“That is precisely why I prefer them. There’s shock and scandal and wickedness enough to distract one from . . . anything. At the events I attend, with the people I do, one thing a person might be absolutely assured of is that there will be no quiet, but plenty of diversions.”
Wayland took in that important piece she’d revealed about herself and how she’d coped with the tragedy. Or rather, how she had failed to cope with what she’d lived through. She still hadn’t figured out that she couldn’t bury that day completely. She continued to run from it, never confronting what had happened to her. He moved closer, stopping at her shoulder. “But perhaps blocking it out . . . isn’t for the best. Not really.” A gentle wind rippled through the gardens, stirring the leaves to dancing, and a curl fluttered at her shoulder. Of their own volition, his fingers collected that golden strand, and he smoothed his thumb and forefinger over the silken tress before tucking it behind the delicate shell of her ear. “You can’t really confront what happened to you if you’re drowning it out with noise, Annalee.”
She took a hasty step away from him, putting distance between them . . . and what he said? “Why would I want to relive it, Wayland?”
“Because maybe you have to, Annalee. Perhaps we both have to.”
Her mouth tightened, and she shook her head. “I gave enough that day,” she spat. “To hell with Peterloo and Manchester. And all of it.” She pointed her parasol his way, jabbing it with each word she spoke, as though placing exclamation marks upon them. “I’ll control what I think of and when I think of it.” With that, she whipped around and rushed deeper into the high-hedged gardens.
He sprinted after her, churning stones under the heels of his boots as he went. “But . . . are you really controlling it, Annalee?” he implored, needing her to see that some of the decisions she’d made were ones that had been dangerous to her.
She stopped suddenly. “You’re speaking about my drinking?” There was a challenge in her fiery gaze, a warning issued, one that said he’d wandered down a path that she’d no intention of walking with him. “Are you not?”
And he was torn. He wanted to set aside the question which had roused this volatile emotion in her and stolen the soft-eyed joy that had been there the moment they entered the grotto. But he’d run for so very long where Annalee was concerned. And he was done with it. “I’m speaking about your drinking.”
“I drink because it’s something that I can control.”
“You don’t control it. It’s a vice. It controls you.”
She recoiled, and then found her voice. “One who’s devoted his life to”—she elevated her nose, pointing it at the air—“propriety and properness would never dare indulge.”
“I indulge,” he said. “I don’t overindulge.”
She stomped toward him. “And what of you, Wayland?”
He straightened. “What of me?”
“You speak to me about living a certain way. But are you really living? You’ve fashioned yourself into a person who cares more about opinions than your own happiness. You don’t live. Not like you used to.”
“No,” he agreed. “I don’t. I chose a different course.”
“A better course,” she jeered.
“I didn’t say that, Annalee. I made decisions that day that were reckless. I asked you to meet me there because I wanted you to be there, and what did that get you?” He couldn’t stop the trace of bitterness from creeping in. Hatred of himself.
Annalee moved swiftly. Letting her parasol fall, she grabbed Wayland’s hands, knocking her slippers free of his grip so that the silken articles tumbled beside her umbrella. “I was there because I wanted to be there.”
All his muscles seized up, the pain of it welcome. “To see me,” he said, unable to meet her eyes.
“Of course to see you, but also to witness that moment that mattered so much to you, and so much to so many.”
God, how unerringly she’d always been able to follow his thoughts.
She tightened her grip upon his fingers, forcing his eyes to hers. “It was my decision, Wayland. Not yours. And I’d hate you forever if you take responsibility for a choice that belonged solely to me.”
Her pronouncement gave him pause. All these years, he’d lived with guilt, having owned her being there. Because it had been his fault. Now, seeing how Annalee had devoted her life to a society of women exacting change over their lives and the lives of other ladies, it made him realize how narrow-minded that view of her and her decision that day had been. She’d been committed to challenging the inequities that existed before, and in ways that he’d not proven steadfast, she had . . . continued those passions through the Mismatch Society. Her devotion to that group and change was so great that she’d even change herself or, as she’d stated yesterday, leave, to preserve it.
Their chests brushed, their eyes locked on one another’s mouths.
Then she caught him by the nape and dragged his mouth to hers.
He was lost.
Or found.
Mayhap it was really both.
Wayland surrendered himself to her kiss, a violent meeting that fit with the tension that had exploded in these empty grounds.
He lowered them to the ground, lying down so her form was draped over him. So that her pale-yellow gown was spared stains from the grass.
Her skirts rucked up about them, and he slid his hands up her thighs, gripping and massaging the muscles of her long limbs.
She lowered the bodice of her gown and leaned forward just as he leaned up to worship that swollen pink tip. Wayland flicked his tongue over the crest, teasing her.
Annalee panted, moving against him, rubbing her thatch over the bulge in his trousers. “Please,” she begged, gripping his head and anchoring him against her breasts, and he knew what she hungered for, knew she wanted him to suckle deep and long, but he drew out the moment.
Swiping the tip of his tongue back and forth, lavishing attention on each mound, before ultimately giving her what she ached for.
She panted, reaching between them and making quick work of his front falls.
“This isn’t why I brought you here,” he said, his voice strained as she freed him from his trousers.
She gripped him in her fist, squeezing his length and pulling a low groan from deep in his chest. “Shh,” she whispered, concealing his harsh panting with her mouth. “And I know,” she breathed between kisses.
Then she sank onto him, sliding herself down in one glorious glide, her channel sodden with her desire, and he filled her.
Sweat slipped down his brow, and Wayland lowered his head to the ground and clenched his eyes tight. This was the homecoming.
And then she began to move, undulating slowly, riding him as she’d always loved.
She moaned, a low, long, throaty rumbling, and a wave of heat and desire all melded into one potent blast that coursed through his veins.
Wayland brought his hands up, gripping her at the waist and stroking over her buttocks, guiding her on to that goal she sought. “That’s it, love,” he praised, lifting his hips to meet each downward thrust.
She bit her lower lip as she drove herself up and down upon him, and knowing it would drive her to the brink of a happy madness, Wayland stretched up to take the tip of her right breast, swollen from his mouth’s worshipping, again.