Seducing Mr. Knightly

by Maya Rodale

  “I would feel better if your valet seemed to find this unusual,” Annabelle remarked.

  “Part of his job is to maintain an inscrutable expression at all times. At any rate, rest assured that I do not often have women sneaking into my bedroom in the middle of the night.”

  “I hope you don’t mind I did that,” Annabelle said bashfully, and Knightly laughed. She loved his laugh. Couldn’t believe she was in bed, naked, with Knightly. And they were laughing. Dreams she hadn’t known to dream were now coming true.

  “Oh, Annabelle,” he said, still laughing but pausing long enough to drop a kiss on her nose. “Oh, Annabelle.”

  “I’ll take that as a no, you don’t mind,” she said with a touch of laughter.

  “Good,” he said . . . but all trace of laughter was gone from his voice. She peered over his shoulder at the newspaper he picked up and recognized the large masthead of a certain rival paper.

  “The London Times, Knightly?” she said. She supposed he already knew every word of The London Weekly.

  “Hell and damnation,” he swore.

  “What is it?” she asked, peering over his shoulder. She read the headline: THE LONDON WEEKLY UNDER INVESTIGATION. “Oh. That’s not good,” she said, which may have been the biggest understatement of 1825.

  He scanned the lines quickly.

  “I have to go,” he said, tossing the paper aside, right into Annabelle’s lap. He rubbed his eyes and the stubble on his jaw. She saw him glance around the room, bewildered. Worse, she saw that any lovely magical interlude they had shared was over. Knightly might still have been right next to her in his own bed, but in his head he was already at The Weekly.

  He located his breeches and pulled them on before strolling off toward what she presumed was a dressing room of some sort. When he emerged a few moments later, he was dressed and groomed and looking like the Knightly she had known for years. Perfect, aloof, commanding, and ruthless.

  “Stay as long as you’d like, the servants will take care of you,” he said, quickly dropping a kiss on her mouth. Her lips were still parted and wanting when he pulled away and headed to the door.

  He paused for a second with his hand on the doorknob and glanced at her over his shoulder. His blue eyes focused on her for a moment, as if committing the sight to memory. As if he wouldn’t see it again.

  “Damn,” he said softly.

  The door clicked softly shut behind him. Like that, he was gone.

  What did that mean? She pulled the sheets up higher, as if to comfort herself and ward off the growing cold, which had nothing to do with the temperature of the air, only an unfortunate feeling inside. When Knightly left, it was like the sun stopped shining.

  And now he was gone and she was still naked in his bed, alone.

  “This is awkward,” she muttered to herself. Being a Good Girl her entire life meant that she had never even contemplated what she might do if she found herself naked and alone in a gentleman’s bedchamber in broad daylight.

  Her first thought was to put some clothes on. Yet the only clothing she had with her was better fit for a lad and in a wrinkled heap on the floor on the far side of the room.

  It was one thing for a woman to dress as a boy with the darkness of night to aid her. It was quite another for her to stroll through the streets of Mayfair during midday. Julianna had done it once . . . but Annabelle did not possess Julianna’s brisk, determined stride.

  Plus, she thought her shirt might have been divested of a few buttons.

  Even more perilous than walking through the streets of London at midday in such a state was returning to the Swift household. By now they must have discovered that she was missing, if only because breakfast wasn’t set out or fires weren’t lit or the children weren’t woken at precisely six in the morning.

  Annabelle glanced at the clock; it was eleven. Eleven in the morning!

  “Oh, dear,” she said to herself. The raptures of pleasure and love she’d been basking in were now ebbing, replaced with panic.

  She should know what to do. She was Dear Annabelle. She always knew what to do. Matters of practicality were her strong suit. It was in the romance department that she was an utter nitwit. In her head, she positioned her situation as a letter to Dear Annabelle, with half a mind to submit it to Knightly.

  Dear Annabelle?

  A “gentleman” left me stranded and naked in his bed. What to do?

  Mortified in Mayfair.

  If only Knightly hadn’t dashed off, leaving her like this!

  What had she expected? If there was one thing known about Knightly, one carved-in-stone fact, it was that The London Weekly came first and last. He spent so much of his time in the office that the Writing Girls had fiercely debated whether she should climb into his bedroom or drop in to The Weekly offices. They only settled on his bedchamber because Mayfair would be safer than Fleet Street at such an hour.

  She should not take it personally that he had run out, leaving her naked in his bed with no clothes. It was just how he was.

  Unless he meant to strand her here, awaiting his return, like some obliging mistress? While there were worse things than laying about in bed all day, with Knightly’s scent still on the pillows, she knew she could not wait for him. For one thing, it seemed undignified. For another, for all she knew it could be days before he returned.

  What to do, oh what to do?

  She pulled the silk bell cord. And waited. Pulled the sheet up higher and waited until a moment later when an older woman opened the door and behind her a maid with a tray.

  “Mr. Knightly told us to take care of you, so we’ll do just that. I’m Mrs. Featherstone, the housekeeper.”

  The women acted thoroughly unsurprised to find a naked woman in his bed. Annabelle scowled. She didn’t think he’d been a monk, but why didn’t anyone find it at all remarkable?

  She considered asking, but decided she did not want the answer. Instead, she requested assistance in sending a note to Sophie.

  Chapter 37

  Quest for Rogue’s Heart Leads to Disaster

  FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE BY A LADY OF DISTINCTION

  Dear Annabelle has launched a craze for feigning faints and tantalizingly low bodices among the ton’s debutantes. Mothers and determined bachelors are afraid of what she will do next.

  The London Weekly

  SOPHIE came to her rescue and arrived shortly with a dress, stockings, a bonnet, and all the other items necessary for her to appear in public. It was lovely that she did not have to explain why such a favor was required.

  “I trust the evening was successful,” Sophie inquired after they were comfortably ensconced in her carriage.

  “Oh yes,” Annabelle said. At the thought of it, that warm glow returned. Her cheeks inflamed, as they were wont to do, when images from the night before flashed in her mind. But then she recalled Knightly’s abrupt exit. “But this morning . . .” How to explain this morning?

  “I trust you both saw the news. The London Weekly under attack,” Sophie said softly. “Did you read the article?”

  She had done so while nibbling toast and drinking tea. Mrs. Featherstone had given her one of Knightly’s shirts to wear, and she’d been loath to take it off when Sophie arrived with more suitable public attire.

  “It’s rather bad, isn’t it?” Annabelle asked. The London Times had reported that Marsden’s Inquiry would be expanding to review all newspapers, starting first and foremost with The London Weekly. The newspaper’s owner and editor would be called to testify. He might be charged with libel. He would almost certainly find himself in prison.

  “He might lose the paper, Annabelle.” Sophie said this softly, her expression woeful.

  “He owns it. How can they take it away?” she asked. More to the point, The London Weekly belonged to Knightly in a way that went beyond mere possession. Li
ke it was his heart, or his soul.

  “Well, the paper might lose him if the Inquiry determines that we broke the law with our reporting methods. Just think of Owens and Eliza . . .” Sophie said, wincing.

  The devil only knew what Owens had done for stories: he’d posed as a Bow Street Runner, a guard at Windsor Castle, a footman at the Duke of Kent’s residence. Those were the exploits they knew of.

  Eliza had been disguised for weeks as a housemaid in the Duke of Wycliff’s household, exposing his most intimate secrets each week (before he married her, that is).

  “They couldn’t possibly send a duchess to the tower.” Annabelle’s heart clenched, imagining such an awful fate for people whom she loved so dearly. They hadn’t really done anything wrong. No one had been hurt.

  “It’s unlikely they would go after Eliza. Really, Marsden is just out for Knightly. Rest assured, Brandon is working tirelessly behind the scenes, and even Roxbury and Wycliff have deigned to show their faces at the House of Lords for the first time. But Marsden is furious.”

  “Why? What has Knightly ever done to him?” Marsden, who had sent her pink roses. Marsden, who had coined the phrase “the Nodcock.” Marsden, who had been one of the few gentlemen to ever pay attention to her. She felt betrayed for thinking him kind, a friend. She felt like a traitor to Knightly for her friendliness toward Marsden. She also felt like a fool.

  “Marsden is livid because it seems Knightly and his fortune were supposed to marry his sister—whom no one else will have,” Sophie said, and with an apologetic smile added, “Then Knightly was seen with you . . .”

  “Oh,” Annabelle said in small voice, thinking of their kiss in the moonlight at the charity ball. The moment when she really, truly fell in love with Knightly as he was, not Knightly of her dreams. She had thought that hour enchanted, and never considered that such destruction would be left in its wake.

  Knightly had been courting Lady Lydia and was her only marital prospect, thanks to all those rumors and the missing second season. Was she now doomed to a life of spinsterhood, because of her? Knightly had been courting her, too, in order to protect his beloved newspaper. Was he doomed to lose the thing he loved most in the world?

  It trying to obtain her own happiness, it seemed she ruined the lives of two innocent people.

  “Oh no,” she whispered as she all too clearly saw how this was her fault. All of it—Marsden’s fury, Knightly’s fight for The Weekly, Lady Lydia’s impending spinsterhood. If she hadn’t caught his eye and glanced over her shoulder, as per the suggestion of some stranger, when she strolled onto the terrace . . .

  If she hadn’t fainted into his arms, or left that shawl behind, or lowered the bodice on each dress she owned in a hope to catch his eye, and then his heart . . .

  If she hadn’t thrown herself at him week after week . . .

  If Knightly had never noticed her, he would have married Lady Lydia and everything would be fine. There wouldn’t be an inquiry or a trial or the threat of prison. He wouldn’t be faced with the loss of the thing he loved most of all.

  But she had grown selfish and desperate in her loneliness. She had tried tricks and schemes to turn his head. She had forced him to catch her when she fainted. She had climbed a tree and tumbled into his bedroom in the middle of the night.

  It had never occurred to Annabelle that she was distracting him from something else or someone else.

  She had only wanted his love. Now it seemed that she’d ruined his life in her quest for it.

  “What do I do?” she asked. She had to fix this, somehow. Because this disaster was her fault and because she loved him, she had to make this right.

  “Wait and see, I suppose . . .” Sophie said with a little shrug.

  “No, I must fix this,” Annabelle vowed. She would. No matter what it cost her.

  Chapter 38

  The London Weekly Courts Scandal

  FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE BY A LADY OF DISTINCTION

  The matrons of the ton are united in their fury against the vice of gossip in the press and have pledged their support to Lord Marsden’s efforts to promote a “decent and honorable” newspaper industry. That is, until they must go without their scandal sheets.

  The London Weekly

  Galloway’s Coffeehouse

  IT had been one hell of a day and one hell of a night. Darkness came and went; Knightly noted its arrival and passing from his desk.

  He barely slept, barely ate, barely drank.

  Barely even thought of Annabelle.

  Oh, she was there, in a way—somehow her scent had clung to his skin. When his attention faltered and his gaze drifted to the clock, Knightly thought, At this hour last night, Annabelle was clinging to my windowsill for dear life. At this time last night Annabelle was climaxing in my arms, from my touch.

  And truth be told, he even thought, At this time yesterday, I was blissfully unaware . . .

  He had been blissfully unaware that Dear Annabelle was intent upon seducing him. Didn’t know that Annabelle loved him. Hadn’t claimed her in the most irrevocable way. He didn’t have to do anything about it. But now there was no question that something must be done about Annabelle. But he couldn’t think about it. He did not have the time to puzzle it out. Not tonight, of all nights, when he had few precious hours to respond to the direct attack to his beloved newspaper.

  Knightly and Owens had taken the unprecedented action of stopping the presses so they might rewrite, reset, and reprint a new edition of The London Weekly that included a letter from the editor responding to the attack.

  They ended up rewriting nearly the entire issue.

  “This isn’t working,” Owens had muttered, staring down at the draft of a letter from the editor on the table between them. Dusk was settling over the city, and they’d been working ceaselessly since first light.

  “You’re right,” Knightly reluctantly agreed. The front-page story just wasn’t hitting the right notes of outrage, defiance, and humor. Instead it came across like a boorish lecture on the importance of a free press.

  Knightly rubbed his jaw. He had left Annabelle hours ago . . . Was she still in his bed? What would it be like to come home, knowing Annabelle awaited him?

  He refused to consider it. Instead, he strolled across the room and poured a brandy for himself and Owens.

  “You know, Owens, we should show them what a government approved paper reads like.”

  “You mean cut out all the good bits?” Owens retorted.

  “Basically. And then we rewrite this first page article to explain. You know, ‘The London Weekly gives its readers exactly what they want. You asked for this piece of rubbish edition of the paper. And the readers who didn’t want this know why they should be riled up, and who they should direct their anger at. Enjoy.’ ”

  “I like it,” Owens said with a grin. “One hell of a statement. But we won’t have time to rewrite and reset the type for the whole issue.”

  “Black it out. Cross it out. That way there’s no change in the pages just black lines showing what they’re missing,” Knightly said, and then he thought about it more and got excited. “Can you just see it? Most of the paper will be blacked out.”

  “Genius. There will be hell to pay for this,” Owens said. But he was grinning, and Knightly knew he was imagining this utterly defiant edition of the paper with those taunting black lines.

  “Publish and be damned,” Knightly said, raising his glass in cheers.

  It was one hell of a gamble. Give ’em all exactly what they ask for, sit back and watch them howl. Marsden might be on a personal quest against him, but he was going to make this into a public spectacle. Which is why, exhausted as he was after working for twenty-four straight hours, he went not home to his bed, but to the coffeehouse. To Galloway’s. His club.

  He wanted to watch readers react. Wanted to see what he left
a beautiful woman in bed for.

  He would go to her. Even though he didn’t know quite what to say. The irony that he, a professional master of words, did not know the right ones for this occasion. She loved him. He made love to her.

  A proposal of marriage wouldn’t be remiss, but . . . what about love matches and half brothers who refused to acknowledge him? What about hopes and plans he’d long possessed, and what about his impending imprisonment? They would arrest him, surely. Especially after the stunt he pulled with this new issue.

  Knightly sipped his coffee, flipped through the pages of The London Weekly, and more often than not glanced at the other patrons around the room.

  He noted with no small amount of satisfaction that most of the blokes in the coffeehouse were reading his newspaper. Some laughed. Some had their brows knit into deep lines as they tried to puzzle out what the damned articles said. Or maybe they were realizing the stranglehold on news that the government was attempting. More than stamp taxes, or window taxes.

  Knightly was reminded, then, that this wasn’t just a personal battle between Marsden and himself, nor was The Weekly just his darling pet. It was the newspaper that was written for the people he grew up with—tradesmen and actors, barristers and shopkeepers. And it was the paper for the people he aspired to associate with. It was, like himself, a mix of high and low. He was not one or the other, no matter what his aspirations might be.

  As per their usual routine, Drummond and Gage ambled in and took seats at Knightly’s table near the window. They also looked worse for wear, Gage especially, probably after a long night at the theatre and an even longer night at some demimonde soiree. Those routs were much less decorous, Knightly had to say, and thus much more fun than ton parties.

  Gage held his head in his hands and groaned. One could practically smell the alcohol emanating from his pores.

  Drummond took the paper and wordlessly flipped through quickly until hitting a certain page. Knightly watched, slack-jawed in something akin to horror. All those hours, all the careful deletions, the presses stopped and restarted, a staff on the verge of mutiny, all on a day he could have spent in bed with a beautiful, loving woman . . . and the man went straight to Dear Annabelle.