“It’s not.” But then there wasn’t much that was fair where being a woman was concerned.
“And so it is settled.” Sylvia pressed a kiss to Annalee’s cheek. “You are a dear.” She stood. “Now if you ladies will excuse me?”
“But I wasn’t—”
Valerie and Annalee came to their feet.
“I am tired,” Sylvia said.
And Annalee immediately held back the remainder of the protestations she’d intended to give.
The moment Sylvia had gone, Valerie turned to her. “It appears as though the society has a new leader taking the helm.”
Grabbing a pillow, Annalee swatted her friend in the chest. “Oh, hush.”
Valerie laughed once more, and then her amusement faded. She held Annalee’s gaze. “Sylvia is correct, you know. We have an opportunity to provide some of the most valuable lessons to ladies who would otherwise have that information withheld from them, and I cannot imagine a person better equipped to lead such bold discussions than you.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment,” Annalee muttered.
Valerie smiled. “A compliment. It is very much a compliment. It will be fine, Annalee,” she promised, and then took her leave.
Annalee, however, hadn’t been jesting . . . about any of this. What did she know about leading . . . anything? She, who at the most random of moments found herself unable to keep control of her faculties?
Except . . . her friends were, in fact, correct. Who was more equipped than her to deliver discussions such as these? Or answer questions bluntly about what took place between men and women, and men and men, and women and women, and on occasion a mix of the three?
Now there was the matter of racking her brain and trying to figure out just how in hell she was going to privately instruct some two dozen ladies on the matters pertaining to lovemaking and marital relations.
Annalee grabbed her flask and downed the contents. If ever a situation called for spirits, this was decidedly it.
Chapter 1
Lord Wayland Smith, the Baron Darlington, had not always been the most dutiful, proper, and reliable sort.
In fact, he’d been slightly wicked and given to pursuing excitement that no proper gentleman should. But then, in those earlier days, he’d also not been a gentleman, either. He’d been the son of a blacksmith, and as the child of a man who’d toiled, Wayland had aspired to a better life. He’d committed himself to the cause of others like him: men and women who’d deserved more and who’d fought for change.
He’d also been many years younger and more foolish, and following a day of folly that had irrevocably changed . . . everything, he’d fashioned himself into one of those reliable sorts.
He’d become that friend and son and brother his family might rely upon. A man who could be counted on to be stable and to provide security, and whom one could turn to when there were struggles that needed sorting. Or scandals.
Never more, however, had he regretted the commitment to being that aboveboard fellow who’d not turn down a plea for help than he did in this particular moment, answering a summons from his best friend, Jeremy, the Viscount Montgomery—and in the middle of the other man’s betrothal ball, no less.
“What was that?” Wayland asked in pained tones, hoping that the hum of a sea of guests on the other side of the Countess of Kempthorne’s elaborately painted oak panel had merely made a bungle of his hearing and the words—and request—he’d heard were something he’d imagined.
As it was, with no immediate response from his only friend in the world, hope found a place in his chest.
“I need you to help with Annalee.”
Alas, there it was, for a second time.
I need you to help with Annalee . . .
As in Jeremy’s sister . . . but also the first—and only—woman Wayland had ever loved. Of course, Jeremy had never had so much as an inkling. He’d seen the trio of friends they’d been as children. If he’d known the extent of his friend’s relationship with Annalee, Wayland would have been the last person Jeremy would have come to about the young lady.
Nay, he’d have called you out and put a bullet through your heart years ago.
Wayland adjusted his cravat—or rather, ruined the folds.
“Are you listening to me, man?” Jeremy demanded on a quiet whisper.
“No.”
His friend’s eyebrows dipped.
“Yes?” Wayland said quickly.
“I can’t help her. I don’t know who she is since”—don’t say it—“Peterloo.” Not only did Jeremy mention that nightmare, but he did so with a casualness that, as someone who’d lived the hell of that day, Wayland couldn’t understand. “She’s a stranger to me.”
“What kind of help could I possibly provide Annalee?” An eccentric, after Peterloo she’d ended their affair by refusing to respond to his letters.
“The most important kind.” Jeremy held his gaze. “I’ve tried to reach out to her, and . . . You were there that day, and look at you, chap. You’re happy, and hell, you are more proper than ever.”
Proper, because Wayland had learned a very important lesson that day on the fields of Manchester: rebellious attitudes and actions brought only suffering and sorrow.
Jeremy’s jaw hardened. “Unlike Annalee, who’s gone running in red dresses through Almack’s, searching for members for that ridiculous club she’s started, and who thinks nothing of visiting scandalous wagering parties with those men and women she calls friends.”
“Has . . . she asked for my help?”
“Of course not.” Jeremy’s reply was instantaneous, and Wayland wasn’t sure how to account for the odd pang of disappointment.
Still, he latched on to that. “There you have it. The lady doesn’t want my help.” And why should she? Why, when the sole reason she’d joined her friend Lila that day at Peterloo had been so she could go meet Wayland?
“No, Wayland. But she needs it.” Pacing a quick path back and forth along the luxuriant floral carpet, Jeremy didn’t so much as break stride. “If you can remind her of how she used to be, and of the benefits of living a righteous life . . .”
Wayland checked his timepiece. “Jeremy, it’s your betrothal ball.” His voice emerged strained. But perhaps if he could . . . put him off, the other man would either forget this request or realize the lunacy in what he proposed. “I hardly think this is the time or place to be . . . talking about”—Annalee—“this.”
“This is the perfect time,” Jeremy said. “‘Do not invite her,’ they said . . . ‘It is better if she weren’t here,’ they said . . . And I insisted they were wrong because, of course, she belongs . . .” Jeremy shot a glance Wayland’s way. “She’s gone missing during the ball . . . and that does not bode well.”
Guilt slithered around inside Wayland.
No, it didn’t.
Jeremy abruptly stopped and gave Wayland a meaningful look. “My parents are growing tired of her behavior. It was bad enough when she moved in with two other women. But now the papers are all saying that Annalee is doling out lessons on . . . on . . .” Color flared in the other man’s face, and he dropped his voice to a horrified whisper. “Carnal matters. And given”—Jeremy gestured vaguely at the air—“all this, everyone is expecting she’s going to cause some new scandal, and she needs to be watched this night, Wayland.”