The servant instantly pushed the door shut behind them.
She’d never been turned away. He’d never turned her away. Ever. And she didn’t expect him to now. That was the manner of friend he’d been through the years, and it was the manner of friend she needed, especially now. Following her visit with the latest Mismatch Society member, the perfectly perfect and prim Lady Diana and—had Annalee already said “perfect”? Because that’s what the lady was. Grinding her teeth, Annalee cut a path through Willoughby’s household, heading straightaway to the room she was most familiar with in this posh residence.
The moment she reached the billiards room, Annalee made for the sideboard. She stopped before it, pausing to eye the sparkling, glittering crystal perfection contained upon that smooth mahogany surface. Glorious perfection.
Peeling off her gloves, Annalee tossed them atop the velvet-lined billiards table and turned all her attention back to her drink selection.
Settling upon a bottle of whiskey, she grabbed a glass and poured herself several fingerfuls; the tinkling of crystal touching crystal, and the smooth stream of liquid pouring, had the same soothing effect as a good cheroot.
Or it always had.
Not this time.
Annalee pushed the door shut. “Take off your cloak; you’re not going out.”
He smirked, his fingers making quick work of the clasp.
“It’s not that kind of visit,” she snapped.
“Unfortunate that. I’ve never seen you in such a state, love,” he drawled, leaning against the heavy oak panel.
Which was saying a good deal, given he’d seen her in nearly every state, even retching over a chamber pot from a night of too much drink.
“We have a new member.”
He gave her a look.
She tossed up her hands, her quick movement sending liquid spilling over the rim of her glass and spattering the floor. “The Mismatch Society. What else would I be talking about?”
“I really have no idea, love.” He paused. “And that is problematic.”
“No. Yes. No.”
He winged a chestnut eyebrow.
Yes, it absolutely was.
“She is perfectly ladylike.”
“Who?”
“Lady Diana.” Her mouth tightened in the corners in a reflexive scowl.
Willoughby shuddered. “God forbid. I’m well aware of the lady’s reputation. With necklines that nearly reach her chin and a properness not even the sternest matrons could muster, she doesn’t fit with your usual scandalous members.”
God love him for attempting to follow, and yet . . . Annalee bristled. “We’re not all scandalous. There are the Kearsley sisters, and the Gatelys and Sylvia.” She frowned. Come to think of it, aside from the Countess of Waterson, a former courtesan and music hall owner, just she and Valerie had reputations that preceded them.
“So if the lady is not one you wish to have amongst your members, then don’t.” Willoughby glanced at his timepiece.
“Do you have somewhere to be, Wills?” she snapped.
He immediately dropped the chain. “I wouldn’t dream of it, dearest.”
Holding out her filled glass, she pointed it in Willoughby’s direction. “Do you know the problem with being a lady?”
“I could only begin to guess,” he drawled from the other side of the table.
“The expectations. Everyone expects us to be a certain way and behave a certain way. But what is worse, Willoughby,” she whispered, “is the ladies who allow themselves to be so changed.” As she’d once allowed herself to be. And now she was doing it again . . . for Sylvia, of course. For their membership. But she was changing, and didn’t recognize herself. And today had only highlighted . . . no matter how much she did manage to change, she still would never be . . . Lady Diana. “And what is it for?”
“The ladies allow themselves to be changed,” he agreed. “Unlike you, love,” he said without recrimination. Following Peterloo, he’d been the first friend she’d found. At a club not fit for any lady, it had been Annalee’s first foray into the world of sin and wickedness. When a drunken Lord Gravens had attempted to take that which she’d been unwilling to give, Willoughby had been there . . . From that moment on, he’d taken her under his wing and safely opened up that world to her. Over the years, their relationship had been a friendship, but also one that blurred and straddled the line of lovers.
“I wasn’t always this way,” she said, more to herself. Nay, there’d been a time when she’d been bright-eyed . . . and innocent. Innocent in every way. She’d been that, too.
“I couldn’t imagine you any other way than as you are now, Anna.”
Willoughby’s words should be a compliment, particularly coming from a man who detested innocence even more than Annalee.
Odd, that it should strike a pang in her chest. Because, well, goddamn it, Annalee didn’t want to be like the others. She wanted to be her own woman. Not the simpering debutante and the revered lady lords sought to marry. Lords like Darlington, who cared so very much about his title and his reputation, and such a man would countenance a life and a future with only a flawless, biddable, and unsullied-in-every-way lady. One such as Lady Diana.
Annalee tossed back her drink, grimacing at that enormous swallow which burnt her throat.
“What is it, love?”
She started, having failed to hear Willoughby’s approach. “Have you come for a diversion?” He lowered his lips to her neck, and Annalee briefly closed her eyes, tilting her head to allow him that access he sought. He brushed a kiss there. How many times had she come here in search of the very distraction he now offered? And yet, even with his breath, hot and brandy-tinged, a sough upon her skin, this wasn’t why she’d come. Not this time.
She drew back slightly, eluding his efforts. “Darlington.”
Willoughby paused, his mouth still close to her skin. “Tsk, tsk. Calling me by the wrong name, love. Even for you, that’s bad form.”
She grimaced. “No. No. I was . . .” She caught the teasing glimmer in his eyes. “I was speaking about Darlington.”
Willoughby straightened. “I assure you, you’re looking in the wrong household if you think I’d have Darlington, or anyone like him, here.” He chuckled quietly, and Annalee felt the stirrings of annoyance at that jaded condescension.
Why? Why, when she’d silently jeered and mocked Wayland through the years? All the changes he’d undergone from a blacksmith’s bold, determined-to-rise-up-and-change-the-world son to a tied-up, proper-in-every-way baron?
Mayhap, however, it had been easier to pass judgment upon him than accept he was all that was good and honorable while she’d made a full descent into sin and sinning.
“What is it, Annalee?”
“I don’t like him.” But that isn’t altogether true, a voice taunted. You like him just fine. You always have.
“I know that.”
He knew that. “You never asked why.”
Willoughby shrugged. “It never seemed like my place.”
It never seemed like his place.
And she appreciated that. Or she had. He’d never probed too deeply. Not very deeply at all.
Unlike Wayland, who, in this recent time together, had put any number of questions and challenges to Annalee. Wayland, who’d probed and pressed her about how she’d lived, forcing her to think about decisions she’d made, and making her think about whether this was the life she wished for herself.