A bee stung him for his efforts, pulling a sharp curse from him.
That was how this day was shaping up to be.
Silence fell hard and fast, and he’d wager every last pence and property he’d received from the king, and his reputation itself, that this was the first this particular gaggle of ladies had been so effectively quieted.
When still no one spoke and he was left with the awkwardness of more than a dozen eyes all locked on him, he repeated for a second time, “I’m here to court Annalee.” He displayed the peonies. What remained of them.
A petal rained sadly down from the bunch, landing atop the tip of his black boot.
These were, however, women, he thought, and all women were at least a little bit romantic and were certainly hard-pressed not to sigh somewhat over a suitor who’d scaled a wall, bearing flowers.
Alas, he was reminded all over again that he knew less than nothing where the fairer sex was concerned.
“What kind of suitor arrives with beheaded flowers?” someone whispered from the crowd. “I think it’s a threat.”
Oh, for the love of God. “It is not a threat,” he said, running his free hand down over his face, and through his fingers, he caught Annalee’s widening smile. “You’re enjoying this,” he muttered.
Annalee leaned in, wafting that fragrant rose scent, filling his nostrils and flooding his senses. “Oh, immensely.” She winked.
“And furthermore, he cursed at her. Cursed. That is hardly the intentions of a suitor.”
Finding no safe harbor in Annalee, he glanced to his sister, Kitty, who at some point had edged away from him and started her return to the bloodthirsty lot. She immediately stopped her retreat. “Will you tell them?”
“They’re not wrong, Wayland. If you’re here courting, cursing hardly seems the stuff of romance.”
Murmurs of assent rolled around the gardens, and he, who’d been praised by society for his respect of propriety and decorum, reached the outer limits and breaking point of his patience. “Because I’m here with honorable intentions.”
“Heard that before,” a lady in the masses mumbled.
“Do you know what happened to the peonies?” he called, with not a single person present giving an indication that they cared. He gritted his teeth and told them anyway. “The butler beheaded them. Because I tried to make my way through the front door. But alas, I’m a menace. Me, a gentleman with flowers and”—Wayland shot the hand holding the bouquet out toward them—“I got stung by a damned bee and—”
“And he’s yelling.” A stranger-to-him lady clucked her tongue like a chicken.
“And cursing again,” his sister added.
It was official. He was going to lose his damned mind if he stayed here one moment longer.
At last, Annalee took mercy on him and his soul.
She clapped once. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me. There’s nothing ornerier than a wounded man.”
The group sniggered. His sister included.
The traitor.
“I’m not—” His finger was beginning to swell. Except . . . His mind raced. “Er . . . yes, that is . . . that is it, exactly. I am not my usual self because of my grave injury.”
Annalee inclined her head. “Ladies, please resume our lessons without me while I save Lord Darlington’s life.”
With that, she crooked two fingers, indicating he was to follow.
And at last, he was in.
Chapter 22
Annalee and Wayland didn’t talk the length of the walk from the gardens to her offices.
In all the years that she’d known Wayland Smith, it was the first silence that had ever existed between them.
And yet, also for the first time, Annalee, who was always ready with a quip and a witty word, found herself . . . speechless.
He’d . . . come here . . . ? For her?
Nay, more specifically . . . to court her?
That didn’t make sense. But then, nothing about coming into her gardens and finding the always proper Wayland sprawled on his arse from a fall he’d suffered scaling her wall did.
Had he been Wayland of old, then, yes, nothing about this day would have been unexpected . . . But Wayland, who valued his reputation and his place in Polite Society above all else, was the last man she’d have thought to sneak onto her property.
Except, this new Wayland had also bloodied to a pulp Lord Welles, making himself a scandal . . . for Annalee. Because of Annalee.
The same guilt that had dogged her since the Fitzhugh ball reared its head. Mayhap his appearance, and the intentions he had stated, did make sense, after all. Wayland would worry about his reputation and hers—not that there was much left to worry after where hers was concerned—and he’d come to do the right thing.
At last, they arrived at the rooms she’d chosen for her offices, a brightly lit floral chamber that embodied gardens even more than the grounds she and Wayland had just vacated.
The butler, Terrence, stood as a sentry, cracking his knuckles and glaring at Wayland. “Snuck in, did he?”
“Worry not,” Annalee said, patting the devoted former fighter’s arm. “He was punished, and mightily, by the affront, suffering quite the injury. A fall and a beesting.”
Terrence chuckled.
“If you would have a servant bring cold water, some of my tobacco, and a needle?”
The servant nodded, and with a swift bow, he ambled off . . . leaving Annalee and Wayland alone.
Alone.
After . . . everything that had transpired last evening.
Funny that, since Peterloo, she’d lived for sin and scandal and made few apologies for any of it. But being here, with this man who valued his reputation and had worked so hard to rise above the low opinions the world carried about him because of his birthright, she found herself . . . lost . . . to the regret that had riddled her since his rescue. She felt as nervous as she had the moment of her sixteenth birthday when they’d both acknowledged their friendship had been altered by feelings they had, and known from that instant on that everything would be irrevocably changed.
Wayland rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet before coming to a stop. “It was not my intention to force my way inside.”
“No, that does not seem to be your preferred mode of arriving at a person’s residence.” She infused a mock solemnity into her response, grateful to him for speaking first.
An adorable blush climbed his cheeks.
“I see your skill set with scaling walls has not been lost with time,” she said softly.
“Alas, my final descent was far below my usual prowess.”
They shared a smile, and it felt so very good. After the horror of her latest scandal, and the gossip following it, to find this plane of . . . comfortable ease.
It lasted no more than a moment.
He passed the flowers back and forth between his hands in a distracted and agitated way before stopping himself and extending them for Annalee.
She hesitated, then took them; their fingers brushed, both naked, and the heat sparked electric, tingling at the touch of his skin upon hers. Trembling, Annalee reflexively drew the flowers close and inhaled a scent from . . . what remained of the flowers.
Not just any flowers, either, but the peonies which she’d told him long ago were her favorite. Nay, there was no mere coincidence in that flower selection.