And also a woman who’d refused to respond to his notes after that day in Manchester. From that rejection to the life she’d lived afterward, she had indicated it was entirely over.
There’d not really been a closure, however. And mayhap that was what accounted for his mind and soul suddenly balking at the expectations his mother—and society—had for him where Lady Diana was concerned.
He’d do well to remember all of Annalee’s rejection, and the lessons from it. No good could truly come from anything between them. And even less good could come in throwing over the relationship he’d fostered between his and Lady Diana’s families on nothing more than memories of how wonderful it had once been with Annalee.
Annalee, who, for that matter, didn’t even tend to frequent the same events as Wayland, and therefore running into her these past several days, coincidences offered by fate, was playing games with his mind and his memories.
The carriage rolled to a stop outside the stand-alone residence, more manor than townhouse, its size and positioning on Mayfair’s streets marking the wealth and power of the family who lived within.
Their driver drew open the door, and Wayland’s mother immediately placed her hand out first, always one to lead the way into formal affairs. It had been a role she’d reveled in since their change of circumstances.
Wayland stepped out and held up a palm for Kitty. They continued at a slower pace behind their mother.
“I think it was gallant,” Kitty murmured as they started the ascent up the earl and countess’s limestone steps.
Wayland gave her a quizzical look.
“What you did for Annalee.”
Ah, beating Welles senseless. “Violence isn’t an answer,” he said gruffly. Or that had been a guiding principle he’d adhered to after the British government had turned their swords and gunfire on the masses.
“Do you regret knocking him out?” she asked as they made their way inside.
He looked her in the eye. “No.”
He’d resolved to be proper, and to conduct himself honorably. But he’d quite happily thrash the bounder again on the altar of Westminster Abbey on Sunday were Wayland to discover him so much as looking sideways at Annalee.
Kitty smiled.
They were shown to the music room, where guests had already assembled and now milled.
Wayland did a sweep of the room, spying Jeremy alongside his betrothed. He tensed. Jeremy, who no doubt had questions, and coward that he was, Wayland had given thanks when the other man had not shown up that morn to discuss . . . Annalee, or what had transpired. Because too many other questions and explanations were owed along with it.
Then the crowd parted, and his gaze landed upon a lone figure off to the fringe of the gathering, close enough to not be seen as standoffish, but still removed as to not truly be part of it. And yet, how could every eye not be upon her? Clad in gold, with her flaxen tresses worn down, hanging loose about her shoulders, she was very much the goddess of beauty herself.
Annalee chewed at her fingernail, a distracted habit she’d had since she was a girl. He couldn’t help the smile.
A hopelessly bored-looking Annalee . . . and nervous. Because he knew her gestures of old as sure as he knew the lines upon his palm. That habit of biting at her nails. The slightest bend to her right shoulder in how she postured herself that lent her an uneven stance.
It was an incongruity. Lady Annalee, as she existed now in his mind, was wholly confident, unbothered by opinions from the mere mortals around her.
She passed a stare over the room.
And then their gazes met.
Letting her arm drop, she inclined her head, lifting it the slightest fraction, and several curls bounced at her shoulders, bringing his gaze to her neckline, modest, and yet, Annalee had forever been splendorous in whatever garment kissed her skin.
“If you’ll excuse me?” he said distractedly.
“Wayland?” There was a question in his mother’s tone. “Wayland?” she repeated. “Get back here this—”
Kitty slid between them, preventing their mother’s attempt to block Wayland, and he made his way across the room, pausing occasionally to greet familiar members of Parliament and other gentlemen whom he’d made acquaintances with through his years. None of them really friends.
Only two in the whole room.
Only one at the moment whom he cared to see now.
Even with his mother’s lecture and the silent warnings he’d given to himself about Annalee.
He reached her side.
She straightened. “Wayland Smith, Lord Darlington,” she said by way of greeting. “You see tales of my corrupting the innocent hold truth, yet you continue to invite scandal . . . again.”
By speaking with her.
Wayland dropped a bow. “Conversing in the middle of a musical hosted by your family? I daresay I’ll take my chances.”
They shared a smile.
“I am surprised to see you,” he remarked. And more than a little . . . happy to see her here. A good deal more than was safe, and a great deal more than he was willing to admit to himself.
“Alas, so are my mother and father.” She tipped her head ever so faintly in the direction of the countess, conversing with one of her distinguished guests; all the while the evening’s hostess paused to watch Annalee. “I fear I’ve crashed the affair.”
He frowned. Crashed the affair? Which suggested . . . Surely not. “You did not receive an invitation?”
“A lady of my reputation?” She snorted. “Certainly not.”
Their own daughter. Jeremy’s own sister. But then, after what she’d shared about her family cutting her off from her dowry, and turning her out, he shouldn’t be surprised . . . and yet . . . In an instant, Wayland proved a liar in all the beliefs he’d held in terms of brutality. He was filled with the sudden urge to do violence once more to the lady’s faithless brother. Because goddamn it, a brother was supposed to protect his sister before anyone else. And yet where the hell had the other man been when Annalee’s life had fallen apart, and rakes and cads had begun to be her company of choice?
As though you have grounds to pass judgment when you robbed the lady of her innocence without the benefits of matrimony.
Guilt sluiced through him, commingling with his rage.
“I never had an opportunity to thank you,” she said softly, pulling him back from a dark place that involved him hunting down all the men who’d ever taken advantage of her . . . and then finishing himself off . . . because he was included in those ranks. “For what you did last night.”
Wayland clenched and unclenched his fists. “I didn’t do it for thanks. I did it because he deserved it for how he treated you.”
A sad little smile played with the corners of her lightly rouged lips. “I do believe you are the only person to have felt that way where I was concerned.”
God, how he hated the outcast she’d become. The way in which she was treated . . . by all. Including her own family.
“Why would you come?” he asked, sliding closer.
“And put myself through the joy of my parents’ displeasure? I’m on a path to proper, Wayland.” She lifted a hand. “I’ll not be deterred.”
Because of her Mismatch Society.
It bespoke a devotion to the women who were members that she would endure the hell of this room and the unkindness of strangers. She was braver and greater than all the women present, combined.