Annalee frowned. “And you care so very much about your reputation.” There was a trace of scorn within that statement that wasn’t even really a question, and yet he answered anyway.
“Yes, I do,” he said instantly. “But what I care about more is Kitty’s reputation. She is an outcast, and I worry about her being accepted by society. And I care about yours. Even if—” He stopped himself from finishing the remainder of that, but she was entirely too clever to miss his intended meaning.
“Even if I don’t?” With a sound of disgust, she came to her feet.
“That isn’t what I meant, Annalee,” he said.
“Yes, it is. Don’t be a liar on top of a coward, Wayland,” she tossed back.
Fire suffused his cheeks; that insult from this woman struck a perfect blow to his gut.
“Annalee, there is Kitty to consider.”
“Don’t hide behind your sister,” she spat.
He recoiled. “I’m not. She has even less of a luxury than I do, Annalee.” His voice rose as he spoke. “At least be honest and acknowledge that. She is and will always be a blacksmith’s daughter, treated with derision and shamed because of circumstances that were always beyond her control.”
Annalee drifted closer, angling her face up toward his. “Tell me this, Lord Darlington,” she rejoined. “Is it Kitty who is bothered by society’s condemnation . . . or is it you?”
“I . . .” He opened his mouth to confirm the former, but something froze that response on his lips.
Annalee smiled. “I thought so.” Then that luminescent smile faded, and it was as though the sun’s rays had been snatched from the sky, leaving the world dark. “You might say I don’t care how the world views me, Wayland,” she said softly without the earlier vitriol. “But that isn’t altogether true. I’ve had to listen to what people say about me.” She took a step closer, and he immediately backed away. Annalee stopped, a small, knowing smile on her lips as she looked him up and down. Only, no . . . It wasn’t entirely knowing. Disgust and disappointment poured from her person, spilling onto him all those sentiments she had for the man he’d become. “I care about the recent gossip surrounding my reputation, but do you know the difference between you and me? The difference is you have just your sister to worry after, but I? I have to think about almost two dozen ladies who are trying to find their place in this world, Wayland. Women who do not have the benefit or protection of a loving, loyal brother.” Like Jeremy, who’d cut her off . . . She’d been looking after herself, and now had taken the responsibility of helping ladies who found themselves in a similar way.
Wayland curled his hands so sharply his nails marked up his palms.
Giving him a derisory up-and-down look, Annalee swept off.
He should let her go. He wasn’t going to change his mind . . . no matter how much he wished he might be able to help her. She’d accepted his rejection, and they were better off parting ways sooner. And yet—
“It is about Kitty, you know,” he called after her, an exclamation that would have halted any other person, but Annalee continued her march across the viscount’s offices.
And something about that . . . Her not even breaking stride. Annalee not so much as glancing back his way.
That she didn’t even care what he intended to say, or what defense he’d give for his declination, proved the greatest insult he’d been dealt, an insult without words. Or worse, that she didn’t believe him. All of which was saying a good deal, given his treatment by Polite Society through the years.
And yet, as she left, with her accusations lingering in the room where they’d met and still ringing in his mind, a part of him deep inside that he didn’t want to acknowledge or confront whispered that mayhap it wasn’t just Kitty he was so very concerned about, after all. And he hated himself for that buried truth that Annalee had so effortlessly wrenched out of him.
Chapter 14
That had turned out to be a disaster. Annalee’s meeting with Wayland had decidedly not gone as planned.
At all.
Even as she’d told herself it would be difficult securing his cooperation because he was a new, proper, always decorous gentleman. In her mind’s eye, she’d seen that exchange playing out altogether differently. He was to have said yes, and they were to have followed through on the ruse she’d promised Sylvia he would.
He was always going to have said yes.
But he hadn’t.
And Sylvia was gone to the country, with Annalee left to oversee the society . . . with really only one course and recourse available to her.
All her muscles seized under this greatest of losses, a loss made all the more agonizing, having voiced it aloud.
Seated around the parlor with the other Mismatch Society members, Annalee finished explaining all the latest troubles to the group. Because they had a right to know. Because they should have been told from the start. Neither she nor Sylvia nor Valerie had any place withholding from them matters that pertained to the health of the overall group.
Anwen Kearsley was the one to speak first.
“He rejected your offer,” she whispered, and Annalee appreciated the shock and disbelief from the eldest Kearsley sister. She really did. After all, it bespoke a confidence in Annalee’s abilities. Granted, one she was undeserving of, but a generous and kindly sign of her friendship.
That also was the part the young lady would focus on—the betrayal, or if not betrayal, the rejection by Annalee’s friend. Or former friend. They weren’t friends any longer. Oddly, that was meant to ease the frustration and hurt, but it only added a stone to those already weighing on her chest.
Annalee cleared her throat. “Yes, he did.” And he’d been quite decisive in his rejection. That, however, was neither here nor there. She’d not mention that Wayland saw them as too scandalous to link himself to. “As a result, I have called this emergency meeting to share with you my . . . decision . . .” Oh, God. She couldn’t do this. It was impossible. This was the one place where she felt a sense of true belonging with other women. A sisterhood. “The only conclusion I’ve been able to draw,” she continued, stumbling, attempting to get the words out. “The only safe and wise course for the society is that I step back and step down, and . . . remove myself from the household.”
Silence came quick, but the thunderous tide of shocked exclamations and declinations came on the heels, even louder and more forceful.
All the words blended together, with the occasional shout piercing the noise of the upset membership.
“Absolutely not . . .”
“You cannot . . .”
Cressida promptly dissolved into copious weeping, crying into the shoulder of Brenna Kearsley beside her. Brenna patted the other young woman on the back, while also swiping the moisture from her own cheeks.
Annalee’s heart lurched.
And tears. There were tears, too. For her?
And blast if a sheen didn’t film across Annalee’s own eyes. She fought desperately to drive them back, digging her nails hard into her lap, distracting herself with a different pain.
“What about Thérèse?” Anwen whispered.
“If you read the book . . . it will answer most of what I would have shared anyway,” Annalee assured.