Footfalls came quick, and murmurs and cries of horror grew louder, as a sea of the duke and duchess’s guests converged upon Wayland, Welles, and Annalee.
“My gawwwwd,” someone in that crowd cried out.
Annalee briefly closed her eyes. When she opened them, she found some ten or twelve guests around them, most familiar. Several not. And from the ranks of that audience, Wayland’s mother shouldered her way through and staggered to a stop.
“What is . . . going on here?”
There was no doubting what opinions were already being formed. Which ones had already been formed.
Bloody hell.
Chapter 17
The following morning, Annalee lay in her bed, sprawled on her back. She stared overhead at the lacy film canopy that draped across the four posters.
Through that translucent, gauzy fabric, she remained fixed on the naked gods and goddesses painted there, locked in their own play.
She’d always loved this particular rendering; it was one of the reasons upon her arrival at Waverton Street that she’d asked Sylvia and Valerie if she might have this room. Because it was like a . . . homecoming of sorts. Not because she felt powerful like the gods. Far from it. Rather, she’d felt a kindred connection to this moment of hedonism they partook in. This wicked play they surrendered to made sense to her.
He disapproved of her.
He disdained her.
It was what she’d always known.
Nay, not always.
Before all the sin and ugliness that had exploded like hell had been unleashed upon mankind—and womankind—in Manchester, he’d respected her.
But then, what reason would a man like Wayland—a gentleman—have to respect you? a voice taunted. Over the years, she . . . had taken lovers. More specifically, in those first months following Peterloo, she’d attended orgies and other scandalous affairs.
After a year of sinning, however, she’d tired of men who didn’t fill the void that existed within her. Instead, there’d been a greater thought to whom she bedded and why.
And then there was the smoking.
Granted, Wayland had been the one to teach her how to smoke a cheroot. He’d sneaked them from his father so that she and he and Jeremy might attempt it. They’d been children then.
Wayland of now didn’t smoke. Or drink.
And the one venture she was most proud of, the one thing she’d done with herself that actually felt purposeful and meaningful, he didn’t even approve of that. In fact, he was so horrified by it, and her efforts and what her society sought to accomplish, that he’d become one of those oppressive elder brothers who attempted to stifle their sisters’ wills and wishes.
Because those honorable good girls, those respectable ones, had no place entering the household of Annalee Spencer.
And last night? She’d gone and ruined him. Granted, he’d ruined himself by storming the corridor and fighting for her honor.
Why? Why would he do that if he didn’t respect her or care about her anymore?
A strained laugh gurgled up from her throat. But then, whatever of those sentiments had lived last evening had likely died after the scandal that had rocked London after she, Wayland, and Welles had been discovered.
Her gaze locked on the mural of the goddess Methe. In one hand she hoisted a glass of wine in salute to the revelry unfolding, while her other fingers were twined with Dionysus’s. Together, they celebrated with Amphictyonis, that deity of wine and friendship.
What is honorable about what you do, Annalee?
And because of who she was, who she’d become, Wayland would bar his sister entry to the Mismatch. And that, oddly, hurt the most of all. That had she been just Sylvia or some other respected lady, he’d not only consent but also would likely gladly have Kitty mingle with the Mismatch members. And now Kitty should pay the price, being denied the opportunity to grow and challenge and be challenged by women who’d said “enough” to society’s institutions . . . because of Annalee.
Wrenching her stare away, Annalee curled onto her side and directed her attention to the window, a safer place that didn’t conjure her life that Wayland saw as a failing.
Why should she care anyway? She, who didn’t give a goddamn what anyone thought of her? She, who’d deliberately built herself up so that she couldn’t or wouldn’t care?
Only to find that . . . she’d not done such an impressive job with those defenses as she’d thought. Not such an impressive job, after all. Not when Wayland had so easily penetrated them, raising insecurities she’d not known she’d possessed. Weaknesses she’d not known she had.
Mayhap it was because of the one who’d called her out, challenging her.
Mayhap it was because a lifetime ago, he’d been her best friend and her lover, and the one man whom she’d entertained marrying. Nay, the man whom she’d been determined to marry. Even if her parents would have fought that match—as she knew they would have. Even if Jeremy would have likely resisted it, too. She and Wayland had been fated for one another.
Or that was what she’d told herself for so long, what she’d believed for so long. What a naive fool she’d been.
RapRapRap.
There wasn’t a pause long enough for her to utter an “enter” before the door opened and then closed.
There came a light tread that she knew too well, even before the young woman identified herself.
Valerie’s black skirts came into direct line with Annalee’s vision. “Are you jug bitten?” Her friend’s question came without recrimination. It was so very matter-of-fact, and somehow . . . all the worse for it.
“No.”
Annalee flipped onto her back, but that proved the wrong direction to look, as Dionysus and Methe partnered with Amphictyonis. With a sigh, Annalee rolled the other way.
“You do know you are late. You’re never late. Even when foxed.”
Which she so often was.
The mattress dipped as Valerie set herself on the edge, and Annalee rolled back. “It is a terrible idea.”
Her friend’s golden brows dipped a fraction. “Being in your cups? I must admit I’ve never understood your love of sp—”
“No. Not that.” Annalee’s love of spirits, as her friend referred to it, wasn’t what she spoke of. Though if she were discussing that, she’d explain it was more a need than a wish. She sat up quickly. “My being part of the Mismatch. I’m a terrible fit,” she went on, and as she spoke, her words all tripped and rolled together. “The key piece is allowing women a forum to come together and fight for a better place for themselves in the world, and yet, as long as I’m here, I’m an impediment to that. Ladies will continue to be barred, and after last night . . .”
“Ah, the fight.”
Her friend knew about it. Had no doubt read about it. But then, if just being in the same modiste’s as he and his sister had been a source of scandal, all of London was surely whispering about that exchange in the duke’s corridor. “I am a magnet for scandal,” she said, flipping once more, lying on her back.
“That’s never bothered you before,” Valerie pointed out, not attempting to deny Annalee’s description of herself, and it was that honesty she so loved her friend for. “Should I . . . ask what the fight was over?”