Her heart knocked against her rib cage. He’d been the first man to give her blooms, those he’d picked himself in the fields of Manchester. And he’d also been the last. There’d never been a respectable gentleman to visit. There’d never been a serious suitor.
“They were in far better shape when I set out this morning,” he explained. “I purchased them all with heads.”
She was certain there were any number of teasing rejoinders she could make. And yet . . . in this moment, every single witty response eluded her.
Annalee was saved when the door opened and a young maid appeared, bearing a tray filled with the items she had requested.
Crossing to the table that held them, Annalee called Wayland over. “Please sit, Lord Darlington.”
Wayland joined her, but then paused, eyeing the eclectic mix dubiously. “Should I be nervous?”
“With me, Wayland?” She leaned in, bringing her lips up close to his, so close she heard his slight intake of air, and the sough of his mint-and-chocolate-tinged breath upon her flesh, tempting her with a taste of sweets, and she wanted to taste him more than any of the most delectable confectionaries. “Always,” she whispered.
He gulped, and with a little laugh, breathless from the desire she’d inadvertently roused with their nearness, Annalee fell back on her heels. She motioned to the Chippendale camelback sofa. “Now, sit,” she ordered, and he promptly fell into the seat.
Joining him, she perched herself on the edge, and setting down her flowers, she reached for a fingerful of tobacco.
He leaned in, examined the items she’d called for . . . and then turned a confused stare back to Annalee. “Are you . . . smoking?”
“I wouldn’t dream of so scandalizing you. Furthermore”—with her spare fingers, Annalee plucked a rolled cheroot from within the deep vee of her shirt and held it up—“I come with my tobacco ready for smoking.” She tossed down the scrap. “Now, take off your jacket and roll up your sleeves, Wayland.”
“What?” he whispered furiously, so endearing in his shock that a smile pulled at her lips.
“You needn’t worry too much . . . I didn’t tell you to take off all your garments.” She pinched the fabric of his sleeve. “Just remove your jacket. I’ll also need you to roll up the sleeves of your shirt.”
Wayland stole a frantic glance at the closed door.
“Oh, come, Wayland. I am merely tending your beesting, Lord Darlington.”
He hesitated.
He really had become . . . laced-up. Odd how shows of such propriety in other gentlemen would have set her eyes to rolling and her annoyance up. Everything with this man, all her feelings for him, had forever been different. Even in these ways in which he’d changed, she found him . . . endearing.
“Wayland, your hand is swollen,” she said gently. “And by the redness, it’s deuced uncomfortable and painful, and it will remain so until I remove the stinger and release the venom.”
With that, he freed the buttons of his jacket, and despite herself, she followed Wayland’s every movement. Then he shrugged out of the article, tossing it down over the back of the sofa. He proceeded to shove up his lawn sleeves, revealing arms corded with muscles and sprinkled with a light dusting of dark hair.
Oh, God.
When she’d stated her intentions to care for him, she’d been serious.
She’d not set out to seduce him. Not this time.
She really had intended only to worry after his wound . . . but that had been . . . before. When he’d been fully buttoned up.
Now, with his broad shoulders on display and his biceps rippling, she found herself lost in the sight of him and the memories of how very good it always was between them.
She really was the wanton the world accused her of being. And God forgive her, she had no regrets in that instant. Aside from one . . . that she couldn’t climb atop his lap as she used to and ride him until—
“Have you done it before?”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered huskily. So many times. But it had always been best with him. She’d lost track of how many times she’d straddled Wayland and freed him from his breeches and pressed herself down until he’d filled her deep. So very deep.
She moaned softly, desire instantly flooding her center.
At his confused look, she fought through the fog of desire. “Yes,” she exclaimed quickly. “When I first moved in, Harlow snuck here to visit and suffered such a sting.”
When she’d escorted her younger sibling home to their parents, Annalee had fielded just more upset from her mother, about being wholly unable to properly love their family, or look after her sister.
And she hated that sobering reminder of the failure her family—and the world—saw her as. Was there a swifter executioner of desire than thoughts of one’s hate-filled mother?
“Now let me see it, Wayland,” she said impatiently.
He hesitated another moment, then proffered his hand.
Annalee immediately set to work, dunking a rag in the freezing-cold water; she wrung it out, and then pressed it to the top of his hand. As she tended him, she felt his eyes on her bent head. His gaze had always been compelling, his stare one that moved through her like a physical touch. Trembling slightly, she pressed down too hard on the place he’d been stung.
Wayland flinched. “Are you enjoying this?”
“I’ve been accused of much, but never bloodthirsty.”
“Given the showing from that crowd of ladies, that is doubtful,” he said dryly. “Ouch.”
Annalee batted her lashes. “Did I prick you too hard, my lord?”
“Minx.”
Annalee winked, then resumed drawing back the skin to remove the stinger still stuck there.
“What were you and your membership doing out there?”
She searched for a trace of judgment in his tone but found only curiosity, and for that reason alone, she was compelled to explain what her society had been engaged in, when as a rule, she and the members didn’t speak to any man about what they did and why they did it. “Today, we were focusing on self-defense.”
“And that is something you are familiar with?” he asked quietly.
“Lila is married to the Duke of Wingate,” she said. “As you’re no doubt aware, the duke was a former prizefighter. Lila had the idea after . . . after . . .” She bit the inside of her cheek, hating that she’d let that dark day into this moment.
But then, everything ultimately circled back to Peterloo. Everything she’d become, and every action she’d committed prior to that August day, converged.
“Peterloo.”
“I kept mentioning the excitement coming to Manchester. I convinced her it would be exciting,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the smooth waters contained within the porcelain bowl. “And afterward, she became a recluse. She found her way out by . . . seeking to learn the skills necessary to disarm someone, should she find herself as she did that day.” Taking in a silent breath through her teeth, Annalee forced a casual shrug she did not feel. “And given the precarious way women find themselves so often, it only seemed wise that we provide our membership with the skills necessary to see themselves safe.”
She braced for his judgment.
She didn’t anticipate the quiet understanding which came next from him. “I think there couldn’t be a more valuable lesson to school your members on.”