He’d been the only gentleman to treat her as a lady.
When the whole world had called her a whore and other similar disparagements, he’d offered her kindness and support . . . and . . . and tonight, she’d learned just how much he’d given her.
This was too much.
Annalee clamped down on the inside of her cheek, catching that flesh painfully with her teeth, welcoming the bite of pain, as she made herself walk the remaining way to Wayland’s side.
“Hullo, my lady,” he murmured as she slid into the seat beside him.
“My lord,” she said, her voice thick to her own ears.
She sat there, staring sightlessly at her champagne flute.
It was pretend.
It had always been pretend.
That had always been the game they played at.
She’d just let herself believe.
To be seduced by dreams she’d thought dead.
She stretched her fingers toward that glass, then swiftly yanked them back.
Reaching a hand under the table, Annalee rested her fingers on his thigh. The muscles immediately jumped and bunched under her touch, as did the gentleman himself.
Startling: the fork clattered against the edge of his plate, damningly loud enough to attract brief looks.
But then, with surprising aplomb, the proper Wayland donned an almost bored mask and swapped his fork for a drink.
Annalee crept her palm higher along that marble-hard flesh between his legs.
“Stop,” he said from around the rim of his glass.
“Do you really want me to, Wayland?” she whispered, not so much as moving her lips, as with the fork in her other hand, she popped a piece of lamb into her mouth. “Tell me, and I will.”
“What are you doing?” he asked quietly. “Why are you behaving this way?”
“What way? Hmm? Wicked. It’s because it’s what I am.”
“You’re not wicked, Annalee,” he said softly.
“You’re just telling yourself that because it makes you feel better.”
“I’m telling you that because you’ve placed yourself in that one constraining way, and that isn’t you, Annalee. A woman who is wicked doesn’t dedicate herself to improving the lives of other women. Or is willing to step aside or make changes so as to save them. The spirits and the smoking and the . . . the . . .” Men. And her heart spasmed; he couldn’t get out that admission, and she didn’t want him to. She didn’t want to think of all the men she’d bedded in the hope of forgetting the one who now sat beside her, compelled by guilt to swap out his future for hers.
“Tell me, did you ever intend to let me know of my family’s intentions?” she asked as she sliced a piece of her roast into minuscule pieces.
He stiffened. His leg so near hers that she felt his muscles bunch and tense.
“Or was I never to learn that you were playing the role of hero, attempting to save me?”
At his silence, she slid a glance his way, daring him with her eyes.
His features were frozen, strained, and pale. “Annalee,” he tried, his voice emerging as a gravelly whisper.
“Hmm?” Her voice emerged a fraction higher, earning a frown from her parents.
Those traitorous, useless two who’d given her life, and who had spent these past years wishing they hadn’t.
Even so, when she spoke again, she lowered her voice, offering him hushed tones. “I didn’t ask you to sacrifice yourself for me. I didn’t want you saving me then, and I don’t want you saving me now.” Not in this way. Not with him seeking some kind of atonement which he didn’t need. They’d planned to meet on the fields of Manchester that day, and loving him as she did, loving him as she always would, Annalee would do it all over again, even knowing what she knew now about what would happen and how her life would unfold.
She rose.
“What are you doing?” he whispered as everyone looked to Annalee.
She glanced down at him. “I can’t do this.”
“Annalee?” her mother called.
Wayland gripped her hand, and she covered his white knuckles. “We have to break it off.”
“Why are you doing this?” he implored.
“I’ll not sacrifice your future with Lady Diana.” Before she proved the selfish creature she’d always been, she drew in a shaky breath and looked to the room. “This is not real,” she said quietly, the slight clinking of silverware touching porcelain the only sound before the absolute silence. She motioned between herself and Wayland. “This . . . is just pretend.” Unable to meet the pain bleeding from his eyes, she glanced to her slack-jawed parents. “He learned what you intended to do, and he attempted to . . . save me, but I’ll not be saved that way. By stealing his happiness. I love him too much for th-that.” Her voice broke, and she swallowed that sob, burying it in her fist.
“How could you?” her mother cried. “I knew it!”
Annalee shoved her chair; the carved mahogany Chippendale seat bounced back, knocking loudly upon the floor as it fell.
She’d been wrong. Tears blinded her. This was even worse than she could have imagined.
Wayland exploded to his feet. “Stop!” he called, and she needed to keep running, away from this and the pain and now, her future. But something in his voice compelled her back around.
He didn’t deserve her.
She’d been far stronger than he’d ever been.
She’d dealt with scandal and public shaming, and her family’s ill treatment, and she’d done it alone.
And with her standing there, tears streaming down the glorious planes of her high cheeks, those ocean-blue pools swimming in sorrow, he loved her all the more.
He took a slow step closer, more than half fearing the wrong word or move would send her fleeing. And this time, when she was gone, there’d be no reuniting. This was the last chance between them.
“I love you, Annalee,” he said hoarsely. “I have always loved you. You were and are the only reason that my heart beats, and it forgot how after Peterloo, Annalee. It forgot, because you were not in my life.”
She trembled, her body shaking like a slender willow being battered by a tempest.
“I was going to tell you,” he murmured, drifting closer. “I’d resolved today to tell you all, because I’d not have secrets between us, and because . . .” He stopped before her, and with hands that shook, he captured her face between his palms, cradling her. “Because I didn’t want this to be pretend. Not anymore. I wanted it to be real in every way. I want it to be real.”
He sank to a knee, earning a shuddery gasp from Annalee . . . and one of horror from his mother.
“What are you doing?” Annalee whispered.
“Wayland, get up this instant,” his mother hissed.
“Darlington, you don’t have to do this,” Jeremy said over her displeasure.
My God, they’d ruin even this moment for Annalee? Her brother? His mother? Her silent and just-as-guilty parents?
And it was in that instant that he snapped, broke completely of the chains he’d let himself be so bound to over the years.
He jumped up. “Do you know what? You people, you’re all bloody awful. Each of you is the absolute worst. I’m in love with Annalee, and if she’ll have me, I’ll spend the rest of my life with her.” He looked around the intimate gathering of his family and hers. “And I’ll certainly not call family or friends the people who would cut her.”