“Is that what happened . . . in the fountain?”
She trilled a laugh. “I never met a fountain I did not love, you know.”
Except, he didn’t join in her forced humor. He continued to wear that grave mask.
Wayland took her gently by the arm, steering her to the corner. “It’s all right, you know.”
“I know,” she said automatically.
Wayland moved closer, gently taking her chin and angling it higher, bringing her gaze more in line with his, when that was the last place she wished to look. “It is all right that you have those remembrances and respond the way you do.”
And something snapped. “It’s not all right, Wayland,” she said on a furious whisper, taking a quick step that erased all remaining space between them. “It’s not. So stop pretending that it is. It’s the manner of madness that sees women shut away.”
His entire face crumpled, but he was quick to reassemble his features. “You’re not mad.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re haunted. That’s different. You are remembering something no one should have to live through, but you did. And you survived. We survived.”
She wrapped herself tight in a hard embrace. Survived. All these years she’d fashioned a fast existence for herself because she’d wanted to celebrate the fact that she’d lived. But what if, all these years, what she could have—should have—taken solace in, found strength in, was the fact that she’d survived? “Does . . . that ever happen to you?”
“Sometimes. Less now than in the first years after. There have been times I’ve thought I conquered those demons, but they will rear themselves at the most unexpected times. Reminding me that I’ll never fully be free of it.” Wayland lowered his brow to hers. “It’s always there, Annalee. It will always be there. And we can’t outrun it.”
Or out-drink it. Or out-wager it.
He knew her demons. He’d faced them, too. Nay, he’d battled them far better than she ever had. And something in that, in his presence, and in their different but still shared experiences of that day, allowed her to find her way back from the horrors. She touched her fingertips to the beloved planes of his face, tracing the bold slash of his right cheekbone to his chin. Why had she turned him away as long as she had? Fear had made her fight a friendship that had been the one great, most wonderful thing in her life.
The dark slashes of his brows came together. “What are you thinking?”
“I was just thinking . . . that if I’d returned your letters, how life . . . me . . . us, all of it would be different.”
His face twisted, a paroxysm of pain and grief that shredded her heart, a heart that still beat for him. It always would. She’d denied it all these years because it had been easier to tell herself she was over what they’d shared than to meet him again after Peterloo as the changed woman she’d been. Perhaps if . . . she had let him be there when he attempted to, then he would have been her crutch, and not spirits and meaningless assignations and all the other vices she’d freely surrendered herself to.
“Annaleeeee?” Her sister’s calls severed the moment, and they glanced in the direction of where Harlow’s voice had called from.
And this time when Annalee stepped out from behind the pillar, she stretched her fingers back toward Wayland, and they made the walk to Harlow’s side . . . together.
Chapter 25
Wayland’s time with Annalee at the museum had been . . . magnificent. Every aspect of every moment spent with Annalee and her sister that morn had been. Witnessing the joy she felt while freely joining the younger girl.
Even the hardest, most painful part . . . Annalee’s collapse . . . had seen them joined in a kindred place, born of a shared experience, and had been ideal, for it had been an exchange that was long overdue, one that needed to happen, and also one that had united them.
Yes, everything about the day was perfect.
It was why, immediately following, he’d paid a visit to Lady Diana and made sure, as gently as possible, to explain that his affections were reserved for another. There’d not been the tears he’d feared or anticipated. There’d been a casual . . . indifference from the always stoic lady. And there’d been a . . . freedom when he’d taken his leave.
Whistling, Wayland bounded up the steps, doffed his hat, and skidded to a stop.
The cheerful tune died on his lips.
Or rather, the day had been perfect. All such vestiges of happiness were effectively quashed in this very moment.
His mother stood there in the center of the sundial ornamentation etched within the marble foyer. Just beyond her shoulder, five steps higher and elevated slightly above their mother, Kitty waved frantically. “Run,” she mouthed.
And Wayland was more than half-tempted to do just that.
Plucking the hat from Wayland’s fingers, his butler ultimately made the decision for him.
“To what do I owe this eager welcome?” Wayland drawled, shrugging out of his cloak and handing over the garment to the servant.
Belding’s lips twitched in the hint of a smile.
Descending the remainder of the steps, Kitty shook her head vigorously as she joined Wayland and their mother on the marble floor. “Big mistake, dear brother,” she said.
“Splendid. I was hoping I had some nightmare to deal with.” His sister giggled. Wayland leaned in with a palm concealing half of his mouth. “What is the magnitude of this catastrophe?”
His sister stretched her arms out on opposite ends. “Huge.”
“If you two are quite done with your ill-timed and ill-advised jesting?” their mother snapped. “I quite dislike this lighter side of you, Wayland.”
“Well, I rather suspect I know what accounts for the changes in him, and I quite like it,” Kitty interjected. “I’ve missed the more fun version of you.”
He grinned. This more fun version of him.
That was . . . certainly what it was. He was lighter. These past days, he’d not given a single thought about how the world viewed him or the image he had to maintain to fit in, in a world that would, as he’d said to Annalee, never truly accept him. And it felt . . . freeing. In being with her, he’d been reminded of how much he’d loved . . . just being with her and laughing and all of it.
“If I may see you in the Rose Parlor, Wayland?”
Ah, the Rose Parlor.
So aptly named for the overabundance of blooms painted upon the pale-white silk wallpaper, and adorning the upholstery of the furnishings, and the regularly installed urns of those blooms. Wayland had found the room nauseatingly overdone . . . until Annalee. Until he’d noted the new fragrance she dashed upon her neck and behind her ears. He smiled. Nay, he’d never again think of a rose without—
“Wayland!” his mother squawked. “Are you daydreaming?”
“Yes,” he said. Catching his sister, he swung her in a wide circle around the butler, who didn’t make any attempt to hide his grin. “My head, I fear, is firmly in the clouds, and—”
“Annnd I advise you to step down to earth once more.”
He released his sister, and she twirled off, and a footman caught her before she could bowl him over.
And reluctantly he headed off to join his mother. God, when was the last time he’d been this happy? Years. It had been . . . years. He’d largely existed, and all the while had failed to realize all he was missing.