Seducing Mr. Knightly

by Maya Rodale

  “I must have? Do you not know?” she asked, peering up at him with those big blue eyes of hers. He’d lost track of the conversation, distracted as he’d been by the swells of her breasts and a dawning awareness of his desire for Annabelle.

  “I don’t know how your readers fare after your suggestions. Or what constitutes good advice, which is why you won’t see me penning your column. I have three truths I live by, that is all.” And really, did a man need more? No.

  “Scandal equals sales,” Annabelle said, predictably sounding bored, as all the writers did when reciting that particular phrase. Yet it worked like a charm. They shared a grin over the shared knowledge.

  “What is the next one?” she asked.

  “Drama is for the page,” he told her. Even though he never actually said these truths aloud and he especially didn’t talk about them. But with Dear Annabelle it felt safe to do so.

  “Funny, given that your mother is an actress,” Annabelle remarked.

  “Or precisely because my mother is an actress,” he countered.

  “More drama off the page would be greatly welcomed by me,” Annabelle said wistfully. “Of course, it must be different for men. There is very little adventure and excitement available to us unmarried females.”

  “Doesn’t this count?” he asked. It was just a carriage ride. But there was nothing to stop him from tugging her into his lap and ravishing her completely. Nothing, that is, save for his self-restraint, which seemed to be eroding with every moment.

  It was just Annabelle, or so he tried to tell himself. But it wasn’t. He was discovering, slowly but surely, that Annabelle possessed a mouth he wished to taste, pale skin he wanted to touch, and breasts that—oh God, the wicked thoughts she inspired. How had he not noticed her all these years?

  In his defense, she hadn’t been wearing these revealing dresses until lately. She pulled the shawl up closer around her shoulders. Her best shawl, she had said. Or a ruse to meet privately with Owens?

  “Oh, yes, this might count as an adventure,” she replied with a smile that might actually be described as wicked. “Fortunately for you, I am not a Person of Consequence. Nor will my relatives ask you to declare your intentions.”

  “Why is that?” Knightly asked, because that was a deuced unusual attitude for relatives of unmarried females. Usually they were keen to foist off their sisters and daughters as early and as soon as possible. Look at Marsden, for instance.

  “That would mean losing their free household help,” Annabelle said. She forced a laughed that stabbed at his heart. She tried to be light about it but came just short of succeeding. “Blanche has actually done the math . . .”

  Knightly assumed Blanche was her brother’s wife, and that she must be horrid. The impulse to rescue Annabelle from this wretched situation stole over him; he chalked it up to some notion of ingrained gentlemanly behavior. Or too many hours at the theater.

  Drama is for the page. Repeat. Drama is for the page.

  “No wonder you crave adventure,” he said, steering the conversation away from the apparently awful Swift household.

  While the words still hung in the air a huge thud and a jolt rocked the carriage, sending Annabelle flying into his lap and bringing the vehicle to a halt. A loud commotion ensued just outside of the carriage. They must have collided with another vehicle.

  He ought to go see what happened.

  Knightly remained inside and discovered new things about Annabelle. She was warm. He knew this because he was suddenly, incredibly overheated. And she was luscious. He’d instinctively wrapped his arms around her to keep her steady. He felt the curve of her hips, the curve of her bottom, the curve of her breasts.

  Fact: Annabelle was a tempting armful of woman. It wasn’t just her mouth that tempted a man to sin. The rest of her, too.

  Tempting as sin, that Angelic Annabelle.

  How had he not discovered this about her before?

  For one thing, he hadn’t held her in his arms before. He certainly hadn’t done so for longer than was necessary or proper.

  Knightly also discovered that his body very much liked Annabelle on his lap. In fact, certain portions of his anatomy strained to display its fondness. It was positively indecent how much he liked it.

  “I should go see what happened,” he said, though it was another moment before either made an attempt to move.

  As they disentangled themselves, he might have accidentally been less than concerned about the proper placement of his hands and might have unintentionally brushed his hand against certain round portions of her person.

  He was a man, after all.

  But it was wrong. She worked for him. Worked . . . for . . . him.

  To play there would be to take unfair advantage. And it would be just a dalliance, given his impending betrothal to Lady Marsden. All of which would inevitably lead to hurt feelings, awkwardness, issues of pride, etc., etc., and the loss of one of his writers who was currently writing an increasingly popular column.

  Annabelle was Off Limits.

  As Knightly stepped out into the crisp evening air, his first thought had nothing to do with the melee before him. His first thought was: Good thing Annabelle has her shawl.

  And then he focused on the situation at hand.

  A collision had occurred between two carriages. One of them, unfortunately, belonged to him. The cattle were fine, thank God. No one was injured, save for some minor damage to his conveyance. The occupants of the offending vehicle were hollering and blustering and it took some time before Knightly’s cool demeanor calmed them down, sorted out the mess, and sent everyone on their way.

  Meanwhile, he was aware of Annabelle watching from the carriage windows. Which is why he did not take a swing at the man who accused his driver of ineptitude and hurled curses at everyone in vicinity. It was the reason why Knightly was in such a hurry to have the matter resolved. Not that he would have ever been inclined for a drawn-out scene, but knowing Annabelle waited in the dim confines of his carriage lent an urgency to the situation.

  “There will be an article advocating traffic laws, will there not?” she asked when he finally rejoined her.

  “Absolutely,” he said with a grin. “And one lamenting other people’s deplorable driving skills.”

  “It must be quite fun having your own newspaper to tell the world just what you think,” she mused. “It must be wonderful to have so many people read it and agree with you. Is that why you work so much, Mr. Knightly?”

  “I love the work. I love the success and what comes with it,” Knightly replied frankly. He loved the challenge, and the chase, and the pride that came from his success. And all of the wealth and influence he had accumulated would soon deliver his ultimate goal.

  Throw the bastard out. He doesn’t belong here.

  Oh, but he did. And they would soon have to accept him as one of their own.

  “I can imagine. This is a very nice carriage,” Annabelle remarked, sliding her hands along the plush velvet seat.

  “It was a lot nicer an hour ago,” he said, and Annabelle laughed.

  Knightly added Annabelle has a lovely laugh to the list of things he knew about her.

  “We are nearly there,” she said, after a glance out the window. “Thank you very much for seeing me home. I hope I didn’t keep you from anything important.”

  “Can’t let my star columnist go gallivanting off in the night unescorted,” Knightly said with a grin.

  “Because this carriage ride with you wasn’t dangerous or improper at all,” she replied, smiling.

  It wasn’t. Nothing untoward had occurred . . . and yet now that he had this new knowledge of Annabelle, it felt dangerous for some reason.

  When the carriage rolled to a stop before a neat little town house, the thought of taking Annabelle in his arms and tasting that sinful mouth of hers crossed
his mind. He noted that she was thinking about it, too. How else to explain the nervousness in her pretty blue eyes? Or the flush across her cheeks? Or the way she nibbled at her plump lower lip.

  Why not kiss her? The devil on his shoulder wanted to know.

  Why not, indeed, logic countered, withering.

  Because she worked for him. Had he not declared her Off Limits just a quarter hour ago? Clearly, he needed to remind himself why she was Off Limits.

  Because she had her heart set on either Owens or Marsden. Because she had to keep up her quest to win one of those blockheads. Her column was the talk of the town, and if everyone was discussing Annabelle’s adventures in love, they were not sparing a thought for the looming, sordid scandal brewing thanks to that damned inquiry. He’d like to keep it that way.

  Because he would be courting and marrying Lady Lydia, because her hand in marriage would deliver him everything he’d always wanted: acceptance from the haute ton and protection for his newspapers. For his writers.

  Because Annabelle was a sweet, innocent woman. And he was a ruthless, cold man who cared for nothing but his business and social climbing, as uncouth as that sounded. He didn’t want to break the heart of a girl like her.

  “You should go,” he said. His voice was more hoarse than he would have liked.

  Chapter 13

  A Writing Girl’s Lamentable Household

  FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE BY A LADY OF DISTINCTION

  ’Tis a small crowd in London that does not read The London Weekly. What curious creatures.

  The London Weekly

  The Swift Household

  BLANCHE descended upon Annabelle the moment she stepped into the drawing room. Blanche’s bosom friend Mrs. Underwood, who Annabelle suspected might be a witch, hovered just behind Blanche. Privately, Annabelle thought they were both ghastly, though she felt pained to do so because she always made an effort to find the good in each person.

  “How kind of you to grace us with your presence, Annabelle,” Blanche remarked snidely. From the first, the woman had taken a dislike to her, and no amount of sweetness or helpfulness or anything else could dissuade her. Thomas had defended Annabelle once, when he declared his new wife would not cast out his thirteen-year-old sibling. Ever since, Annabelle had been left to manage her wicked sister-in-law on her own. For years Annabelle had tried to make Blanche happy with her choice to keep her on. Lately, she only tried to be at peace with her situation.

  Blanche turned to her husband, who took refuge behind a newspaper. “Thomas, ask your sister where she has been this whole day.’ ”

  “Where have you been, Annabelle?” Dear brother Thomas did not even lower his newspaper. It was The Daily Financial Register, and a duller publication Annabelle had never read. She didn’t blame him for hiding behind it, given the company.

  “I have spent the afternoon busy with charity work,” Annabelle said, relying on her usual excuse. “And visiting some friends,” she added, in the event that they saw Knightly’s carriage and inquired about it.

  Her family did not know about “Dear Annabelle.” Her family did not read The London Weekly and must have been the only people in London not to do so. This suited Annabelle just fine.

  Her family labored under the impression that she dedicated her time to a vast array of charitable works and committees, which explained her Wednesday outings and friendship with the other Writing Girls (who she might have declined to mention happened to be duchesses and a countess).

  The London Weekly and the Writing Girls were her secret life. They were the only things that belong to her, and her alone. Well, other than those wicked silky unmentionables (she’d ordered more) and two fine dresses.

  “I personally believe that charity starts at home,” Blanche said stiffly. “Which reminds me, Cook may have set something aside for you. Or perhaps she was too vexed not to have your assistance in the kitchen this evening. You may go see for yourself.”

  “You’re too kind, Blanche,” Mrs. Underwood praised, and the two old birds clucked over their generosity. Annabelle was in too fine a mood to scowl or snort or otherwise express her disbelief.

  Eat? She lived on love alone. Finally she had more than crumbs to sustain her. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks to Careless in Camden Town for such a brilliant suggestion. It was all she could do not to waltz across the foyer or burst into song.

  What an adventure she’d had this afternoon!

  “What, pray tell, is so amusing, Annabelle?” Blanche inquired.

  For a second Annabelle considered telling her the truth. But why, when Blanche would not believe it? No, this would be her secret pleasure.

  “There must be a man in the picture,” Mrs. Underwood said.

  “Hmm,” Thomas murmured from behind his newspaper.

  “That explains the prolonged absences. The flowers. The dresses like a dockside harpy.” Blanche ticked these items off on her short fingers, much like the way she added up the accounts for the cloth business.

  “Today I met with the Society for the Advancement of Female Literacy,” Annabelle replied, which was her code for The Weekly staff meetings. Blanche, as the businesswoman behind the man, could not disagree with it.

  “But you do not deny that there is a man in the picture,” Mrs. Underwood said gleefully, as if this were a trial and she’d inadvertently made Annabelle confess to some heinous crime punishable by years of hard labor.

  “Well let me inform you now that should you find yourself in a state of disgrace,” Blanche lectured, “you won’t darken this door with your presence. I shan’t abide such an example in front of my children.”

  Watson, Mason, and Fleur, ages nine, seven, and five. They were miniature replicas of their parents and thus no friends of Annabelle’s, no matter that she’d functioned as their nanny and governess for their whole lives.

  “Do you not agree, Thomas? We cannot have your sister setting a poor example for our children,” Blanche said loudly, as if he were deaf or as if newsprint effectively blocked sound.

  “Yes, dear,” he replied.

  Old Annabelle would have blinked back tears to have her brother, her own flesh and blood, agree so blindly to his wife’s cruelty. New Annabelle, however, knew that he likely hadn’t been listening to the conversation and had no idea what he’d just agreed to.

  New Annabelle was also overwhelmed by the urge to waltz around her bedroom and revel in raptures of delight.

  Because some people—like Owens and Careless in Camden Town, and even A Courtesan in Mayfair—cared to help her. She’d been lonely until she worked up the courage (or desperation) to ask for help and discovered that people were more than willing to oblige.

  Because this scheme had been the greatest risk of her life so far, and it was proving to be a success.

  Because she had a carriage ride with Knightly. Alone. At dusk. It was the stuff Old Annabelle dreamed about late at night. New Annabelle lived it.

  Because she had managed an entire conversation with Knightly, instead of her usual tendency to ramble or lose the ability to construct sentences—and even after tumbling awkwardly into his lap. (Although she had ceased to think, only to feel a million exquisite new sensations when that had happened.)

  Because she had an adventure with Knightly.

  Because Knightly had been about to kiss her, she just knew it.

  Because New Annabelle was wicked good fun.

  Chapter 14

  A Lady’s Lesson in Flirting

  PARLIAMENTARY INTELLIGENCE

  London newspapers, beware! Lord Marsden’s Inquiry is gathering information and testimonies, all because of the nefarious actions of The London Times’s rogue reporter, Jack Brinsley, who is festering in Newgate, awaiting trial.

  The London Weekly

  Offices of The London Weekly

  WEDNESDAYS had long
been Annabelle’s favorite day of the week. But this one made her smile a little more broadly, made her heart beat a little more quickly. The sky seemed bluer, the birdsong more pleasing. She herself was becoming a little more . . . alive or awake or in bloom or something lovely like that.

  Knightly was no longer a remote figure with whom she’d never really conversed. She now knew the firmness of his chest (if only for one, exquisite and accidental instance) and what it felt like to have his arms around her (if only for one exquisite, accidental tumble in a carriage accident). She knew the truths he lived by, although it had occurred to her after their carriage ride that he’d only mentioned two of the three. She resolved to discover the third.

  Yet it was Owens, not Knightly, who immediately sought her out upon her early arrival. She liked to allow for the possibility of drama or adventure to occur.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Swift.” Somehow Owens had managed to make it sound like he was saying something else entirely. Something very naughty. He affectionately touched her arm. It was lovely, that.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Owens,” Annabelle said sweetly.

  Heads turned in their direction. The other Writing Girls came up the stairs and looked at her very curiously as they passed by. Something about her company and her and Mr. Owens’s pose must have told them not to interrupt.

  Owens paid them no mind and leaned against the wall next to her, just outside of Knightly’s office. Then a slow, lazy smile dawned upon his mouth and he took a slow, lazy, absolutely rakish look at her person. Her lips parted, slightly aghast. Her heartbeat quickened with the pressure to perform.

  Owens was acting rakishly with her. Owens, who had said she’d never be wicked, was now looking at her as if she’d been very wicked with him. It was appalling. It was also part of the ruse and the sort of high jinks New Annabelle engaged in.

  “I trust you are enjoying this fine weather, Miss Swift. With such warm temperatures, you needn’t worry about leaving your shawl behind,” Owens said with a knowing nod and wink of his velvety brown eyes. What unfairly long lashes the man possessed.