Seducing Mr. Knightly

by Maya Rodale

He knew he wouldn’t be able to look at her again without seeing her thusly. That wicked, seductive, wanton, and sensual image was now seared into his brain forevermore.

  In the far recesses of his brain shards of logic remained and alerted him to the facts: this was a ruse for her column, for her elaborate seduction. But was this moment just practice? In other words, was this the closest he would ever be to witnessing Annabelle as if in the throes of pleasure?

  Or . . .

  Was he the infamous object of her affections? Otherwise known, lamentably, as the Nodcock. To that, his heart, his brain, every fiber of his being firmly declared . . .

  No. No.

  “Where are you taking me?” Annabelle asked. He forced a slight smile, even though the world as he knew it was coming to an end. She’d been “the quiet one,” and now he wanted to lay her on his office floor and have his wicked way with her.

  “I’m taking you to my office,” he said. Where we might have some privacy, he thought. Wrong. Wrong!

  They were going to his office, where she might recover herself and he might have a drink and restore sense and reason in his brain. Think of Lady Lydia, he ordered himself. Think of that damned New Earl and everything you’ve ever wanted. Then he promptly ignored the command.

  “I’m certain I can walk,” she said. Probably because all the other writers were staring as he made his way to his office with Annabelle in his arms. She did seem to have an aversion to being the center of attention.

  “Let’s not risk it,” he said, because he couldn’t actually say that he rather liked the feel of her in his arms and in a moment would set her down and probably never hold her thusly again.

  Lady Lydia. Everything he’d ever wanted.

  He set her down in one of the large plush chairs before his desk and proceeded to pour himself a brandy. He took a large sip and tried to convince himself that it was truly Owens she was after, not him.

  What the devil did he do now, with Annabelle gazing up at him expectantly?

  “How are you feeling?” he asked. That was a safe question.

  “Oh . . . I’m fine. Truly. I feel a bit silly,” she said sheepishly.

  She had made him see . . .

  Knightly eyed her now. Blond curls pulled back. Blue eyes full of questions. Her sinfully full mouth making him think of kissing, which made him think of how she’d appeared in his arms just a moment ago. As if in the midst of a damn good ravishing.

  Knightly moved behind his desk so she would not see that he was in a state to give her a damn good ravishing.

  He’d never thought Dear Annabelle would torture him thusly. Two could play that game, he thought with a slight grin. And speaking of playing the game, he ought to act as if she had actually fainted. Pretending to be obtuse and oblivious to the scheme would afford him time to figure something out.

  “We should send for a doctor,” he said gravely.

  Her eyes widened significantly. Perhaps he’d inherited some of his mother’s flair for acting after all.

  “Oh no, I feel significantly improved. I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said. Which wasn’t fair, because he wasn’t sure he’d ever erase the image of Annabelle, as if in the throes of passion, out of his head. It was going to drive him mad.

  “A real doctor, I promise,” he said, and she laughed. It was a girlish laugh, very sweet. She didn’t laugh enough—or had he never really paid attention before? What else had he missed over the years? Why did he have to notice now?

  “I don’t want to cause any more trouble. I’ve inconvenienced you enough already . . .” Before his eyes, Knightly watched Annabelle in retreat. Her shoulders curved and her voice dropped to nearly a whisper.

  “I do hate to be a bother,” she said softly. Said the woman who had just faked a swoon into his outstretched arms. It didn’t entirely add up.

  His gaze locked with hers for one intense second before she looked away. Knightly watched her look around the room, as if looking for some shadows to blend in with.

  Had he not noticed her before because she didn’t let him?

  “You’re not a bother, Annabelle.” She flashed a shy glance in his direction. She didn’t believe him. And why should she? She had just faux fainted directly into his arms and was now keeping him from his work, and life as he had known it.

  But he saw daring Annabelle starting to retreat, and he sought to cajole her out of hiding.

  “Very well, you are a bother. But I don’t mind being given the opportunity to demonstrate my strength and quick reflexes.”

  And then she treated him to that lovely girlish laugh again. It was shy and nervous and happy all at once. Damn, if it wasn’t a powerful feeling to have teased her out of the shadows. But did that mean . . . ? Knightly took another sip of his drink.

  “It’s important that the other staff be aware of my many talents, including my physical prowess,” he continued. “So I do believe thanks are in order.”

  He raised his glass in cheers to her and took another sip to drown out the words besides, there are worse things than holding a beautiful woman. While he didn’t want her to feel wretched—and she was clearly the romantic, dramatic sort who would mope for days on end—he couldn’t bring himself to say anything that would make things awkward.

  And since she was clearly the romantic, dramatic sort who would puzzle over every word for days on end, he did not want to give her Ideas. Not when he had to continue his courtship of Lady Lydia and ensure that Annabelle’s column remained the smashing success that it was, so that he didn’t lose everything, starting with The London Weekly.

  At that thought, Knightly took another sip and savored the burn.

  “Should I have some of that?” Annabelle asked, and he choked.

  “Brandy?” he sputtered.

  “In novels, the heroes always force the heroines to drink brandy after they have fainted. Apparently, it is very restorative,” she informed him.

  “It burns like the devil and will likely make you ill,” he lectured. But damn, did he want to laugh. Especially when she pouted so adorably at him. Where had this Annabelle been all these years? And why did she have to appear now?

  “I should still like to try,” she said.

  “I’m not giving you brandy,” he told her. It seemed like something done by the vile seducer character in a novel. He would not play that part.

  “Very well. What if it was research for my column?” She smiled, pleased with her strategy of selecting the excuse he could not refuse.

  “Oh, Dear Annabelle . . .” he said, laughing, and handing over his glass. One small sip remained.

  She lifted the glass to her mouth. After one whiff she wrinkled her nose.

  “Perhaps I needn’t try it,” she said. “And pray do not say I told you so.”

  Knightly grinned, enjoying her company tremendously, even though that was the road to ruin. Think of Lady Lydia. Think of everything you ever wanted. But he didn’t.

  “Come on, Annabelle, let’s take you home. No, do not protest,” he said to her as much as to himself. “I cannot send you off in a hired hack after you’ve just fainted. What kind of gentleman would that make me?”

  Chapter 21

  What Not to Ask a Woman

  THE MAN ABOUT TOWN

  Lord Marsden was joined by an unlikely guest at White’s—Derek Knightly, owner of The London Weekly. The two gentlemen were in deep discussion. Was it about Marsden’s Inquiry into the reporting methods of the press, or Knightly’s courtship of Marsden’s sister?

  The London Times

  ANNABELLE had done it again—she somehow contrived to find herself alone with Knightly and to indulge in the tortured pleasures of his presence. Had she known what to do years ago . . .

  She still wouldn’t have done a thing, because she wouldn’t have been desperate enough to ask for help or to risk
taking the advice of Sneaky in Southwark or Careless in Camden Town and especially Swooning in Mayfair.

  “Thank you for taking me home,” she said. “I am sorry to inconvenience you. Well, a little bit. But this, with you, is far preferable to a hired hack or a long walk. But I sincerely hope this isn’t too much trouble for you.” She was a bit awed, truth be told, at these situations that she had conjured up. Like she possessed magical powers and was only just discovering it.

  “You don’t like to ask for things for yourself, do you?” Knightly questioned. “You just fainted, Annabelle. I can’t let you walk across town alone. Back in the office, you didn’t want me to send for a doctor because you might be a bother.”

  This was Knightly seeing her. Seeing into her soul, even. Seeing into the dark, quiet parts of her. The part that was forever afraid of being too much of a nuisance and left behind accordingly.

  Annabelle was afraid that if she didn’t prove useful around the house, Blanche would cast her out, as she had threatened shortly after the marriage. What bride wanted her husband’s awkward, orphaned sister lurking around the house? Why pay to send her to finishing school when she could earn her keep—and save household funds—by acting as a servant?

  She was afraid that if her column was late or not good enough, she’d demand too much of Knightly’s limited time and he’d decide to find a better advice columnist. She labored over each column as if her hopes and dreams depended on each word being perfect.

  She was afraid to burden her fellow Writing Girls with these fears in case they found her tedious or hopeless and then cast her aside for more fascinating and fashionable friends.

  Having Knightly glimpse these fears was wonderful and terrifying all at once. Before, she could dismiss any slight as simple carelessness or obliviousness. But now that he was learning about her, she had opened herself up to all kinds of hurt and vulnerabilities.

  “I hate to cause trouble,” Annabelle said softly, finding herself still too tongue-tied around Knightly to say any more.

  “How do you get ahead?” he asked, perplexed. The question was blunt; her answer was, too.

  “I don’t. I get by.” She said this with a sigh, of course.

  “That’s no way to live, Annabelle.” Knightly drawled the word in a way that tempted her—forever shy, forever cautious—to throw all caution to the wind and try to be great instead of ducking her head and hoping to get through the day.

  “I’m improving,” she said, proud, and also relieved to be able to say so truthfully. Yet it was a constant effort to let go of Old Annabelle and adopt New Annabelle. Even now, after having done the most dramatic, daring thing of her life—fainting into his arms—she found herself retreating to more familiar safer, calmer waters.

  “You are improving,” Knightly said, “thanks to this column of yours.” He noticed! Again!

  “See, it’s taking all of London to instruct me on how to be a bother,” she said with a little laugh. Across the carriage, Knightly smiled.

  He looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. She wondered, desperately, what he was holding back.

  “I trust you are succeeding? Is the Nodcock noticing you?” Knightly asked.

  How, oh, how to answer! Her heart started to thud because she wanted to declare, You are the Nodcock and here we are! and launch herself into his arms. But she did no such thing, because she was not yet sure how he would take it. Would he kiss her passionately? Or awkwardly untangle their limbs and stop the carriage?

  She was still the “Annabelle that just gets by,” even though she was slowly, agonizingly becoming bold New Annabelle.

  And she also didn’t tell him if she was succeeding with ”the Nodcock” because that wasn’t how she dreamed the moment would be. She had not yet given up her hopes and dreams in which he declared his love for her.

  “I am making progress,” she allowed. And then she gave voice to the vexing truth. “But not too much . . . you said it’s very popular and you’d like it to continue.”

  “It’s the saving grace of The Weekly right now. With all eyes focused on the scandal at The Times, it’s only a matter of time until they examine the journalistic practices at The Weekly,” he said, plainly stating the facts.

  “And then we are doomed,” Annabelle said dramatically.

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” Knightly said. His voice was calm, but his intentions were fierce. Oh, to be loved the way Knightly loved his newspaper!

  Quietly, but steadfast and strong, with a relentless, daily devotion. To know that your beloved would fight to death to protect you. Knightly had taken bullets for the paper.

  “You love this newspaper more than anything.” Annabelle said the truth aloud.

  “It’s mine.” Plain. Simple. Fact. But there was a world of emotion in that little phrase, it’s mine.

  Knightly might be remote or apparently unfeeling, but if he could say those words, it’s mine, like that, for a newspaper, then he could love a woman tremendously. She wanted to be that woman more than anything.

  “A man. A newspaper. A love story: a novel in three parts,” Annabelle said, and Knightly laughed, which gave her the confidence to say more. “What is your story? How did you fall in love with The Weekly?”

  “It was a second-rate newspaper—yesterday’s news, poorly edited—and it was for sale. The editor had married a woman of means and wished to retire. I wanted it, and I had the means to acquire it.”

  “Starting right at the top,” she remarked.

  “Actually, I was one of the writers,” Knightly said, surprising her. “Before that I worked the printing presses, and before that I delivered them to all the aristocratic households.”

  Annabelle smiled at the image of a young Knightly standing before a Mayfair mansion with a hot-off-the-presses edition of The London Weekly in his hand. Had he known or dreamed then that he would one day live in such a grand home?

  “No one knew that paper like I did. The owner offered me the opportunity to buy it,” Knightly explained, and she marveled that there was no note of apology in his voice, as there would have been in hers in detailing an accomplishment. That was another reason why she adored him.

  That, and the way he made her heart beat a bit faster and heightened her awareness of her every breath, of the rustle of silk against her skin.

  When he looked at her, when Knightly noticed her, she felt like she existed.

  And she could see the woman she wanted to become.

  Starting with not being afraid to ask questions.

  “But how did you have money to buy a newspaper? Which isn’t to say that writers are not paid enough. But if . . .” Oh, how to ask the question without insulting her wages and the man who paid them? “I do not mean to suggest that you compensate your writers inadequately . . .”

  “It was cheap,” Knightly said bluntly.

  “Not that cheap, I’m sure,” Annabelle said, daring to contradict him.

  He shrugged then, and looked out the window. Drummed his fingers on the seat next to him. Things the calm, cool, utterly self-possessed Mr. Knightly ordinarily Did Not Do.

  Had she discovered a vulnerability? Was Knightly not perfect? She had thought she’d known him over the years, but apparently there was more to discover. This only made her more enthralled with the man seated across from her in the carriage.

  “I had an inheritance, from my father.” The way he said it, it sounded like a confession.

  In the years, seven months, and a few days since she had loved Knightly, she’d always kept an ear out for information about him. Not even Julianna mentioned much about their employer’s family or past. His father had been a peer; Annabelle knew that much. She also knew he was illegitimate. Julianna had told the Writing Girls one day, in the strictest confidence.

  “If it was enough to buy a business, wasn’t it enough to j
ust live off of?” she asked now. That’s what her brother would do, if he could. Just sit in his library chair with a stack of newspapers and pay no attention to the world around him.

  “I could not idly go through life, watching my bank account dwindle and not do something with my time. I have to build and create,” he said passionately. “And now I have accomplished something: a successful business. And a bloody fortune, every penny of which I earned my damned self.”

  “And yet you do not retire,” she pointed out.

  “It would kill me,” he said simply. Knightly paused, fixed his blue eyes on hers, and she knew that what he would say next would be vitally important. “I haven’t yet accomplished everything that I intend to.”

  “What is left?” she asked, her breath hitching as she awaited his response.

  He stared at her for a moment, as if debating whether to tell her.

  “I want my place in society,” he said, and she dearly wished he hadn’t. The facts aligned swiftly to reveal a heartbreaking truth. Lady Lydia was high society. Marriage to her—and his bloody fortune—would all but assure his impeachable status in the ton.

  “You can’t lose your paper now, can you?” she said, referring to the threat of the parliamentary Inquiry. It was the only thing that could ruin The Weekly. “Not when you are so close to the ton and everything you ever wanted.”

  “So close I can taste it,” he said, his voice rough.

  Annabelle smiled wryly, for they were more alike in this moment than ever before, yet in the most wretched way. Each of them so close to attaining that one thing. Though she had found herself alone with Knightly, and even managed to gain his attention, he had just effectively told her they could have no future together—unless she wanted him to give up his life’s dream and burning ambition.

  Just for her. Little old Overlooked Annabelle.

  She nearly laughed. It was either that or cry.

  “Speaking of high society,” Knightly began slowly, building up to something. “Lord Marsden has taken a liking to you.”

  “I suppose he has,” Annabelle said carefully, so that she might not betray one of the decoys. She knew, too, what Marsden was to the newspaper at this moment. Possibly its savior; possibly the destroyer.