by Maya Rodale
This hint of affection was supposed to be a suggestion of more.
Who could predict that such a simple action would be so fraught with peril?
First, she practiced upon Alistair Grey, who had brought her as his guest to the opening night of Once Upon a Time, featuring Delilah Knightly.
“Knightly’s exact words to me were, ‘My mother receives rave reviews or I find a new theater reviewer.’ I understood this to mean I should attend,” Alistair told her. “Of course, I always bring a guest. Given your situation and the assurance that you-know-who would attend, I thought to extend the invitation to you, Dear Annabelle. I expect a public display of gratitude in your next column.”
“But of course,” Annabelle replied, lightly touching her gloved hand to Alistair’s forearm, clad in a deep mauve wool that set off his violet silk waistcoat to great effect.
Alistair did not take much notice of the gesture, but more importantly, he did not laugh or mock or ask her what the devil she was doing touching him thusly. She could do this.
She mustered her courage, straightened her spine, and quite nearly lost her nerve when Knightly arrived at the box appearing impossibly handsome in the stark black and white of his evening clothes.
If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. His eyes were as blue and focused as ever and his expression as aloof and inscrutable. She couldn’t help it, a little sigh of longing and desire escaped her lips.
After greeting Alistair, Knightly took the seat beside her.
“How are you this evening, Annabelle?” he asked, leaning in toward her so his low voice might be heard over the din of the audience chattering before the start.
“Fine, thank you. And how are you?” Then she dared to brush her fingertips along the soft wool covering his arm, just for a second before snatching her hand away. Meanwhile, she kept her gaze upon him, so riveted was she by his blue eyes. That, and she was attempting to discern if that light touch had any effect upon him.
“I’m very well, thank you. Prepared for an evening of theatrics.”
“Drama is for the page. Or the stage,” she remarked, drawing a slight smile of recognition from him. She recognized an opportunity to seek an answer to a question that had been vexing her ever since their carriage ride. “Mr. Knightly, I don’t think you ever mentioned your third truth.”
Annabelle dared to punctuate this by placing her gloved hand upon his arm. In her head, she counted to three. Did he feel the warmth, the shivers? She felt positively electrified by the touch, however slight, and however much fabric separated his bare skin from hers.
Knightly leaned in closer. Her heart started to pound. She was sure her bosoms were heaving in anticipation, but in the dim light of the theater she couldn’t tell if Knightly dared a glance or not.
“Be beholden to no one,” he said in a low, heartbreaking voice.
“Oh,” she replied, withdrawing her hand. That was the mantra of a man who refused love or attachment. The sort of man a woman ought not waste her time upon. That was a declaration of “Abandon all hope, ye who venture here.”
But then she did catch Knightly glancing at her. And her bodice. She would swear that she felt his gaze like a caress. Her skin warmed. With the rush of pleasure from his attention was the satisfaction of knowing she had dared, she had achieved some small triumph.
The lights dimmed further. The audience hushed. The thick red velvet curtains were drawn apart, revealing a stage set to reveal a bedroom and a brightly dressed cast of characters ready to play.
The play was excellent, but couldn’t fully capture her attention. Beside her, Knightly shifted and his soft wool coat brushed against her bare arms like the gentlest caress. She bit her lip, craving more.
Oh, it was just the brush of wool against her skin. It ought to have been nothing. But it was a tactile indication of all the affection she’d been lacking and all of her longing. It was an indication of how far she’d come, how close she was.
Old Annabelle never had moments like these, alone in the dark with Knightly, close enough to touch.
Throughout the performance, she’d kept her hands folded in her lap. But then she thought perhaps . . . perhaps she ought to try a little more.
She slid her hands across the pink silk of her skirts, over to the edge of her velvet chair just to where her fingers brushed with Knightly’s, interlocking and then releasing for one exquisite and all-too-fleeting second.
In the middle of the first act Knightly leaned over to whisper in her ear some remark about the play. His voice was low, whisper quiet, and her attentions were distracted.
“What was that?” she asked at the exact moment when, as per the instructions of Affectionate from All Saints Road, she reached over intending just a brief gesture of affection on his arm, or his hand. But he had shifted and she accidentally brushed her hand across a more personal and intimate and decidedly male portion of his anatomy. At the precise moment she had asked What was that?
Dear God, he would think—
That wasn’t what she meant!
She just hadn’t heard him!
All the words and explanations stuck in her throat. With cheeks flaming, Annabelle clasped her hands firmly on her lap and spent the second act regretting deeply the advice of Affectionate from All Saints Road and praying that she might disappear.
KNIGHTLY sincerely hoped that Alistair had paid excellent attention to the performance and planned to write an extensive, thorough, and meticulously detailed review, for he had not paid attention at all.
No, he’d been too damned distracted by Annabelle. First, it was those little flirtatious touches during their polite conversation, which fortunately consisted of just small talk. He’d had the devil of a time concentrating and instead wondered if Annabelle was flirting with him and if so, since when did Annabelle flirt?
It was probably for her column and probably practice for Owens or Marsden. But it tortured him all the same.
Especially when she had inadvertently touched him on a certain portion of his anatomy, which was far too pleased by it, given the circumstances. Such as a crowd of hundreds preventing him from more.
“Would you care for a glass of champagne?” Knightly asked Annabelle. Alistair had gone off to interview the actors backstage, leaving the two of them alone. He needed a drink, badly.
“Yes, please,” she replied, averting her gaze. Her cheeks were pink.
“Shall we?” He offered his arm and she entwined hers. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. But after all those little, taunting touches he wanted to feel more of her, feel her against him. With the slightest caress, she had started a craving.
With her tucked against him, he noticed Annabelle was taller than he expected—her head was just above his shoulder, and he towered over most men. He also noted that if he glanced down discreetly he was treated to a marvelous view of her breasts rising above the cut of her gown. God damn—or God bless?—that damn Gage and all the rest who made the suggestion that she lower her bodice. He hadn’t been able to think of much other than Annabelle’s breasts since.
He also noted that she gazed up at him with those wide blue eyes and caught him looking. She smiled shyly. Her cheeks were still pink.
They obtained the desperately needed glasses of champagne without further incident and sought refuge from the crowds in a private alcove near the lobby.
“Something is different about you, Annabelle,” he remarked. It wasn’t just the new dress or, now that he looked closely, a new way of wearing her hair that allowed a few golden curls to fall tantalizingly, gently, on her face.
“You noticed?” Her voice was soft and her blue eyes widened as she peered up at him.
“It’s been hard not to, Annabelle.” Every time he saw her, there was something else to note. Even when she wasn’t around, she managed to infiltrate his every conversation—and thoughts,
and dreams. When he ought to have been planning his marriage to Lady Lydia, he instead thought of discovering Annabelle, inch by inch.
“Oh. I’m sorry—” she stammered, flustered, and he realized she must have thought he was referring to the, ahem, incident in Act One. What he couldn’t tell her was that it worked. Or rather, he wouldn’t tell her for it would only mortify her more (as adorable as that sight was, he couldn’t torture her thus). And if he were practice for Owens or Marsden, then he took a perverse pleasure in denying them the pleasure of Annabelle’s touch. However unintentional, however fleeting.
“No, don’t be sorry,” he said. For once he allowed himself a long, leisurely look at her, discovering all the tempting curves of Dear Annabelle, from the soft gold ringlets of her hair to the plump mouth, as if ripe for a kiss. The swell of her breasts, the narrow tapering of her waist, and the seductive flare of her lips made his mouth go dry.
Knightly was struck with the urge to claim her mouth with a kiss. He took another sip of his champagne instead.
“I don’t know what inspired you, Annabelle. But I’m having the devil of a time watching your transformation.” All that loveliness had been hidden away before. Idly he wondered, why now?
“In a good way, I hope,” she ventured, nibbling her lower lip. Tempting. Knightly took a long swallow of his champagne, but it did nothing to quench his desire to taste her.
“Definitely in a good way,” he told her. Good, yes. And also in an intriguing, tempting, beguiling, tormenting kind of way. In an interrupting-dreams-and-waking-thoughts kind of way. Annabelle was starting to happen, and for some reason, he was the lucky bastard who got to watch this bewitching transformation unfold.
She smiled, shyly. She gazed up at him like he was the whole damn world—sun, moon, and stars included. He stepped farther back into the shadows, drawing her close with the slightest grasp of her wrist. Kissing Annabelle suddenly became a necessity.
She tilted her head up. He lowered his mouth to hers.
Then Alistair interrupted, and Knightly thought of firing him for the offense.
Chapter 17
Writing Girls’ Gossip
THE MAN ABOUT TOWN
The White’s betting book is full of wagers on when Mr. London Weekly will propose to Lady “Missing Second Season” Marsden. All agree a betrothal announcement is imminent. He’s been reported to call upon her regularly, and they have waltzed twice at each of the three balls they attended together this week.
The London Times
ON Sunday afternoon Annabelle often volunteered her time with the Society for the Advancement of Female Literacy. Meaning, of course, that she escaped the domestic drudgery and dull company at home so that she might spend a few hours in the company of her fellow Writing Girls.
They most often gathered at Sophie’s massive house to read periodicals, indulge in tea and cakes, and gossip shamelessly.
Sundays were definitely her second favorite part of the week, Annabelle thought as she curled up on the mulberry-colored upholstered settee in Sophie’s drawing room. Last night at the theater, however, was certainly the highlight.
If she were not mistaken, it seemed that last night, Knightly noticed her. Was it her new hairstyle, thanks to Owens’s strategic removal of a few hairpins? Or was it the silk dress that felt like a caress? Or the way those wicked silk underthings emboldened her?
Or was it the mortifying encounter with her hand and Knightly’s anatomy?
At the thought, her cheeks flamed. But she took a deep breath and reminded herself that not only did Knightly notice her now, he had said so. And he had been about to kiss her, she was certain of it. If only Alistair hadn’t interrupted.
“Annabelle, enough with the woolgathering,” Eliza said. “We are desperately curious to know what has you lost in thought.”
“And the reason for that dreamy smile and your blush,” Sophie added.
Annabelle sighed, but this sign was one of utter delight. In spite of the most mortifying three seconds of her life, all was well. Funny, the power of an almost kiss. She went breathless imagining how it would feel to actually kiss him.
“I do believe that Knightly is beginning to notice me!” she exclaimed, in spite of all her efforts to be coy or demure or restrained. She saw the way he looked at her last night, as if it were the first time.
God bless Careless in Camden Town and even Affectionate from All Saints Road, and all the others who had written to her.
“Sophie, you were absolutely right about the dresses and the silky underthings. You have my everlasting gratitude,” Annabelle vowed. “I daresay they have given me a new confidence.”
“You are very welcome. In return, please tell that to Brandon when my modiste bills arrive,” Sophie replied.
“Speaking of noticing you, Annabelle,” Julianna, ever the gossip, said, “Knightly is not the only one, it seems. There is also Owens. And Marsden.”
“You had said Owens was a ruse,” Eliza added after a sip of tea. “But he seems genuine.”
“He came up with the idea during the Forgotten Shawl Incident,” Annabelle said. He’d also been extraordinarily attentive to her and affectionate. It might have begun as a ruse, but it was starting to feel like a friendship.
“A remarkably good idea and experiment,” Eliza replied. “I daresay Knightly glowered every time Owens glanced in your direction during last week’s meeting.”
“Is that why he was scowling? I noticed he was brooding. Then my mind drifted, ” Annabelle admitted with a sheepish smile. And she had been spending half of her attention on winks and smiles for Owens—even a sultry glance or two, for his amusement.
“Speaking of Knightly,” Sophie said delicately, as she intently examined the lace trim on her dress sleeve, “they say that he is courting Lady Lydia. The Man About Town reported on it this morning.”
“And that explains why Knightly forbade me to write about the Marsdens,” Julianna grumbled. “I loathe when I am scooped by the Man About Town.”
“It was just that one afternoon walk, was it not?” Annabelle asked. “Remember, Sophie?” One walk did not a courtship make. He couldn’t possibly be courting another woman, not now. Not when she was finally coming out of her shell. Not after three years, seven months, and two days in which she languished in the shadows, only to emerge when it was too late.
“It’s more than that, I’m afraid,” Sophie said, wincing. Annabelle glanced from Sophie to Eliza to Julianna. Three dear faces with expressions of concern and anguish and worry, and even traces of pity.
“He’s visited her on at least three other occasions,” Julianna said. “Furthermore, they have waltzed twice at the Winthrop soiree.”
Given that Knightly was not known to spend much time outside of The Weekly, three visits, two waltzes, and one afternoon walk were significant indicators of a courtship. Even Annabelle, ever the optimist in possession of an inventive imagination, could not see any other excuse. The truth left her breathless. A knot formed in her stomach. That warm glow of pleasure faded, leaving her cold.
She felt her shoulders rounding. She felt that familiar bleak hollowness as she contemplated a life without love; a life under the same roof as her brother and Blanche. A life just off to the side, in the shadows, forever handing props or whispering lines to the actors on stage.
“That is an interesting turn of events,” Eliza said thoughtfully. “Perhaps it has nothing to do with the woman herself and everything to do with strengthening the relationship with Marsden and his blasted Inquiry looming over all of us.”
“Are you suggesting it’s some noble sacrifice to protect The Weekly?” Julianna asked.
“He would do that . . .” Annabelle said softly. “But Lady Lydia is also beautiful. And titled. And probably a lovely person.”
“I’ve heard her dowry is paltry,” Sophie said. “The Marsdens have
recently fallen on hard times.”
“Knightly has a fortune of his own,” Julianna said. “He has no need of a wealthy bride. Though it sounds like she needs a wealthy husband.”
“What she has is an immensely powerful brother,” Sophie said. “Brandon works with him frequently in Parliament. Given this Inquiry, and the practices of The Weekly, Knightly needs all the allies he can get. Marsden is stirring up many, many supporters. He is so popular, and charming, and righteously outraged over the matter, no one is able to refuse pledging their support to his cause.”
“And then there are the rumors,” Julianna said, with such relish that Annabelle felt a spark of hope after the sinking feeling in her stomach following Sophie’s appraisal of the situation.
“Have you discovered her mystery lover yet?” Eliza asked, leaning forward, intrigued.
“No. But the latest on dit is that her illness was the sort that lasts only nine months,” Julianna shared, pausing for effect and to sip her tea.
“Knightly probably doesn’t care one whit about the rumors,” Sophie said with a shrug. One should never believe in rumors, especially disparaging ones. How many times had Annabelle counseled her readers thusly?
“She is quite the competition,” she said softly. A battle of tug of war erupted in her soul. Give up, Old Annabelle whispered. Fight for him, New Annabelle urged. The conflict made her stomach ache. “I did not realize that he had set his cap for someone else when I started my campaign to win him.”
“So what if he has?” Julianna asked, shrugging. “What does that have to do with anything?” Not for the first time, Annabelle wished she possessed some of her friend’s brazen spirit. Or her ability to not consider the contents of Lady Lydia’s heart or her lifelong happiness when considering what to do.
“I shouldn’t want to steal him,” Annabelle said softly. “Or make anyone unhappy.” That was the thing about always seeking the good in everyone, and doling out advice for years. Her point of view always focused on how to make everyone else happy.