“More’s the pity,” one of St. John’s ruthless sisters muttered, her lamentation met with a flurry of agreement.
“There’ll be a dog, too,” the eerie Kearsley sister continued with her enumeration of his demise.
The youngest—Eris?—stamped her foot. “He doesn’t deserve a dog.”
Anwen Kearsley patted her shoulder. “No, he doesn’t, dearest. You are right.”
Nay, he’d been wrong. Each of St. John’s sisters was a bloody terror in her own right.
He gulped and briefly eyed the door out of this madhouse. St. John’s sisters certainly took his parliamentary work very seriously and . . . very personally.
The rules where propriety were concerned surrounding an exchange such as this eluded even him. “Uh . . . good morning.” He dropped a bow.
Only more glares came his way.
A whistle echoed.
“Girls, come away from there.” The Dowager Viscountess St. John swept over to the gaggle of girls still glowering.
“But—”
“I know. I know,” the woman interrupted one of the identical twins at the middle of that row.
The butler cleared his throat. “This way, my lord.”
Never more grateful for a reprieve, Wayland sprang into motion and followed the servant. And he’d thought the woes were great with the challenge of one spirited sister. God help St. John. It was a wonder the man hadn’t bypassed grey and white and gone straight to bald with that merciless crew.
As they walked the corridors, frame after frame of each of those young ladies’ likenesses followed, and he found himself quickening his step. The Kearsleys were a decidedly terrifying, and also interesting, lot.
The butler brought them to a stop at the end of the hall. “Here we are, my lord,” the servant murmured, letting Wayland in and hastily backing up, closing the door behind him.
Wayland stepped forward. “My—” His words died quickly, and he stopped even faster in his tracks.
It took but one glance in the viscount’s offices to ascertain one key detail.
It wasn’t the viscount who awaited him. The enchantress wore a silk creation of seafoam, trimmed with a white lace along the bodice of her gown that accentuated generous orbs that didn’t require any embellishment. She was lush, a veritable Venus, and a man’s gaze needed no further urging when she was near. With the viscount’s desk a perch behind her, it immediately put Wayland in mind of Botticelli’s rendering of that goddess born of the seafoam, emerging from her shell. “You are not the viscount,” he said hoarsely.
Annalee’s lips tipped up. “Decidedly not.” And then, temptress that she was, Annalee played with the deep vee between her breasts, stroking a finger along that crevice.
He instantly went rock hard.
Her knowing gaze slowly dipped and then lingered upon that telltale tenting, an uncontrollable response he had whenever she was near. It appeared even when he was slated to meet with one of London’s most respected, powerful gentlemen.
Annalee’s smile widened, and she advanced, her movements a cross between a march and a glide, those steps graceful, her efforts determined.
Oh, hell. This was . . . bad.
With a quiet curse, he glanced frantically behind him.
“Annalee, you cannot be here,” he said sharply. All the while he backed up, scrabbling behind him for the door handle. “You’re courting ruin.” Hers and his. “If the papers have commented on a dance between us and a chance meeting at a shop on New Bond Street, what do you think they’ll say about . . . about . . . this?” he asked.
She stopped when she reached him. “Well, interestingly, Wayland,” Annalee murmured. She brought her hands up . . . but she was only adjusting a cravat he didn’t recall rumpling. “That is what I’d like to speak with you about.” Then she began to smooth her palms over the front of his jacket.
“Courting ruin?” he croaked.
She trilled a laugh. And then abruptly removed her hands from his person and stepped away. “Please . . .” She motioned to the viscount’s pair of wing chairs. “If you would?”
He followed her gesture. “If I would . . . what?”
“The chairs, Darling. I’m indicating the chairs. I’m urging you to sit.” She swept off, making for those seats.
And fortunately, with the fragrant rose scent of her not invading his senses or her tempting touch distracting him, his desire faded, and he’d a firm grip again on his self-control. “Annalee,” he said tersely. “Our being alone together is scandalous. I’m meeting the viscount.” Fishing out his watch fob, he consulted his timepiece. “In fact, he’s overdue and will arrive any—”
“You’re not.”
He paused.
“You’re meeting me.”
His patience snapped. “Damn it, Annalee.” He stalked over. “Not everything is a jest. I was summoned by the viscount about matters pertaining to Parliament and—”
“You’re not understanding me, Wayland,” she said calmly, without her usual teasing and seductive whispers, but rather all business. “You were not summoned by the viscount.”
That brought him up short again. “I . . .”
“You are here because of me. The viscount and viscountess were so good as to coordinate a private meeting.”
He rocked back on his heels. “You’re jesting.”
“Usually, yes. But in this, no. This time, I am deadly serious.” With that, she settled herself onto one of the leather chairs and stared expectantly at him.
Chapter 13
Annalee wasn’t a woman who found herself unsettled often. Or really, ever.
She didn’t give in to nervousness—certainly not about or around a gentleman.
She was confident in who she was and all her actions, and in all meetings and exchanges.
Until now.
And with . . . Wayland. A man whom she’d known since they were children, the man who’d been her first lover and her one true love—back when she’d believed in a thing called love.
Now, with Wayland unmoving and the time passing, she wasn’t at all certain whether he intended to follow her requests, after all.
Except, this was, of course, a new Wayland. A Wayland who was a stranger to her.
Wayland of old would have not only hopped onto one of the viscount’s luxuriant seats but also pulled her atop his lap for whatever discussion she’d intended for them to have.
And as such, this stark difference in him and the way they’d been together only heightened the unease that came . . . not just from meeting Wayland but from her chances of success. She’d promised Sylvia he would take part in her ruse, but . . . Annalee really hadn’t had any place giving such assurances. He owed her nothing. And they were . . . nothing. She was merely appealing to him as a friend of old.
At last, he sat, and immediately spoke. “Annalee, is this a game—”
“I’ve already told you,” she interrupted. “No game. I’ve asked you here on a matter of some seriousness.”
His brows drew together sharply, the harshly beautiful angles of his face becoming a perfect mask of concern. “Are you in . . . peril?”
And that transformation stirred the flames of hope that perhaps it wouldn’t be so very difficult after all to convince him to take part in this ruse. He also offered Annalee the perfect opening with which to put her request to him. “Well, funny thing, that, isn’t it? There are many different types of peril.” She just happened to be more aware than most respectable ladies of the deadly kinds. And the wicked ones.