Annalee’s head came flying up. “You . . . don’t?”
“I’m attempting to live a life free of scandal,” he said with a small and pointed smile. “I’m not attempting to see my sister or other women oppressed.” Which was what most every other man wished for.
Annalee hurriedly diverted her attention back to the task of caring for his hand. His response showed traces and shades of Wayland of old, who’d climbed parapets and given speeches advocating for a place at the proverbial table. And indicated that mayhap he wasn’t altogether different, and she didn’t know what to do with that discovery. It was easier to bear the separation that had come when thinking of him as a pompous, priggish lord who cared only about his title, and naught for others.
Annalee dropped the rag, now lukewarm in temperature, back into the bowl. It hit the water with a splash, sending little drops flying over the edge. “Yes, Lila saw the need that I and every other woman should have identified,” she said, reaching for the needle. “What she and I . . . and those other women experienced at Peterloo isn’t amongst the threats most ladies face, and yet there is danger all around us, still.”
“And . . . have you found yourself . . . in a position of . . . danger before?” There was something ominous and dark. Undercurrents of the same violence that had crackled in the duke’s ballroom two evenings earlier, when he’d taken down Lord Welles.
“Most women do,” she said, shrugging again. “I didn’t have the foresight Lila had after Peterloo . . . to see myself skilled in fighting. I’d been attending—” She grimaced. He’d no doubt see it as her fault. Blame her for the company she’d kept and the attendance that had brought about what had befallen her that night.
Wayland brushed his knuckles in a light caress along her jaw, tipping up her chin and holding her eyes; she made herself say it, his judgment be damned.
Annalee set her jaw. “I was attending an orgy, and a gentleman took my attendance there as consent on my part for anything that would happen.”
Wayland’s eyes formed thin slits, with rage running from irises nearly perfectly concealed by those long, black lashes. But she saw it. His anger. For her . . . just as it had been directed two evenings earlier. “Did he . . . ?” His words trailed off, strained with fear and pain, and the merging of those sentiments . . . sent a warmth unfurling within her breast.
“He didn’t,” she said softly. “Lord Willoughby came upon us. He . . . disentangled me, beat the fellow quite handily, and that began our . . . friendship.” And a friendship was what it was, and had been . . . with sexual benefits extended to one another.
Annalee felt Wayland’s eyes move over her face, and this time, there were no other words or questions forthcoming, and his harshly beautiful, angular features formed a perfect mask she couldn’t decipher. Nor did she wish to. Because she didn’t want to know in this particular instance what he thought of her and the lovers she’d taken. Or her friendship that was oftentimes more with Willoughby.
“I trust you are wondering why I didn’t use those skills to disarm Lord Welles?” she asked guardedly as she resumed plucking the stinger from his hand, and no further words were spoken until she finished. “There,” she murmured.
“I didn’t,” he answered without hesitation. “In those moments . . . there isn’t to say when one is under attack what shock . . . or fear does to a person.”
No. That was something they’d both learned all too long ago, when they’d put themselves directly in the heart of an impending class-structured explosion.
“Which brings me to why I’ve come today, Annalee,” Wayland murmured.
Annalee’s heart fluttered. The courtship he’d mentioned publicly to her friends and society members. “Yes, you . . . mentioned something of it in the gardens.”
She was supposed to talk, and she’d always been bright and breezy in dialogue with men. But this time, God help her, it all eluded her.
“Given the nature of the scandal, given what people are saying about you and me . . . it makes sense that we move forward with the courtship you had suggested . . .” His cheeks flushed. “Only until the gossip dies down, and then we can part ways amicably. I will . . . recall other responsibilities that I have, and your name will be spared.”
“But . . . the match with Lady Diana. Your reputation.”
He grimaced. “We . . . were not a match. Lady Diana is the beautiful, wealthy daughter of a duke who could have anyone. Her interest in me is based on a young girl’s fantasy that my rescue makes me her destiny. But I don’t love her, Annalee, and she deserves someone who can offer her that.”
Yes, he’d said it all so very perfectly: the lady was a duke’s daughter, and flawless in every way, and even with her perfection and social connections, Wayland would throw away the possibility of a match with Lady Diana? He’d sacrifice his own reputation and join Annalee in this masquerade. It was the grandest of gestures, one only this man was capable of. And there was no greater gift he might offer, and she should only be grateful and focused on the lifeline he’d extended her, but she’d always been contrary in every way. This moment proved no different.
For what he suggested wasn’t real. It was a . . . ruse.
You fool. You thought it was real. You thought he was here for something more. Something that would save his reputation and yours.
Yes, she should be grateful.
So what accounted for that momentary madness where she’d believed his visit was real and his request to court her sincere?
Only, after her latest scandal—brought about by his undeserved public defense of her—she could not take what he held forth. Not when, in so doing, he’d also sacrifice the security and stability he sought for his sister. She could not accept this. She knew that now.
“I . . . thank you very much for such a generous offer, Wayland,” she said, resting her palms upon her lap. “What the papers are saying today . . . That had nothing to do with you, Wayland.”
He tensed, an angry color flooding his cheeks. “Willoughby.”
“Nothing happened between us.” She grimaced. “Last evening, that is.” She didn’t know why she told him. It just seemed . . . important that he know that. “Either way, there isn’t a need for you to . . . court me. Not any longer. I have decided it is in everybody’s best interest that I retire to the countryside until Sylvia has her babe. When she returns, I will have the freedom to return.” She made to rise.
“You are rejecting me?” That realization left him with a sharpness that she didn’t expect. One that suggested not relief at being freed of a chore he didn’t want, but rather frustration at being so denied the role.
Annalee paused. “Wayland, we weren’t discovered in a compromising position at the duke’s. If anyone, Welles—”
“Welles can go straight to hell,” he snapped. “Is that what you think I’m here for?” he demanded. “Because I’m worried about my reputation?”
“Yes.” His eyes darkened. “In some part?” A vein pulsed at the corner of his temple. She was offending him. And upsetting him, and that wasn’t her intention. Particularly after his defense of her honor and his generous overture. “Wayland,” she tried again. “I know how dearly you value the life you’ve built for yourself.”