Home > A Wanton for All Seasons(43)

A Wanton for All Seasons(43)
Author: Christi Caldwell

“Wayland,” she whispered.

“Kitty, this . . . change for us, from blacksmith’s children to peerage, it isn’t a temporary one. It isn’t the party thrown by the duke and duchess after . . . after . . .” His gut kicked.

“After you saved their daughter,” she supplied, filling in the easier words. But then, child that she’d been, and entirely removed as she was from Peterloo, she’d not ever think of it in the same light or terms as people like he . . . or Annalee . . . would.

“We”—she waved a palm back and forth between them—“are not on the same team. You are on Mother’s side.”

“I am on the side of seeing you safe and cared for,” he said in solemn tones, willing her with that gravity to both see and hear his sincerity. “And your future secured, and if that makes me a bad brother, Kitty, then so be it.”

Silence followed his quiet pronouncement. She searched her eyes over his face for a long while.

Perhaps . . . she could be reasoned with, after all. Kitty was emotional, but she also possessed a keen logic and mind. Perhaps—

Kitty released a shriek, fit to challenge the perseverance and quality of every piece of crystal in the room. She punched him harder in the chest this time, in one-two-three rapid succession, and stormed off.

“Kitty!” he called after her.

“Go to hell.” She swept out into the hall and slammed the door hard behind her, rattling the frame and sending the crystal adornments upon the sconces tinkling.

Wayland dug his fingertips against his temple.

It was his lot in life to fail where all females were concerned.

Looking forward to the upcoming carriage ride with his mother and sister with the same eagerness as a man might feel facing a firing squad, he made his way to the foyer, where he found the tense, unspeaking mother-daughter pair. Grateful when they arrived a short while later at the duke and duchess’s residence, they made their entry, waiting in stiff silence to be announced.

Wayland glanced around the packed ballroom.

When he’d first entered events hosted by members of Polite Society, the crowds had gawked with fascination at him, an interloper amongst their ranks. A king might grant a title, but that title did not automatically transfer societal approval. Far from it. Originally, almost always and only met with the cut direct, he had felt that coldness recede eventually, and the people thawed—somewhat.

In time, with the support shown him by Jeremy and his family, and some of the more benevolent lords and ladies, a greater courtesy had been extended to him. But that approval was contractual . . . dependent upon how well he adhered to the expected steps. A requirement made all the more important by the fact that his sister had never really found herself the recipient of the acceptance Wayland had been shown.

“Not one word from you this night,” his mother said as the party before them prepared to be announced, and she, Wayland, and Kitty slid into place behind them.

“I’ve not said anything. Not that I would say anything to you anyway,” Kitty said from the corner of her mouth, her lips unmoving. “There is nothing I wish to say to either you or my traitor of a brother.”

Traitor of a brother? “Oh, for the love of—” Wayland’s clipped challenge was cut short.

“The Right Honorable Lord Darlington, Miss Smith, and Mrs. Smith.”

“Smile, dears,” their mother urged, plastering the most painful-looking one on her lips as she swept forward.

And as he trailed behind, with a furious, unsmiling Kitty on his arm, he cursed this night . . . that undoubtedly could not get any worse.

He reached the bottom of the steps and froze, his gaze landing on the tall, statuesque lady with one of the duke’s Doric columns as her only company.

“Annalee is here!” Kitty exclaimed animatedly, the happiest he’d seen her that night. She gave an exuberant wave, and across the room, Annalee lifted her fingers, giving them a little wag. All the while, her taunting stare remained locked on Wayland.

His heart thumped hard.

After she’d quit the Viscount St. John’s offices, he’d thought their paths wouldn’t again cross. But it appeared, between this and the invitation she’d extended to Kitty, the lady wasn’t quite done with him.

He was in trouble. There was nothing else for it.

 

 

Chapter 15

Annalee had, as a rule, come to appreciate that one could never truly rely upon other people completely.

Oh, it wasn’t cynicism that lent her the belief. It was life. And simply put, the reality of it.

Her parents hadn’t a use for her, following Peterloo. Her brother, well, he’d even less use of her upon his return from the Continent, when he’d discovered her transformed from the innocent sister he’d called friend to a wicked wanton whose honor was long past defending by that point.

Why, even the Mismatch Society hemorrhaged its members to the marital state—first Sylvia was gone and married, and now gone altogether. And then it was Emma.

Even that group of some dozen ladies staunchly defended her and supported her, but neither were they and their families rushing to send any invites Annalee’s way to their respectable affairs.

It was also that cold, hard reality that accounted for Annalee dusting off Wayland’s rejection, as the Dowager Viscountess St. John had encouraged, and continuing without his help.

Proper and respectable. She could do that. At least until Sylvia’s return.

Hell, since Peterloo, Annalee had mastered both.

And she’d been doing swimmingly this evening at the Duchess of Fitzhugh’s ball . . . until Wayland had been announced.

Of course, it made sense that he would be here. At one of the most respected events, hosted by the estimable duke and duchess. It was the perfect affair for him to attend.

When she’d coordinated an invitation for herself that night with the assistance of the Dowager Viscountess of St. John, Annalee had only had one purpose in mind—rehabilitating her image.

She’d not allowed herself to think about seeing Wayland here.

Now, she was as hopeless as she’d always been where the gentleman was concerned to do anything other than drink in the sight of him.

For all the ways in which he’d set to fit in with Polite Society, he’d forgone the puffs at the sleeve heads as favored by nearly all lords. In his figured silk waistcoat, snuff brown in shade, he stood apart from the many gentlemen who donned black, thinking themselves dashing in darkness. Deep-brown breeches. A wool jacket in emerald, and wide cravat and loose bow, on the arm of his sister as he was, he epitomized the role of devoted, loving brother.

He always had.

It had been one of the reasons she’d so admired him. Contrary to how some older brothers went out of their way to avoid an under-the-foot sibling, Wayland had been the kindest, sweetest big brother when Kitty was nearby.

Not unlike Annalee’s brother.

A wave of unexpected melancholy filled her.

Kitty offered another exuberant wave for Annalee, which she returned. These events amongst the members of Polite Society were deuced uncomfortable, and . . . lonely. It was a rarity that she was welcomed, and it was kindness that meant so very much to her.

The girl slipped her arm from Wayland’s, and leaving his side, she joined their mother.

Annalee forced her focus away from that trio.

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