Now, when presented with an image of Annalee . . . entering some bloody bastard’s apartments and—
His mind recoiled, his entire body shuddering from the insidious thoughts that intruded.
But it was too late. The vicious tentacles took root and wrapped and twisted their poison, imaginings of her in the throes of passion with another.
A man who, thanks to the goddamned Times, wasn’t even a stranger, but a very real man with a name and an identity and a blasted face.
And a good-looking one at that.
Wayland slammed his fist down on the table, and his plate jumped.
He did care.
There came the frantic rush of footfalls outside the breakfast room.
Splendid.
This was exactly what else the day called for—a visit from his mother.
She stopped quickly and sniffed the air. “Was there a fire?”
Grabbing his coffee, he took a swallow of that bitter, black brew. “I knocked over a candle,” he said tersely. Which wasn’t untrue.
Humming happily to herself, his mother set a new, unwrinkled copy of The Times beside his setting.
He stared blankly, unblinkingly, at that page.
“There,” she paused long enough in her song to say. She pointed to Annalee’s name tangled with Lord Willoughby’s.
With a gleeful and gross smile, she plopped herself down on the seat a servant drew out for her. “I trust you’ve seen that already?” she remarked, buttering a piece of toast with a smug smile that, had she been a man, he would have happily wiped from her face. And it was too much to hope that his mother, abreast of all ton gossip and knowledge, should be speaking about some other on-dit, one that didn’t have to do with the one woman Wayland didn’t want to think of in this particular moment.
“I’ve seen it. Though I hardly know—”
“Oh, hush. Do not take me for a ninny. You know and I know that I am speaking about the reports of Annalee’s whereabouts last evening.”
Her whereabouts.
After she’d left her parents, she’d gone and . . . visited another gentleman.
And just like that, his mother’s words, coupled with those he’d read inked upon The Times, painted a picture all over in his mind . . . of Annalee . . . and that bloody Lord Willoughby. Tall and wiry and born a proper gentleman, a man the papers had paired her name with through the years. The two of them twisted in one another’s arms as he moved between her legs. Coaxing those breathless little gasps from her—
Nausea roiled.
Wayland tossed back another swallow of coffee.
It proved a mistake. The brew slid down his throat.
I’m going to be sick.
“I’ve told you to have a care around that lady. It doesn’t do for you to be seen with her as you were last night.”
“I wasn’t with her,” he thundered, slamming a fist down upon that damning scandal sheet. “I was conversing with her because she is a damned friend, and because I’ll not treat her as a goddamned social pariah when the lady’s own parents would do so.”
His mother stared wide-eyed at him.
His chest heaving from the force of his fury, Wayland sat back in his chair. He never lost his temper. Good God, what was happening to him?
Oh, you know, a voice taunted. You know. These past few days had stirred reminders of feelings he’d carried, and they were running amok, torturing him with what would never be.
Fortunately, an interruption came, cutting into the tense debate with his mother.
A servant came forward with a silver tray and held it out.
Wayland stared at the familiar scrawl.
Splendid. Absolutely splendid.
He grabbed the sheet and broke the seal. Unfolding the note, he read the two concise sentences scrawled upon the page.
Urgent. I require your presence.
~Jeremy
Bloody hell.
Wayland came to his feet.
“Where are you going?” his mother called as he started for the doorway.
“I have business to see to,” he said, not glancing back.
“Surely, you see that it is as I said . . . She is not for you, Wayland. She is . . . damaged. She is not the girl you knew and played with. She is not the lady you loved.”
Blocking out her grating voice, he quickened his strides, calling out for his mount.
He was no more eager to speak with his mother about Annalee, or his relationship with her, than he was to sit there thinking about that.
Jealousy and fury lent his strides an increased frenzy.
He turned the corner and collided straight with his sister.
Kitty cried out; the newspapers in her hands went flying, raining down around the corridor floor.
Cursing, Wayland caught his sister to keep her from falling. “Forgive me,” he said on a rush, and waving off the waiting footman who ran over to help, Wayland fell to a knee and proceeded to stack his sister’s newspapers.
He gritted his teeth. Though were they really newspapers? It was gossip. Bloody gossip was all it was.
“I am quite fine, dearest brother,” Kitty assured, joining him on the floor. Collecting the newspapers from him, she proceeded to tidy her collection. “I trust you read about Annalee.”
God help him. Not his sister, too.
“I don’t care to talk about it, Kitty.” He stood. “If you’ll excuse me? I have a meeting.”
“Yes, yes.” However, Kitty hopped into his path. “It is just I think you should . . . keep an open mind.”
Oh, his mind had been opened that morning, all right. With all manner of dark, unwanted, unwelcome thoughts. He gave his head a hard shake.
“So what?” Kitty shrugged. “The lady was spied visiting a gentleman. They are . . . friends. I’m sure. Women can be friends with men.”
“They absolutely cannot be,” he replied in an instant.
Invariably the friendship became confused; entangled within were romantic sentiments, and then more. He knew that better than anyone. Of course, he couldn’t as well say as much to his sister.
Kitty threw up her hands. “Lady Sylvia was friends with the Viscount St. John.”
“And they married.”
And this wasn’t Lady Sylvia or any other damned lady they were speaking about.
It was Annalee.
Annalee, who, following their exchange last evening, had left her family’s household to visit another.
Nay, not another. Stop letting your mind shy away from what it was: a man. A rake of the first order. A cad.
His sister touched his sleeve, jerking him back from the silent, tortured hell of his own mind.
“I’m simply saying that just because she visited him does not mean anything untoward happened. And that . . . you should trust her.”
Trust her.
He inclined his head. “I—”
“I know. I know.” Kitty shoved him lightly. “You have a most important meeting. Off you go, then.”
A short ride through Mayfair later, Wayland found himself climbing the Earl and Countess of Kempthorne’s steps. The doors were drawn open by a more-somber-than-usual Tanning with a rapidity that indicated this household had been awaiting Wayland’s visit. Nay, not visit. A visit suggested an amicable meeting between friends.
That was not what this was about. Not this time.
The moment he entered, a servant came to relieve him of his cloak.
“This way, my lord,” Tanning murmured after Wayland had handed over the article. When they reached the billiards room, Tanning announced him.