by Maya Rodale
His newspaper empire had brought him a fortune, and with it a taste for finer things, as well as the connections he had always aspired to. Here he was, a guest at the home of the Duke and Duchess of Brandon. They were friends.
Not bad for an earl’s by-blow who had sullied his hands in trade.
Yet those damning words still taunted him: Throw the bastard out. He doesn’t belong here.
Knightly lifted his head higher, damned proud of himself. His Writing Girls stood near the French doors leading to the terrace. He watched them chattering animatedly.
Annabelle glanced his way and he caught her eye. She quickly turned away. Shy, that one. He allowed his gaze to linger. Something seemed different about her. She just seemed a bit . . . more. It was probably because instead of meeting at the newspaper offices in the afternoon as usual, they were at a ball and midnight was drawing near. And the brandy was taking effect.
His gaze drifted back to Annabelle. More? Yes, definitely more.
Knightly took another measured sip of his drink and watched the party progress from his vantage point on the terrace, alone. A guest, yet an outsider all the same.
Tonight they were worse than usual. He was often tolerated, lest one risk insulting the host who had invited him. With those rumors, however . . . he saw the fear in their eyes as he wove his way through the ballroom. They wondered what he knew, what he would extort from them to keep the information private, or what he would print for all their family, friends, businessmen to see.
With just a few lines of movable type, he could reverse fortunes and ruin reputations. Aye, that explained the wary glances and averted gazes.
The New Earl was here tonight. Even after all these years, Knightly still referred to him in his head as the New Earl. Harrowby was his father, not this pompous oaf who still refused to acknowledge his half brother. Refused to even meet his eye, the coward. Upon occasions when they both attended the same function, Knightly made a sport of catching his eye, or even nodding, and watching the New Earl redden.
His fortune had not earned the man’s notice. Neither did his ever-growing influence over the London ton due to his immensely popular paper. Nor did the New Earl seem to notice that he never printed anything remotely damaging about him in the pages of The Weekly. Nor did his friendships with dukes, plural. Which brought Knightly to the last point in his plan:
An aristocratic wife would make it impossible for the New Earl to ignore and snub him without conferring the same disregard upon a member of the haute ton. Which he would not—could not—do to one of his fellow peers.
It was, for reasons Knightly did not deeply examine, imperative that the earl recognize him publicly.
Most of the ton did not want to associate with him, but unlike his brother, so many could not afford to ignore him. That was also part of the plan.
Case in point: Lord Marsden, cigar and brandy in hand, who now ambled over to where he stood. They were of the same age, approximately. In spite of his young age, Marsden was immensely respected in Parliament—in part from the legacy of his late father, and in part because of his own talents, for the man had been born to the role in more ways than one.
Marsden was a charmer who cultivated a vast array of relationships at every opportunity. He flirted with women—young, old, debutante or spinster, married or widowed. One could often find him in the card room, smoking, laughing, and wagering with his fellow peers. He peppered his conversation with stock tips, minor gossip, compliments, and he listened attentively to one’s problems. Far too attentively. He was good, Knightly had to give him that.
The marquis was forever seeking The London Weekly’s support for his various causes and political initiatives, given that the paper served such a large audience. Yet Knightly knew those readers flocked to his paper because it was beholden to no one, so the marquis was forever disappointed.
Nevertheless, the men were on familiar terms. It served them both well.
“I’m sure you have heard the news,” Marsden said, and when Derek deliberately did not reply, he continued, “About The London Times reporter. He’s in Newgate after impersonating a physician.”
“I did hear rumors to that effect,” Knightly allowed.
“Revolting, isn’t it? The haute ton is terrified. Or they will be,” Marsden said with a ruthless smile. Knightly understood how this would work: in his every conversation, the marquis would stir the pot, disseminating carefully selected bits of information designed to enrage and appall until the Upper Orders become a raging mob, hungry for the blood of newspaper magnates like him.
“I am considering how to portray this story in The Weekly,” Knightly remarked.
Marsden had a wide circle of friends, connections. But Knightly had power of his own: each week thousands of Londoners read his newspaper full of information that he selected, edited, and presented. And then they discussed the contents with family, friends, the news agent, the butcher, their maids . . . Marsden might wish to stir the pot, but Knightly knew he could blow the whole thing up.
“There will likely be an inquiry,” Marsden added casually, tipping the ash off his cigar. He spoke casually, but his words were always deliberately chosen and directed. This was a warning.
Translation: Heads are about to roll.
“I’d find that very interesting,” Knightly remarked.
Meaning: Tell me everything.
“Indeed, I shall keep you informed,” Marsden said. And then he changed the subject—or seemed to. “I am here with my sister this evening. This marriage mart business . . .” Marsden heaved a weary sigh, as if Lady Lydia was the last in a long line of troublesome sisters to foist off to the parson’s mousetrap. In fact, she was his only sister. And she had missed her second season, mysteriously. Knightly declined to mention this. For the moment.
“You must be eager for her to marry,” he said, testing Marsden’s suggestion. Among bachelors, marriage wasn’t a subject to be broached without an ulterior motive.
“As long as it’s a match I approve of. A man who is able to provide for her in a manner that she is accustomed to.” Marsden punctuated this with a heavy stare. Knightly’s fortune was no secret. Reports of Marsden’s declining coffers had made their way to Knightly’s desk.
“A suitor whose business interests don’t take a turn for the worse, perhaps,” Knightly suggested, leveling a stare.
Marsden’s eyes narrowed. He pulled on the cigar, then tapped it so the ash tumbled to the ground. Knightly did not look away.
“I am glad we understand each other,” Marsden said, blowing a curl of blue-gray smoke into the night air.
It was one hell of an offer: You protect The London Weekly and I will marry your sister.
ANNABELLE was always aware of him, and so she knew that he was just there, on the terrace. It was a useless sixth sense. But how could she not sneak one glance after another as he leaned against the balustrade? For the hundredth time she wondered how the simple act of leaning could be so . . . so . . . arresting. Compelling. He appeared at ease but she knew he wasn’t; he was aware of everything and ready for anything.
She, who never felt quite comfortable in her own skin, envied him that.
As she stood in conversation with her fellow Writing Girls, she kept trying to angle herself so that she might display her new gown to its best advantage. The front. The very low bodice made her feel utterly naked. Perhaps even a bit wicked. Whatever it was, she barely recognized herself in this pink silk gown that slinked against her skin in a soft and sensual way.
It was just a dress, she reprimanded herself. Except that it wasn’t—for better or for worse, this gown gave her a confidence she didn’t usually possess. Annabelle caught herself standing up straighter, no longer awkward about her height but eager to show off her dress to the best effect. She smiled more because she felt pretty.
It wasn’t just a dress; it was co
urage in the silken form.
She stole another glance. He was conversing with another gentleman, a handsome one.
She wracked her brain for a reason to go out on the terrace alone. A “Wallflower in Mayfair” had written: “Romantic stuff always happens on terraces at balls, everyone knows that.”
She just needed an excuse. I need air. I feel like trouble. Perhaps I’d like to try smoking a cigar. I’d like to be compromised. I can’t breathe in this stifling corset that defies laws of gravity.
“Oh, here comes Knightly,” Eliza whispered to Annabelle, who already knew. She stood up straighter. Butterflies took flight. Her heartbeat quickened.
Knightly’s gaze locked with hers. His eyes were so blue and contrasted so intensely with his black hair. Tonight he wore a black jacket and a dark blue silk waistcoat.
Do not blush. Do not blush. Smile, Annabelle. Stand up straight.
But the commands were lost between her head and her heart and the rest of her. Knightly nodded in greeting, and likely received a startled doe expression from Annabelle. She watched as he strolled purposely through the ballroom until he was lost in the crowds.
“Oh, look, if it isn’t Lord Marsden,” Sophie said flirtatiously to a handsome man walking by; the very one Knightly had been speaking with on the terrace.
The man in question stopped and gave the duchess a delicious smile. Annabelle recalled a mention of his name from Grenville’s parliamentary reports (the man was apparently a born leader) and from Julianna’s gossip columns (the man was widely regarded as an eminently eligible bachelor). She knew he worked closely with the Duke of Brandon, Sophie’s husband, on parliamentary matters.
“If it isn’t the lovely duchess,” Marsden replied with an easy smile and kissing Sophie’s outstretched hand.
“Don’t flirt with me, Marsden,” Sophie admonished. “Please meet my friend, Miss Swift. You may know her as Dear Annabelle.”
“From the pages of The Weekly?” This, Marsden inquired with brow lifted. It was not an unexpected question, given that it was well known that Sophie wrote for the paper and alternately covered society weddings and the latest fashions.
“The very one,” she replied.
Annabelle noted that this Lord Marsden was so classically, perfectly handsome that she found herself reluctantly searching for some flaw. His hair was blond, and brushed back from his perfectly chiseled cheekbones. If anything, he wore a dash too much pomade. But his eyes were warm and brown and they focused upon her.
Most importantly, he knew of her writing. She liked him immediately.
“You have a gift, Miss Swift,” he said, and she found herself smiling. “I have often remarked at how gently you advise and rebuke people, whereas I would be sorely tempted to write something along the lines of ‘You are a nodcock. Cease at once.’ Tell me, did you ever consider it?”
“Everybody deserves sensitivity and a genuine—” She stopped when he arranged his handsome features into a look of utter skepticism. “Oh, very well, yes!” she said, laughter escaping her.
“If you do ever call someone a nodcock in print, it would please me immeasurably,” Lord Marsden said, grinning.
Annabelle laughed. Then she caught a glimpse of Knightly speaking with a beautiful woman, decked in diamonds.
“I can foresee an instance when I might,” Annabelle remarked coyly. When did she ever say anything coyly? Goodness. It must be those silky underthings she dared to wear this evening, making her bold. Or the warmth and encouragement in Marsden’s expression.
“Would you like to waltz, Dear Annabelle?” Lord Marsden asked, offering his arm. She linked hers in his and allowed him to lead her to join the other dancers. It was only after the first steps of the waltz that she realized Sophie had quietly slipped away. And that she had lost sight of Knightly because she’d ceased to pay attention to his every movement. And that she didn’t know how to waltz. And that she was quite excited to try with Lord Marsden.
She thought the evening couldn’t possibly improve, however . . .
Chapter 5
The Dangers of Dimly Lit Corridors
DEAR ANNABELLE
If one wishes for romantic encounters, one ought to abandon the ballroom and venture to places more secluded and dimly lit, such as the terrace, or corridors . . . But do so at your own risk!
Yours Fondly,
A Rakish Rogue
The London Weekly
A dimly lit corridor
ANNABELLE swayed on her feet, light-headed and breathless.
The hour was late and her senses had been dulled by the pleasant fatigue of waltzing and two glasses of finely sparkling champagne. Happily, she hummed a tune under her breath and imagined Knightly asking her to waltz as she made her way back to the ballroom through a dimly lit corridor.
And then she walked straight into a gentleman. Or he barreled right into her. One might say they collided. The result was, Annabelle swayed on her feet, and breathlessly uttered a single, unfortunate syllable: “Oof.”
Then her senses started to focus and she noticed she had crashed into a very fine wool jacket, a crisp white linen shirt, and a dark silk waistcoat, all of which covered a rather firm and broad male chest.
Had she known it was Knightly, she might have lingered to breathe in the scent of him (a combination of wool, faint cigar smoke, brandy, and him) or savor the feel of him under her palms (and not just the quality of his wool jacket either). She certainly wouldn’t have said “Oof” like a barnyard animal.
Two warm, bare hands grasped her arms to hold her steady.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she had said, stepping back and tilting her head up to see who owned this firm chest that positively radiated heat and impelled her to curl up against it. Her eyes adjusted to light and then widened considerably when she saw whom she had collided with: Knightly, the man of her dreams, the King of her heart, the object of her affections . . .
“Miss Swift,” Knightly said, with a nod in greeting. “My apologies, I hadn’t seen you.”
Of course he didn’t. He never did. But that was just the way of things. Also the way of things was her unfortunate tendency to either go mute in his presence or ramble excessively. She had yet to manage a normal conversation with the man.
“Mr. Knightly. Good evening. I’m sorry, I was not attending to my surroundings . . .” Annabelle rambled. To her horror, the words kept coming, oblivious to her fervent wishes to stop. “Obviously, I had not seen you. For if I had seen you, I certainly wouldn’t have barreled headlong into you.”
Surely some reader was bound to suggest the very tactic.
“So I gathered. Are you all right?” He inquired politely.
“Yes, quite. Though your chest is rather hard,” Annabelle said. Then she closed her eyes and groaned. Had she really just said that? Was it too much to ask that she not make a complete nitwit of herself all the time?
“Thank you,” he replied, ever so gentlemanly. But there was enough light to see that he was amused.
“My apologies. A lady ought not attend to such things, or mention them aloud. Rest assured I would never advise a reader to—” She was babbling. She couldn’t stop.
And yet, through the mortification a sweet truth dawned. She was alone with Knightly. And she was dressed for the occasion. Even better, she had felt the firm strength of his chest for one extraordinarily exquisite second that she wished to repeat (albeit in a far more seductive manner).
“I’m sure that would be scandalous, if you did tell a reader to compliment a man thusly. However, I can’t imagine any man would be bothered by it,” Knightly said, a faint grin on his lips, which was his way of saying it was fine. She exhaled in relief.
“But I do apologize that I wasn’t attending to my surroundings. I was quite distracted.”
“Something on your mind?” Knightly inquired. And the
n he folded his arms over his very hard chest and leaned against the wall. He gazed down at her.
That was all it took for the world to shift on its axis, right under her feet.
Because Knightly had asked her a question. About herself. About her mind.
How to answer that?
“Oh, just enjoying the evening. And you?” she replied, hoping to sound as if she chatted with dashing gentleman all the time and wasn’t beset with nerves. Even though every nerve in her body with tingling pleasantly. For here she was in a dark, secluded place having an actual conversation with Knightly.
More to the point, it was a conversation that was not about the newspaper.
“This evening has been . . . interesting,” he replied.
“How so?” Annabelle asked, still breathless, but now for an altogether different reason.
“Life takes a strange turn upon occasion, does it not?” he remarked, and she didn’t quite know what he was referring to, only that it fit her moment perfectly.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. What gods had conspired to bring about this fortuitous occurrence of circumstances, Annabelle knew not. But she was happy. And hopeful. And proud of herself for trying; this had to be her reward.
Now if only she could prolong the moment . . .
“The duchess has outdone herself this evening,” Knightly said. “We’d better return before—”
“Someone notices that we are missing,” Annabelle said, perhaps a touch too eagerly. Not that she would mind being caught in a compromising position with him. Not at all.
“Or before someone else with less noble intentions accosts you in the dark hallway. Can’t have any danger befall my Writing Girls,” he said, gently pressing his palm to her elbow, guiding them both to the ballroom.
Annabelle only smiled faintly and wondered if it was wrong to wish a gentleman’s intentions were less than noble.