Wayland’s mother had once been so welcoming but had since made a habit of giving Annalee the cut direct whenever their paths crossed.
Nay, she’d hardly approve of Annalee. Not now. Not anymore.
Just as her son didn’t.
He wouldn’t have approved of anything where she was concerned since Peterloo. Those unexpected moments of madness that seized her, crippling her mind and paralyzing her to all except the horrors of that day.
God, she desperately needed a drink. Her throat ached for it.
She followed the trays being carried about the room, those flutes bubbling and sparkling with the pale, frothy spirits within.
Annalee bit the inside of her cheek and repeated the mantra she’d set out with this night:
No champagne.
No brandy.
No whiskey.
No cheroots.
Annalee had rattled off that litany while Valerie had helped her make her dress selection for the Duke and Duchess of Fitzhugh’s overflowing ballroom.
Get in. Be respectable. Get out.
A handsome footman with a tray aloft came closer, and everything within her arched toward his offerings.
Her tongue heavy, Annalee stretched out her fingers.
Mayhap just one champagne flute.
An elegant figure stepped into Annalee’s path, stealing that opportunity for the relief brought through libation, and killing temptation’s pull. “You’re doing splendidly, my dear,” the dowager viscountess said, flanked by her three eldest daughters.
This was doing splendidly? Hanging out on the fringe of the ballroom, a pariah to the respectable? And barred from the pleasure of drink? “There isn’t anything that feels good about any of this,” she said, unable to call back those mutterings.
“Well, I for one would have you stay unchanged— Oww.” The dowager viscountess killed Brenna’s defense with a decisive pinch that was even less discreet than the young lady’s shriek.
“We are not attempting to change her. We are attempting to”—Lady St. John lifted a palm, moving it higher as she spoke—“elevate her.”
Annalee smiled for the quartet, more loyal than her own family, and certainly a good deal more loving. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“Nonsense,” the dowager viscountess scoffed—slashing that same hand prone to wild gesturing up and down. “No thanks necessary. Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I must coordinate partners for these three.”
“Mother!” Anwen implored.
“Yes, yes. I’ll be discreet about it,” the eccentric matron promised, also ruining that vow with her less-than-careful tones.
“Would you like to join us?” Cora asked hopefully. “I’m certain Mother would dearly love to find you a match.”
“Just for dancing. Just for dancing,” Lady St. John said exasperatedly. Like they were two peas in the pod of the same exact opinions, she held Annalee’s eyes and rolled her own. “Unless there is love, men only serve two purposes: one”—she stuck up a finger—“a good dance partner, and two . . .” The older woman waggled her brows, earning blushes and groans from her daughters and a laugh from Annalee. The first real one she’d managed that night.
Clapping her hands, the dowager viscountess marked the discussion at an end, and her three daughters fell into a neat line behind her like devoted little ducks, trotting off.
And for a second time that night, Annalee was riddled with envy at that evidence of another loyal, loving family. Not unlike Wayland and his sister, the Kearsleys exuded a deep, abiding love for one another.
They were a family whose devotion wasn’t contractual, dependent upon one’s child’s or sister’s obedience to the rules of decorum and propriety Polite Society held so dear.
Alone once more, Annalee turned her attention out to the crowd.
Get in. Be respectable. Get out.
No champagne.
No brandy.
No whiskey.
No cheroots.
She could do this. Nay, she was doing this. And she would do it without—
Him.
Her eyes collided with Wayland and his family. Nay, not just his family.
Also the Duke and Duchess of Kipling and their daughter, Lady Diana.
Had there ever been a more perfect pairing than those two?
The woman Wayland had saved, and received a title for rescuing. In those earliest days following Peterloo, Annalee had lain in her bed, staring sightlessly at the window. Maids would slide in and out, bringing trays and offering to assist her with her daily ablutions. She’d bathe, change, and then climb into bed, not eating, and then repeat that same routine over and over. All the while, she’d remained trapped inside her head, a prisoner of the hell of that day, the gunshots pinging around her mind, blaring as loud as they had on those fields that had run with blood.
She’d tortured herself with thoughts of the hell Wayland had faced. Wondering what those moments had been like for him. Because though they’d experienced that same macabre scene of suffering and strife, there’d been enough infinitesimal differences to mark each experience, each person’s own personal hell.
When she’d fought through the stampeding crowd, abandoning her friend Lila, her only thoughts had been to get to Wayland. Even as her instincts had screamed to flee, recognizing the futility of her search, she’d been compelled deeper and deeper into the melee.
The crush of bodies, threatening to pull her down and suffocate her.
The numerous times she’d slipped, thinking she was about to meet her end, only to somehow find her way back to her feet.
After that, she’d never believed she could face a crowd again.
Which was, ironically, why she’d first sought out the biggest, noisiest, wickedest affairs. Because the only way to control her demons was to confront them.
And she’d been successful with it.
Sweat coated her skin, slicked her palms.
Perhaps it was the sight of Wayland here with his Lady Diana. Perhaps it was that she’d made herself relive those darkest minutes of her life. But the weight was back in place, a thousand bricks upon her chest, crushing off her breath, and with every struggle to get air into her lungs, little pricks of light flickered before her vision.
The laughter swelled, distorted in her ears like a macabre twist of poisoned mirth. The smiles on the faces of the guests around her at odds with the terror winding like venom in her veins.
A servant came close, and panting slightly, she grabbed for one of those crystal flutes. Her movements clumsy, Annalee splashed several droplets over the side, staining her gloves. And she downed the glass, welcoming its trail. Welcoming the bubbling warmth.
Oh, God. It didn’t help.
No champagne.
No brandy.
No whiskey.
No cheroots.
Stand down . . . stand down . . .
Ping—ping—ping.
The ricocheting gunfire popped and peppered her mind. Or the air? Were those shots coming from here? Except that didn’t make sense. She was in London. In a ballroom.
You’ve done this before. You’ve talked yourself through it . . .
Except she’d only found that distraction through the very things she’d vowed to avoid this night.
Stop. You have greater self-control.
Have you seen my baby . . . ?
My baby? That didn’t make sense in the duke’s ballroom. But then perhaps that meant she wasn’t in the duke’s ballroom. Perhaps she’d been transported back to that field of evil and ugliness.