by Maya Rodale
“I can’t tell you yet,” she said, with a nervous laugh. He lifted one brow, questioning. “Because . . . I haven’t read them through, all of them. The suggestions are becoming more and more outlandish. Like this one: compose a song and hire a group of singers to serenade him.”
“I don’t know if that’s the way to appeal to men,” Knightly said frankly. But it surely would put to rest the matter of who she was after. Which he did not want to know. Why did he not want to know?
“I don’t know that I’d have time to write my column after composing a song, hiring and training singers, and finding a moment when they might perform for the Nodcock.”
“Your advice column must come first,” he insisted.
“Then I shan’t take this reader’s advice to commission a portrait of myself in a suggestive pose and have it delivered to the Nodcock or displayed at the National Gallery. Just imagine those hours of sitting still and not writing. Nor shall I fling myself in front of an oncoming carriage while the Nodcock looks on and presumably rescues me. If he notices me . . .”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say, Have that put on my schedule, it would make great copy, but he felt like an ass for presuming it was he, and that she wanted him enough to risk life and limb like that for him. That was the thing; he could not ask without sounding like the most pompous, presumptuous nodcock.
“I am appalled at these suggestions,” he stated. “And like these readers, the blokes down at the coffeehouse are full of idiotic ideas. They also fancy themselves in love with you.”
“Are they suitable gentlemen?” Annabelle inquired, and his jealousy flared. “If so, I may wish to meet them.”
“They are not suitable at all,” Knightly said flatly. And then he could not resist inquiring further—because one did not attain his level of success without always inquiring further. “More to the point, I thought you were quite taken with the Nodcock, as you call him.”
“It’s a funny thing, really,” Annabelle said in a thoughtful tone. He caught himself holding his breath, hanging off her every word. Because what she was saying wasn’t what he expected. He didn’t like it either, and he didn’t know why, and deliberately avoided a thorough examination of his heart and mind.
“I suppose the question is, is the Nodcock taken with me?” she asked. “And how far is this scheme supposed to go? But don’t worry, Mr. Knightly. I’ll turn in good copy, as befitting The London Weekly.”
Bryson, the secretary, stood off to the left and cleared his throat.
“Yes, what is it?” Knightly asked. He didn’t take his eyes off Annabelle.
“Mr. Knightly, you asked that I remind you of your afternoon appointments. Mr. Skelly is here to see you about the new factory acquisitions, Mr. Mitchell requested an interview, and you had promised to visit with Lady Marsden this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Bryson. I’ll just be a moment,” Knightly said. He didn’t once take his eyes off Annabelle.
Fact: Annabelle did that thing where she tried to make herself invisible. She took a step away from him. She developed a sudden fascination with the hem of her dress. She clasped her arms over her chest, turning in on herself.
It had been the mention of Lady Marsden, no? What else might it be?
Fact: He was stricken with the preference to spend the afternoon with Annabelle, rather than call upon Lady Marsden. Rather than issue the proposal that would assure him the success he’d sought all his life. Since the moment the New Earl uttered those crushing words:
Throw the bastard out. He doesn’t belong here.
Fact: Lady Marsden was the golden ticket to all of his long-held plans. Success. Power. Vindication. Recognition—especially from the New Earl.
Fact: Men in their right mind didn’t throw the lot of that away, and he’d always prided himself on logical, rational behavior.
“You have a busy afternoon. I shan’t keep you any longer,” Annabelle said, and she bid him a good afternoon.
Fact: He wanted her to keep him longer.
Chapter 28
Lady Roxbury’s Apology
FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE BY A LADY OF DISTINCTION
The identity of Dear Annabelle’s nodcock is the best kept secret in London, and apparently a secret from the Nodcock himself. But how much longer must she—and her readers—wait for him to come to his senses?
The London Weekly
AFTER the meeting in which Annabelle cowardly avoided her friends, Julianna clasped her arm and tugged her down the stairs and out to her awaiting carriage. The Roxbury crest was emblazoned on the side in bright gold. A bullet hole pierced the very center of it, courtesy of an irate Julianna. Unlike this version of Julianna, sitting opposite her in the carriage. She appeared to be making a concerted effort to appear woeful and contrite.
“I owe you an apology,” Julianna stated, presumably in reference to their argument the previous week. Annabelle had been in a wretched mood ever since. It had even dulled the lovely glow from Knightly’s kiss, which was an unforgivable sin.
Old Annabelle didn’t have these problems. New Annabelle had considered reverting to her previous ways.
“So much talk of apologies lately,” Annabelle mused.
“Who else . . . ? Was it . . . ?” Julianna leaned forward eagerly. Then, remembering herself, she leaned back and folded her hands primly in her lap. “No, that is not the point. I behaved abominably toward you, Annabelle, and it was horrid of me to do so. I am so very sorry. You love Knightly. He just doesn’t realize what a treasure your love is, and that angers me.”
Annabelle eyed her cautiously. She did seem sorry. Julianna did have the unfortunate habit of shooting her mouth off (and actually shooting—Annabelle took a moment to be grateful it hadn’t come to that).
“If you must know, Knightly also apologized. That should answer the question you remarkably restrained yourself from asking. Which means you were right, that it was wrong of him to ask me to encourage Marsden. Upon that we all agree. It’s funny, though: I was a fool, and yet everyone is groveling to me.”
“I’m sorry that I was right,” Julianna said, and Annabelle laughed at the sentence least likely ever to be uttered by her friend.
“Let’s not get carried away, Julianna,” she cautioned, but a smile tugged at her mouth.
“No, truly. I want you to be happy, and Knightly, too. But only if his happiness is found with you. And yes, I know that’s probably the wrong thing to say. But I’m not as goodhearted as you, Annabelle. And my own experiences with Knightly have been . . . difficult.”
“Is that because of him, or because of you?” Annabelle asked.
“Eliza also— What is your point?”
“My point is that it was simple before. I adored, he ignored . . .” Annabelle paused to marvel on the poetry of that. “But now it seems that not only is he beginning to see me, but I am also beginning to see him as he is and not how I have imagined him to be.”
“Do you still love him?” Julianna asked.
“Does it even matter?” Annabelle mused, shrugging. “He kissed me, Julianna. And yet now he is calling upon Lady Marsden and probably proposing marriage to her this very moment. I do not know how much more I can bear.”
Her love of Knightly, the thrill of her successes, the terror of still losing, was beginning to exact a toll on Annabelle. This past week, after the fight with her friends and Knightly’s kiss had lead to hours of musing, pondering, wondering. In the end, she’d barely ate or slept and was none the wiser.
And know Knightly was still going to call upon Lady Marsden after he had kissed her. The Nodcock.
“Did you love the kiss? Was the kiss just delicious?” Julianna asked, eyes aglow.
“Yes,” Annabelle replied. The exact details—the taste of him, the heat of his touch—those were hers to savor and hers alone. And yet . . . “However, I fea
r I may go mad trying to puzzle out what it all means. What do you know about him and Lady Marsden?”
“Would you believe me if I said nothing?” Julianna asked, cringing.
“Not at all,” Annabelle retorted. Perhaps she wasn’t a fool after all.
“This is part of the reason I behaved so horribly. Everyone believes a proposal is imminent. It was in The Morning Post that he was sighted perusing jewelry at Burlington Arcade. He did not purchase anything.”
Another matter that had weighed heavily upon Annabelle’s conscience was that Letter from Lady Marsden, which had spent days and nights tucked away in a novel, on a very high shelf. It remained unanswered.
But Annabelle knew the contents well: I am pressured to marry but I love someone far below my station . . .
She really ought to give her an answer. Or admit that she didn’t know what to do. Or do the right thing and suggest she hold out for true love.
“Will her brother allow it?” Annabelle asked. Lord Marsden had sent her flowers, and might just forbid the marriage that would destroy her hopes and dreams. She liked him.
“He is encouraging the match! He covets Knightly’s fortune and influence, you see. I am so vexed that I can’t publish a word of all this drama,” Julianna said, scowling and wringing her hands. “And of course, one can’t avoid the conclusion that Knightly certainly stands to gain protection for the paper if he makes this match.”
She no longer liked Lord Marsden very much. There were not enough pink roses in the world to console her if he forced his sister to marry her own true love . . . lest Knightly risk losing everything he valued most.
But wait . . .
Annabelle frowned, puzzling over these two contradictory pieces of information. Lady Lydia loved one man and was pressured to marry another . . . She had just assumed she loved Knightly because . . . well, of course she did. She found him extremely deserving of that fine emotion.
But Lady Lydia also said she was pressured to marry a man she didn’t love. If her brother was pressuring her to marry Knightly . . . it meant that she didn’t love Knightly.
Which mattered because . . .
“Who is her lover, then?” Annabelle asked. If her hunch was correct, Knightly was about to shackle himself in a loveless marriage. This struck her as terribly sad.
“What do you mean?” Julianna queried, tilting her slightly.
“She loves someone. But not Knightly. Who?” Annabelle questioned.
“How do you know that?” Julianna asked.
“Never mind how,” Annabelle said, waving off the question. “I suppose it doesn’t change anything, really. He is still courting her. Lord Marsden is approving of the match. Knightly shall marry her and they’ll be so very posh and fashionable and aristocratic and I shall slog out the rest of my days helping Blanche and everyone else.”
“Here is what you must know, Annabelle,” Julianna said earnestly, leaning forward and clasping Annabelle’s hands in hers. “ If you love him you must fight for him.”
“But what if I want him to fight for me?”
And then she understood why she couldn’t derive supreme satisfaction from the kiss or her progress thus far. She had teased and tugged him along. She stalked and hunted, when she wanted him to chase her.
“Why all the talk of fighting when we are speaking of love? You must admit, Annabelle, that you have waited and waited and nothing came of it. And now you’ve set your cap for him, pursued him, and he has kissed you. Frankly, I do not see why you are wavering.”
“I am chasing him and he is chasing Lady Lydia,” Annabelle stated plainly.
“And may the best woman win,” Julianna urged. “You have a duty to your readers, Annabelle, to see this through, if nothing else. Now tomorrow evening is the charity ball for the Society to Benefit Unfortunate Women. Knightly will be there.”
“How do you know that? How do you know everything?” Annabelle asked.
“Because I know that he gives a sizable contribution. Secretly he’s charitable, that Mr. Knightly. Also, I assisted the hostess, Lady Wroth, with the invitations, so I knew he was invited. And then I may have peeked at Bryson’s calendar that he keeps for Knightly, so I confirmed he would be attending.”
“Julianna!”
“Can I help it if he left it unattended to investigate the smell of smoke?” Julianna asked with feigned innocence and a delicate shrug. Obviously one could not help it at all.
“There was no smoke, was there?” Annabelle questioned; Julianna’s reply was an impish grin, and Annabelle supplied the words: “Of course there wasn’t. How do you manage these things, Julianna? If I had half the gumption you did—”
“You are writing about your own trials and tribulations in love for all of London to read. I’d say that’s gumption in spades. The whole city is cheering for you to succeed, Annabelle.”
Tears stung at Annabelle’s eyes. It wouldn’t do to disappoint the entire population of London by giving up when she had gotten so far. If Knightly was going to marry Lady Lydia, she vowed that he would at least know how she felt before he did so.
Chapter 29
Lady Lydia’s Secret, Revealed
THE MAN ABOUT TOWN
While society on the whole has accepted Lady Lydia after her prolonged absence from London, the rumors still dog her graceful steps.
The London Times
KNIGHTLY thought of Annabelle as he traveled to the Marsden residence. To be more specific, he thought about how he wished to be traveling to the Swift residence. More to the point, he really wanted Annabelle here, in this carriage, with him.
Why the devil did she think he would apologize for that kiss?
What kind of man did she think he was, anyway? Whatever she thought, he was not the kind that apologized for pleasuring them both.
In the far recesses of his mind—the part devoted to decency, which was currently largely overruled by the part devoted to thoughts of lust—it occurred to him that he was planning a seduction of one woman while on his way to court another. It also occurred to him that this wasn’t the best example of decent, gentlemanly behavior.
Rather caddish of him, really.
But the facts were thus:
Fact: The London Weekly was the most important thing to him.
Fact: Lady Lydia’s hand in marriage would ensure that Marsden didn’t crack down on the nefarious reporting tactics of his reporters. Another one had been arrested—this time a reporter from The Daily Register.
Fact: Lady Lydia’s hand in marriage would also assure his prominent place in high society. Like his father before him. The New Earl would not be able to ignore him.
Fact: Annabelle’s kiss made him want to throw thirty-five years worth of facts aside and ravish her thoroughly, completely, utterly.
Fact: He was not going to throw away thirty-five years worth of facts, truths, and plans for a kiss. That was the rash action of madmen. He was the epitome of a sane, logical, practical man.
Or he used to be. Knightly exited the carriage, strolled up to the Marsden’s residence, and generally made an effort to ignore the sense of dread in his gut.
“My brother is not at home,” Lady Lydia declared when she received him in the drawing room. It was a fair enough slight, for he’d often combined his calls to her with visits with Marsden.
“Actually, I have come to visit with you, Lady Lydia,” he replied.
“Of course you have,” she said with a sigh. “Would you care for a walk, Mr. Knightly? I’ve been sitting here all day, chattering and drinking tea. I fear I shall go mad if I don’t get a breath of fresh air. I first must fetch my shawl.”
Women and their blasted shawls, he thought. He knew Annabelle had left hers behind as some sort of ploy. But had it been for Owens . . . or another? He did not dare entertain that thought. Not with Lady Lydia present.
It irked him, that. While their courtship and relationship was never based upon affection, she didn’t need to be so obvious about it. Though any romantic streak he possessed was buried deep, Knightly was the product of a love match (if not a marriage), and this cool detachment was uneasy to him. How he planned to endure it for a lifetime of holy matrimony had not been considered in great depth. He thought only of immediate threats, not long-term happiness.
Status, he reminded himself. His peers. He’d be a damned earl if it weren’t for a few twists of fate. Throw the bastard out. He doesn’t belong here.
He did belong, though. Knightly gritted his teeth. He would prove it.
“Would you believe it if my intentions to you went beyond digging for gossip?” he asked Lady Lydia. “I’ll ask Marsden myself. Just to confirm if his reports matched those of my reporters.”
That was the other thing. Marsden wasn’t the only one with information. Owens was on the case, and Grenville, too. The details they unearthed were . . . intriguing. Incriminating. Hints of blackmail and bribery. It seems Marsden had been paying enormous suppression fees . . . until the money started running out.
Those explosive, expensive secrets that consistently eluded him.
Lady Lydia treated Knightly to a long look with those large brown eyes that put him in mind of a startled doe.
“You are not afraid of him. Most people are,” she said, and it was clear he had impressed her.
“Most people don’t have something that he wants,” Knightly replied easily.
“And what might that be?” Lady Lydia inquired. What could the tradesman possibly possess that a peer of the realm could want? He could hear the derision in her voice, and it only made him want to marry her more so he might prove to her, and everyone, that he was not any less than they.