His sister could have saved Wellington’s men better than the old general himself. “Mother is attempting to squire me to the modiste, and you know when she does, she attires me in”—she lifted up her arms—“this.”
Both men looked to the entirely unremarkable blue satin day dress.
“Uh . . . I fail to see anything wrong with your dress,” Jeremy said, cocking his head.
Sweeping over, she patted him on the hand. “You’re just being a dear because you are Wayland’s best friend and a gentleman.” She clapped her hands. “Now, if you’ll excuse Wayland and me?”
“Uh . . . of course.” Jeremy shoved to his feet. “We . . . can speak about this later?”
“Indeed.”
But for now, Wayland had been granted a reprieve.
Chapter 10
Annalee had grown accustomed to people leaving rooms when she entered them.
That was, when she entered places where the respectable sort mingled.
Mamas dragged their daughters away when she came near.
Wives held their husbands’ arms all the tighter.
Though if those respectable wives would have cared to know the truth, Annalee didn’t bother with married men. Faithless bounders who couldn’t respect their vows were hardly the manner of men she kept company with. Nay, at least unentangled rogues and rakes were honest in their dealings and what they wanted.
At that very moment, the latest room she was responsible for clearing was . . . a shop.
A modiste’s, to be exact.
Silence continued to fill Madame Bouchard’s as the mothers and their daughters present stared on at Annalee and Valerie.
And then, almost as one, clutching their daughters the way they snatched their pearls when she was near, the ladies filed past.
“And here I was worried about having to mingle with the ton,” Valerie said with her usual drollness. “Now it appears the only worry is as to whether we’ll be served.”
Together, they looked to the modiste and the shopgirls, hovering at the back of the shop and eyeing them with the same wariness they might have reserved for a visit by some specter. “Oh, they’ll attend us.” Annalee made that prediction with complete confidence. “Furthermore, you’ll never have to worry about mingling with the proper members of the peerage when I’m about.” Removing her flask, she uncorked the piece, saluted her friend, and raised the spirits to her lips. “Particularly after my latest scandal.”
“They left because of me,” Valerie said as they moved down the aisles, assessing bolts of fabric.
Annalee snorted. “Do not flatter yourself, dear. I and I alone possess the power of clearing places of polite people. And particularly after last evening.” She sighed. Alas, her first real attempt at a return to politeness and properness . . . which had, of course, descended into her leaving a ball early and attending Lady Wilmot’s and drinking and—
Valerie lifted a swatch of orange, examining it. “I do not see what was so scandalous about your dancing with a respectable lord. That seems the manner of activity that would put rumors to rest.”
For another lady, perhaps. But that waltz . . . Annalee’s heart kicked up its cadence as she—and her body—recalled the feel of Wayland’s hands upon her, the slightly possessive grip he’d had at her waist, a fierce hold that had always left her breathless. And that place between her legs ached . . . even though she’d brought herself to pleasure last evening, thinking of that same dance that now consumed her. Because no one danced like Wayland. Her body never moved more perfectly than when he held her for something so simple as a waltz, and yet more erotic than lovemaking itself.
“It is splendorous . . .”
“Yes,” she breathed . . . There was nothing more splendorous—
Across a bolt of pale green, her friend smiled.
Wait . . . what?
Valerie wagged the nauseating fabric in her hands.
Annalee followed that slight rustle and blanched. “Do put that down.” She plucked the fabric from her friend’s fingers. “I’d look like a plate of peas made into puree in that one. And I hate peas. They hardly belong on a plate, let alone a person.”