by Maya Rodale
“He sent you flowers,” Knightly stated slowly.
“A gorgeous bouquet of pink roses,” Annabelle added, suddenly keen to show that she was wanted. Wanted by high society, too.
Perhaps she might even make Knightly jealous.
Also, she wanted him to know she liked pink roses, if he should ever think to send her flowers.
“I have the distinct impression that it is his affection for you and your advice column that has him thinking favorably of The Weekly,” Knightly said, his meaning becoming plain. Gut-wrenchingly, heartbreakingly plain. “If you encouraged him, Annabelle, it would be a tremendous boon for The Weekly. And it would be a great favor to me.”
Her heartbeat slowed. The simple act of breathing became impossible.
Do not ask this of me, she wanted to plead. But all the words died in her throat.
It was because he loved his newspaper. She knew that. Because he was so close to attaining his life’s ambitions, and to lose The Weekly was to lose everything. She could make sense of the request, but she could not deny the hurt.
He didn’t know her feelings, she rationalized. Otherwise he wouldn’t ask this wretched favor of her. If he did . . . she couldn’t even contemplate such a thing. Not now, in this small, dark, confining carriage with Knightly’s blue eyes fixed upon her.
He was waiting for her answer. Waiting for her to say of course, because that’s what Annabelle did: she solved other people’s problems with no regard to the expense to her own heart and soul.
“Annabelle . . .” He seemed pained. Good, she thought. He didn’t know from pain.
“I understand, Mr. Knightly.” And she did. But that didn’t mean she liked it, or would do it, or that it didn’t feel like a cold knife blade to her warm beating heart.
The rest of the carriage ride progressed in silence. She was achingly aware of his fleeting glances in her direction. Old Annabelle would have tried to soothe his conscience, even as he’d asked this despicable thing. To hell with Old Annabelle.
“Annabelle . . .” Knightly spoke her name, breaking the silence. He even reached for her hand. She glanced down at that long awaited sight. Her small, delicate hand in his, which was large and warm and strong. But the moment wasn’t quite as she had dreamed. She felt deprived, though still wanted her hand lovingly in his.
If she were to do this thing he asked . . . it would make him beholden to her. She would no longer be just Dear Old Annabelle, but the savior of The London Weekly. How tempting.
“Annabelle . . .” he said again, his voice rough, trailing off as if there were more to say. Vaguely she was aware of her lips parting. If he kisses me I’ll forgive anything . . .
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of her house.
He wasn’t going to kiss her. It didn’t feel right. He was probably going to say something wretched and heartbreaking and possibly about Lady Lydia or Lord Marsden or how he loved The London Weekly above all else. She knew all of these things.
She also knew that Blanche was likely watching from behind the drawing room drapes.
“I must go,” she said, recognizing her moment to employ Mysterious in Chelsea’s advice to “leave the Nodcock wanting more.”
Chapter 22
Newspaper Tycoon Sighted in the Most Unlikely of Places
DEAR ANNABELLE
I’m glad Remorseful in Richmond asked for the best way to apologize to a woman. ’Tis information many men need to know. Flowers wouldn’t be remiss; this author is partial to pink roses (in the event the Nodcock is reading this).
The London Weekly
The warehouse
HE was not brooding. Knightly preferred to view it as thinking logically and rationally about a frustrating situation. Brooding men paced like caged lions or drank whiskey to intensify the burn.
Instead, he went down to the warehouse and printing presses. Nothing cleared a man’s mind like the sweat and strain of manual labor and the roar of machines so loud that thought became almost impossible.
Almost.
The noise of the steam-powered printing presses generally had a way of drowning out all distractions. Except for Annabelle and that awful thing he’d asked of her.
With a crew of laborers, Knightly lifted and tossed reams of paper that would be fed into the printing press. The warehouse was so hot it felt like an inner circle of hell. The work was tedious. After a while, a long while, his muscles start to holler in protest at him. It was a feeling he craved. Pain. Agony. But damn good all at once.
This soothed more than brandy or boxing.
Usually.
Even over the shout of his muscles and the din of the presses, some damn pesky thoughts persevered. They nipped and nagged at his conscience.
He should not have asked Annabelle to encourage Marsden. Not for him, not for the paper. It was just plain wrong. He resolved to remedy the situation later and then he put the matter aside.
Or tried.
Annabelle. The clang of the machines seemed to rap out her name.
The hiss of the steam engine, sounding like Miss. The deep clank of the cast iron upon cast iron: An . . . na . . . belle. The rush of paper through the machine sounding like Swift.
Knightly bent to lift the next ream of paper and hurled it to the bloke on his right.
He thought of Annabelle.
I know it was wrong to ask, Knightly told himself. It’s inappropriate and taking unfair advantage. I will even concede that it might be morally reprehensible.
Hell, he knew it was wrong the moment he’d said it. And he’d tried to amend it on the spot but the words died in his throat. Her sweet smile had faded. Her sparkling blue eyes dimmed and then she had averted from his gaze. Right before his eyes she seemed to shrink and fade in a desperate attempt to disappear. He’d been the one to extinguish her with his selfish, brutal request.
The fact remained: an apology was in order. He resolved to do it this afternoon.
Thus, at the moment there was no point in thinking about it further.
And yet, he was still bothered, like a stone in his boot or a wasp trapped under his shirt. The damned machines kept it up, churning out issues of The London Weekly and sounding out her name.
An . . . na . . . belle.
His muscles began to burn from the exertion. He’d been here hours by now. Sweat soaked though his white linen shirt, flattening it to his chest and abdomen. The exhaustion weakened his mental defenses, so the truth was now unavoidable.
It was the way she felt in his arms. Like ravishment waiting to happen. His mouth went dry thinking of her in his arms: warm, luscious, and pure. A man could lose himself in those curves. Spend a lifetime exploring every wondrous inch of her.
It was that innocence. He wanted to taste it. Touch it. Love it. Be redeemed by it.
And he had tainted it with that loathsome request. Sent her off to seduce another man when he wanted to claim that ripe, red mouth of hers for himself. To capture Annabelle’s sighs before they escaped her lips.
Knightly wanted to know that purity, that innocence, the sweetness that was Annabelle. He wanted to know every last inch of her pure milky white skin.
Each and every curve, from the swells of her breasts rising above those newly lowered bodices to the less obvious but just as tantalizing dip in her lower back. There was the tilt at the outer corners of her eyes, catlike, with lashes reaching high. Eyes he had seen closed as she swooned. As she might appear in a real swoon of pleasure. As she might appear in a thoroughly satiated sleep.
That damned faint really did a number on him. Making him see her thus.
Miss. An . . . na . . . belle. Swift.
He knew it was wrong to ask Annabelle to appeal to Marsden, but that wasn’t what made him feel like a damned devil. He didn’t get to where he was by worrying about the delicate sensibilities and blood
y feelings of others.
He understood now.
The request he’d made was driving him mad because he wanted her for himself.
Wanted her in a wicked, sinful way.
Her innocence and sweetness was like a breath of fresh air, and here he was in the polluted stench of the factories.
Strange, that. Wanting Annabelle all of a sudden with a profoundly unsettling intensity . . . after all these years when she had been around, under his nose, shrinking back and not wanting to be a bother.
Well, she was a damned bother now, though he’d wager she had no idea about it.
On his way out of the warehouse, Knightly passed a group of workers gathered around the new issue of The Weekly, steaming hot off the presses, ink smearing under their already dirty fingertips. One worker read aloud to the others as they shifted around, smoking and listening to the news. Seven or eight men, one newspaper.
Knightly slowed, listening, allowing himself to be drawn into their conversation of the news of the day. This might distract him. He might learn something. He listened to the gruff voice of the man reading, and the thoughtful silence of the other men who listened. It occurred to him in an instant: pictures.
If there were more pictures so even the illiterate could understand if no one was around to read the words to them. It would require some advances to the printing press, some experiments.
“That’s Knightly. That’s the owner,” one of them said roughly as he nodded and picked up his pace, now eager to return to the offices. But first: he owed Annabelle an apology.
Chapter 23
Writing Girls, Enraged
DEAR ANNABELLE
Perhaps you might do the Nodcock a favor. He’ll have to pay attention to you then.
Helpful from Holburn
The London Weekly
Roxbury House, teatime
“HE asked you to do what?” Julianna gasped. Annabelle shrank back against the settee. One minute she had been delightfully retelling her fainting adventures and subsequent carriage ride with Knightly. The next moment an uncomfortable silence had fallen over her fellow Writing Girls when she mentioned Knightly’s request that she encourage Lord Marsden’s attentions for the good of the paper.
“It makes perfect sense if you think about it,” Annabelle said defensively. She did understand Knightly’s motives, his logic. She had been hurt by it, but he didn’t know how she felt about him, which lessened the sting. And should she succeed, she might just get his attention. And everlasting gratitude.
Julianna, even more brash and fiery than usual, scoffed openly. Sophie and Eliza exchanged nervous glances.
“Explain to me how this is anything but a horribly offensive, inconsiderate thing to ask of you,” Julianna said sharply. So sharply it hurt, like a knife to the heart. Annabelle was taken aback by this sudden attack. A second ago they were all laughing over her request to taste Knightly’s whiskey.
“He loves his newspaper and it’s in trouble. He merely asked for help. People help those whom they love,” Annabelle explained. Really, it did make sense. Did it not? She didn’t like that he had asked this of her, but understood that it came from a place of love or passion. Or something like it.
“Perhaps,” Julianna retorted. “But one does not ask them to encourage the affections of another man. That is not love.”
“It’s not like that. It’s not that simple,” Annabelle said, because . . . because . . . of course there was a reason why this was all fine. She just couldn’t think of it at the moment. Her urge to help him, to demonstrate her usefulness and love, surpassed all else, but she couldn’t quite find the words to explain.
“Annabelle, why don’t you explain again,” Sophie said gently, resting her hand on hers. “Perhaps Julianna is misunderstanding the situation.”
Annabelle recognized the diplomacy; it was usually her role. She wasn’t usually the one in the thick of drama. With three grave, concerned faces peering at her, she felt like she was on trial. Her crime: idiocy. Her defense: love. Being helpful. Generally trying to prove she wasn’t a nitwit.
She wasn’t. Right?
“Knightly noted that Marsden seems to have an interest in me, and asked that I encourage it. My column is also a bit of a success, so he asked that I keep up the ruse. It’s business and it’s Knightly,” she said, as if that explained everything. The man thought of nothing else.
But did it excuse his behavior?
Doubts began to creep in, like the dampness in a drafty house on a cold wet winter day. Even under Julianna’s scorching glare.
“He doesn’t know . . . how I feel,” Annabelle added, nervously sipping from the teacup she held in her hands, even though she had no idea what Knightly knew. Or didn’t.
“How do you know that, Annabelle?” Sophie asked gently. “How did this make you feel?”
“If he knew, he wouldn’t ask this of me,” she said stubbornly, even though she was well aware that this was based firmly upon the flimsy foundation of her own wishes. Not hard fact.
The doubts continued their march.
Why was she defending him?
What did she know, anyway? The truth began to dawn: where she had thought herself a noble maiden on a quest for true love, she was probably, in fact, an foolish lovesick girl who was so blinded by the stars in her eyes that she’d hand her murderer the weapon.
Annabelle’s head began to throb. A headache.
“Annabelle, he cares about nothing but his paper. Remember when he cast me out—when everyone had turned their back on me?” Julianna persisted, hacking away at Annabelle’s illusions, and removing obstacles for the army of doubt to come in, and conquer.
“Because of Knightly’s ruthless devotion to The Weekly, I almost lost Wycliff,” Eliza added. Annabelle glanced sharply at her. Whose side was Eliza on? Julianna’s or hers? The shattering of dreams or the preservation of hope?
The throbbing in her head worsened. Her eyes became hot. She would not cry. She would not show weakness.
“It just means that he cares. There is nothing wrong with caring,” Annabelle said firmly. Yet her hand trembled, and the teacup she held clattered tellingly against the saucer. She had a feeling her friends were right and that she was wrong.
She had feared this moment, in which her friends grew tired of her optimistic infatuation. Of her. Where they no longer thought her sweet, but stupid. She could see it in their pitying gazes and in the worried glances they exchanged amongst themselves.
“Yes, he cares for his newspaper, Annabelle. Not for anyone or anything else,” Julianna persisted, driving the point home. Beautiful and bold Julianna. Annabelle felt herself pale and shrink beside her friend, a tower of strength and assurance.
“How did it make you feel when he asked this of you?” Sophie asked gently, again.
“I didn’t like it, of course,” she said, caving in to pressure because that is what she did. And a little bit of her hadn’t liked it. “But he doesn’t know how I feel about him, and if he did, I have every confidence he never would have made this request.”
She had been confident. Now, thanks to Julianna’s persistent, artful interrogation, she was no longer certain of anything other than her foolishness to persist in loving a man who obviously cared so little for her.
Annabelle leveled a glare in Julianna’s direction.
“How can you love a man that would ask that of a woman? No decent man would ask this of a woman, love aside,” Julianna said, because she never knew when to stop. If there were a line, Julianna would stomp right across it, turn around and implore you to hurry up and come along.
What about me?
Well, maybe it was time she crossed the line. Maybe it was time she defend herself instead of Knightly.
“What is the purpose of this conversation?” Annabelle asked, and her voice had a bold quality to it that s
ounded strange to her ears. Eliza straightened, Sophie’s lips parted, and Julianna fixed her green eyes upon her. “I love Knightly and I have since I first saw him. It’s just a part of me and you have known that and now suddenly it’s wrong?”
“It was all fine until he asked you to practically prostitute yourself for his bloody newspaper,” Julianna replied.
“Julianna!” Sophie and Eliza gasped.
Annabelle took a deep breath. She could do this. She could defend herself.
“What if I want to?” Annabelle challenged. But her hand wavered and tea sloshed over the cup, spilling into the saucer.
“What if you don’t, but you have so defined yourself as She Who Loves Knightly that you cannot say no?” Julianna retorted. In the midst of battle, Annabelle recognized that it was a fair question. One she would explore later, on her own.
“Is that what you think of me? That I am nothing more than a foolish girl in love with a heartless man? Perhaps you’re right.” Annabelle laughed bitterly for the very first time in her six and twenty years. “Look at me—trying to get his attention with ideas from strangers because I have no idea what to do. And now he is starting to notice me and it’s suddenly all wrong and—”
“I only want you to be happy, Annabelle, and I’m afraid that—” Julianna said, trying to reach for her hand. Annabelle set the teacup on the tray and stood to go.
“No, you are a know-it-all, Julianna. You may know all the gossip of the ton, but you do not know the contents of my heart nor do you know what is best for me.”
And then Annabelle did the unthinkable. She stormed out without even a backward glance.
Chapter 24
A Gentleman’s Apology
TOWN TALK
Lord Marsden has succeeded in rallying his peers to support his Inquiry. If you enjoy reading a newspaper, enjoy it now, for it seems our days are numbered.