Seducing Mr. Knightly

by Maya Rodale

  “What have you found out?” Knightly asked. She recognized the impatient tone of his voice. As if the earth didn’t spin fast enough for him.

  “Brinsley had kept up the ruse of doctor for months and ventured into many a proper woman’s bedchamber,” another man said.

  Annabelle recognized the voice as belonging to Damien Owens. If Knightly had an heir to his empire, it would be Owens—young, brash, ruthless, and quite the charmer.

  They could only be talking about the scandal with The London Times. Brinsley must be the reporter who had been arrested and now languished in Newgate.

  “Bloody hell,” Knightly swore. “What he must know . . .”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Owens agreed.

  Annabelle dared to peek around the corner, glancing into Knightly’s office, for the door remained ajar. She saw him pacing, hands clasped behind his back and brow furrowed in thought.

  She bit back a sigh.

  There was an intensity, depth, and energy about him that awed her and captivated her attentions. She noted the lock of hair that fell rakishly into his eyes, which he ruthlessly shoved back. How she wanted to run her own fingers through his hair . . .

  His mouth was pressed into a hard line; she thought only of softening it by pressing her own lips to his.

  “I want to talk to Brinsley,” Knightly said briskly. “Our best angle is to portray it as a crime of one rogue reporter, not endemic of the entire newspaper industry,” he added confidently.

  “Understood, sir,” Damien said.

  She, too, understood that numerous articles would soon appear suggesting exactly that, then rumors to that effect would circulate. It was only a matter of time before Londoners believed it as the gospel—and marveled how The London Weekly was always so in tune with the heart of the city.

  The conversation ended and Owens stepped out of the office, bumping right into Annabelle.

  “Oof,” she said. Again. For goodness sakes.

  “Miss Swift! What are you doing here?” Owens asked, looking at her curiously.

  “My shawl,” she said. She became aware of Knightly glancing at them through the open door. “I had forgotten it here. It’s my best one.”

  “You probably left it in the writers’ room. I’ll go look with you,” Owens offered. Then he linked his arm with hers and led her along.

  “What are you—” Annabelle started to ask in a hushed whisper, but Owens cut her off.

  “Lovely weather today,” he remarked. What did that have to do with anything? And didn’t the man realize he ought to make his exit, leaving her alone with Knightly?

  Owens followed her into the writer’s room and then he closed the door, effectively shutting them alone, together.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed, reaching for the doorknob.

  Owens blocked her access by stepping in front of the doorway. For the first time, she noticed that he was quite tall, and his shoulders were rather broad. His torso was flat and underneath his jacket he was probably well muscled from all of his dangerous exploits.

  Her eyes locked with his. Dark brown. Long lashes. She had never noticed.

  Annabelle’s mind reeled. This was not what she had planned. What on earth was occurring?

  “Is this one of your schemes?” Owens asked, a slight grin playing on his lips. There was no escaping and avoiding the question.

  He leaned against the door. Lord save her from men who leaned.

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked. She didn’t want to answer the question. She didn’t quite know what was happening.

  “Oh, come off it, Miss Swift. We’re not all as dense as he is,” Owens replied.

  “So what if it is?” she asked, a bit miffed. “If so, you are standing in the way of my . . . story. My work. For the paper.”

  Of true love, she wanted to add. Instead, for emphasis, she uttered a certain three words for the first time in her life. “How dare you.”

  Owens laughed. “It’s a good trick, Annabelle, leaving something behind. Classic. But how are you going to write about this without him discovering everything? He isn’t stupid.”

  That was a good question. One she didn’t have an answer for. Especially since Owens was right: she couldn’t write about this without giving herself away. Again she realized that she hadn’t thought this through. She blamed deadlines for her hasty actions. And the sad fact that if she thought about something too much, then she’d never do it.

  “I’ll come up with something,” she replied. The room felt small all of a sudden. And warm. Owens peered down at her with dark, velvety brown eyes.

  His response was unexpected.

  “You’re welcome,” he said bluntly.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked, aghast. He was ruining her plans with every moment that he stood blocking the door with his tall and strong self and every second that he kept them mysteriously ensconced in this room. Together. Alone.

  “Look, Annabelle, here is some free advice. Men thrive on rivalry. On the chase. On the challenge. And for the sake of your column, you need to raise some suspicions in his mind. If he’s certain that he’s the Nodcock, then it’s too easy. But if it might be me,” Owens let his voice trail off as the suggestion sank in.

  Annabelle paused, allowing the words to sink in.

  Making Knightly doubt would give her the liberty to write freely, without fear of betraying herself. It would make for better copy, which would make for better sales. And if there was one thing that caught Knightly’s eye like nothing else, it was stellar sales.

  People had written her letters suggesting that she encourage a rival and competition, but she’d dismissed it as impossible, for who would play such a part with her?

  Owens, that’s who. Owens who, she was now noticing, was a rather handsome young man.

  “I see your point,” she conceded. “But why would you do this to help me?”

  “Because the sooner he gets married and starts having a life outside of this office, the sooner I get a promotion,” Owens explained, as if it should have been obvious. “He’s not the only one with ambitions around here.”

  “How does this work?” she asked.

  “It’s already working. Because now you can write about this and he’ll wonder if you’re after me or him. It’ll make you interesting.”

  “Are you saying I’m dull?” she asked, aghast. Again.

  “Not anymore, Annabelle,” Owens said, grinning. “Not anymore.”

  “I’m not quite sure how to take that,” she muttered, brow furrowing.

  “I’m being helpful, Annabelle. And really, do something else with your hair,” he said.

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked, aghast. Again. But her hands reached up to that tight bun held fast by a ribbon and pins.

  “Allow me,” Owens said softly, and reached out to expertly remove a hairpin or two, thus freeing a few wavy strands that fell softly around her cheeks. She watched him watching her. His gaze was warm and she saw something like wonder in his expression.

  “Much better,” he murmured. Her lips parted but no sound emerged. Something was happening—something far more than the removal of a few hairpins. Annabelle, always one to shy away from things, took a step back.

  And promptly tripped over a chair.

  She started to fall, but Owens moved quickly to catch her in his arms.

  At that moment Knightly happened to open the door, discovering her in the arms of another man with her hair tussled and her lips parted. She knew it could only mean one thing to him: that she and Owens were up to something wicked.

  “Is something amiss?” Knightly inquired.

  “I forgot my shawl,” Annabelle blurted out, which didn’t explain anything, really.

  Owens helped her to her feet and stood by her side.

  “I was assisting Mis
s Swift,” he said smoothly.

  It wasn’t exactly a lie. Owens deviously let those words hang in the air, allowing Knightly to make assumptions. Annabelle watched Knightly process the scene with narrowed eyes and clenched jaw. Was Owens right? Was a rival just what she needed?

  “I was just leaving to see about that thing we discussed,” Owens said, affectionately touching Annabelle on the elbow before quitting the room, leaving her alone with Knightly.

  Knightly leaned against the doorjamb. She bit back a sigh. She did so love it when he leaned.

  “That must be quite the shawl,” Knightly remarked.

  “It’s my best one,” she replied, wrapping the blue cashmere around her even though she wasn’t cold in the slightest. Quite the contrary, in fact.

  “Is there a particular event you require it for?” he asked politely. Too politely. As if he suspected that she was up to her neck in some sort of scheme. She told herself she was oversensitive.

  “Church on Sunday, of course,” she said. But then she didn’t stop there, as she ought to have done. Nerves got the better of her. Rambling Annabelle took over: “Which will come before our next weekly staff meeting, and I didn’t dare risk forgetting to come another time. I must have my best shawl for church as it’s the only one that matches my best dress and of course I have to wear my best dress to church. Do you attend church?”

  “No,” Knightly said flatly. “Not unless you count this.”

  By “this” she presumed he meant The London Weekly.

  “Oh,” Annabelle replied. She did not know if that counted. Didn’t know how quite to reply, really. She loosened the shawl, for she was now quite hot. They really ought to open a window.

  Knightly smiled at her in a way that made her heart race. Like he had a secret. Like they had a private joke. Like he knew she was up to something.

  “I’m glad that you have your shawl,” he said. “Given that it’s June.”

  “Oh, you know the weather in England . . . so very fickle,” Annabelle managed to reply.

  “A second best shawl just wouldn’t do,” Knightly persisted, wickedly having fun at her expense, she was sure of it. This was not how this was supposed to go. And yet she was alone, with Knightly, when otherwise she would be sitting at home while her brother read the newspapers and Blanche read improving literature aloud to the family. Such was the unexciting life of Old Annabelle.

  This was wicked good fun, and New Annabelle would enjoy it and play along.

  “What makes you think I have a second best shawl?” She tried to sound perfectly natural, and thought she did an all right job of it.

  “Your family owns a cloth importing business. If there is one thing you are lacking in, I would not put my money on it being shawls,” Knightly replied as her mouth parted slightly in shock.

  Some days she had wondered if he even knew her name, and yet he was aware of her family’s business? Her jaw might have dropped open.

  “How did you know that?”

  “Miss Swift, it is my business to know,” Knightly replied. Then, pushing off the doorjamb, he stood tall and said, “Come, let’s take you home.”

  “Oh I couldn’t impossibly intrude.” The words—stupid words refusing such a coveted invitation—were off her tongue before she could stop them because she knew her home was impossibly out of the way.

  That’s what happened when one made a habit of being deferential and always thinking of others first. It became an automatic behavior that, in spite of her every effort, she still occasionally defaulted to.

  “I couldn’t call myself a gentleman and allow you to go off into the London night. Alone,” Knightly said. She had come alone, for Spinster Aunties such as herself didn’t have chaperones, they were chaperones.

  “Well if you insist,” Annabelle replied, quite possibly sounding coy for the first time in her life.

  Chapter 12

  Carriage Rides Ought to Be Chaperoned

  DEAR ANNABELLE

  Some gentlemen are N.S.I.C. (Not Safe in Carriages). I hope your nodcock is one them.

  Frisky on Farringdon Road

  The London Weekly

  KNIGHTLY couldn’t say why, but the prospect of this journey with Miss Swift intrigued him. Possibly because she was the last female in the world he expected to find himself alone with, like this. Shy, quiet, pretty, unassuming Annabelle. Seated nervously across from him in the dim, velvet interior of his carriage.

  She was a woman whom he’d barely given any thought to for four years, and now she constantly intruded upon his thoughts and conversations. Everyone, it seemed, was talking about Annabelle.

  She was also a woman who by all accounts had no romantic entanglements until just this week, when he could link her to two unlikely prospects.

  Lord Marsden, a bloody marquis and a notoriously charming one, sending her roses.

  And then there was something between her and Damien Owens. How else to explain her tussled hair, pink cheeks, and the fact that she was in his arms?

  More irritating was why the thought of them together bothered him. So much so that he’d left his desk to investigate their lengthy silence behind a closed door. And when he opened it? The sight before him sent a surge of jealously, and a desire to plant a facer on Owens.

  And now here he was, alone, with Annabelle.

  “Where to, Miss Swift?” he asked once they were settled into his carriage. It was a very fine carriage, if he did say so himself: the newest design, comfortable forest green velvet seats, black lacquer detailing. He did enjoy the trappings of success: a stately home, the finest tailoring, and the best of anything money could buy.

  “One hundred fifty Montague Street, Bloomsbury,” she answered. “Or did you already know that?”

  “I already knew. But it seemed prudent to confirm your destination in the event you planned to go elsewhere,” Knightly said. Like Lord Marsden’s residence. Or Owens’s flat. The thought caused a knot to form in his gut.

  “That is very considerate of you,” she replied, and then paused, obviously debating whether to say what was on her mind. In the habit of snap decisions himself, it was intriguing to watch this internal debate.

  “What else do you know about me?” Annabelle decided to ask. He watched her straighten her spine as she did, as if it required such determination to do so.

  “You are six and twenty years of age,” he answered.

  “It’s not polite to mention that,” she replied, inadvertently confirming it.

  “You live with your brother, the cloth merchant, and his wife. You have doled out advice to the curious, lovelorn, and unfortunate for about three years,” Knightly told her.

  It was an easy matter to accumulate basic facts about people, which often proved useful to have in hand.

  Some other newly discovered facts would go unmentioned: Annabelle looked angelic with her tussled golden curls free of the knot she usually kept her hair in. And yet her mouth—all plump and red—hinted of sin. When she smiled, there was a slight dimple in her left cheek. She was prone to blushes and sighs, and he thought it fascinating that one should be able to feel so passionately and to show it.

  He never could. But that was a woman for you. Most of them never had a thought or feeling they didn’t share.

  “I’m curious what you know of me,” he said, turning the tables on her. She smiled, and thought for a moment, as if debating where to begin.

  “I know that you are five and thirty years of age, that your mother is an actress, you have a town house in Mayfair, and your handwriting is an impossible scrawl,” she replied pertly.

  “And that my chest is firm,” Knightly couldn’t resist adding.

  Annabelle only groaned in response. He couldn’t quite see in the dim light of the carriage, but he would wager that a blush was creeping into her cheeks.

  “You emba
rrass easily,” he said, adding to his list of Facts About Annabelle.

  “Did you know that already or are you only just discovering it?” she asked with a laugh.

  “I’m learning,” he said. He knew less about her than the other Writing Girls mainly because the others were in the habit of barging into his office, giving him a piece of their mind, and generally raising hell and causing trouble.

  In fact, this might have been the longest conversation he and Annabelle had to date. Funny, that.

  “I also know that your column has been the talk of the town,” he added. Besides Drummond, Gage, and his mother, everyone seemed to be talking about Dear Annabelle’s quest to win the Nodcock. (Owens? Or Marsden?) In every meeting he took, be it with a writer or fellow businessmen, they were discussing the matter. He’d even overheard his valet and butler in a heated discussion over just how low a woman’s bodice should go.

  “What do you think of my column lately?” she asked.

  “It has been immensely popular,” Knightly said. “You even have the blokes in the coffeehouses devoted to it. You should keep up the ruse as long as possible, because readers love it.” Annabelle’s Adventures in Love made for a great story. Great stories equaled great sales.

  Also, the continuation of the ruse meant delayed satisfaction for Owens. Or was it Marsden? One of the two was surely the infamous Nodcock.

  “I see,” she said softly, and idly stroked the velvet of the carriage seat. She looked out the window for a moment. It was as if a cloud passed over, for she suddenly was just a bit less vivacious. It was as if he’d said the wrong thing, which was confusing, as he had intended a compliment.

  “The mail clerks have been complaining to me about the volume of letters you are receiving,” he said, hoping that a mention of her popularity would bring back some brightness.

  “They always complain about that,” Annabelle said with a smile. “People do love to send their problems to me.”

  “You must have a knack for solving them. And giving good advice,” he said idly. Her shawl had slipped off her shoulders, exposing her first trick in attracting that nodcock. Knightly was suddenly aware that he desired her, and that they were alone.