Seducing Mr. Knightly

by Maya Rodale

  Penelope from Piccadilly (and two hundred additional signatures)

  SHE made him want her.

  She giveth and she taketh away. He wanteth.

  He didn’t know . . . didn’t know . . . until it was gone, all gone.

  Last night the wind had blown, knocking a branch against the glass and rattling the windowpanes. The alacrity with which he dashed out of bed and leapt to the window was mortifying when it was all too clear that Annabelle wasn’t there, awaiting his rescue. It was just the wind, and he’d suffered from an extreme case of wishful thinking.

  He drank, as a man is wont to do when confronted with his innermost emotions, particularly ones pertaining to the heart.

  He threw himself into work but found no joy in it, not even when The Weekly’s rebellious version outsold all others. Another sales record had been reached. His mantra, scandal equals sales, had once again proven to be gold, pure gold. The milestone passed, uncelebrated.

  There were rumors he would be arrested. He didn’t give a damn.

  When it came time for the weekly writers’ meeting, Knightly strolled in, taught and tense and determined to show no emotion.

  “Ladies first,” he said with what he hoped was a good approximation of a grin. He glanced around the room, fighting and losing the battle of where his focus would reside. His gaze landed on Annabelle.

  She wore one of the Old Annabelle dresses, a drab frock in a particularly dull shade of grayish brown. The cut and fit of the dress did her no favors. He could say that now because he knew the long, lithe legs hidden under those skirts. He knew the gentle taper of her waist, the flare of her hips, and the perfect swells of her breasts.

  It was all hidden away behind a sackcloth disguised as a dress.

  The sight of her still took his breath away. He felt a hot, tortured flare of longing.

  He saw her shoulders roll forward as she clasped her hands in her lap. Her eyes were downcast. It was the posture of Overlooked Annabelle.

  She no longer wanted him to notice her, did she?

  Yet she sighed when he walked in; his every nerve was attuned for this one small indication that she still cared. It was vitally important that she still cared.

  The meeting progressed. Knightly acted as if nothing had ever occurred between him and Annabelle. His pride was on the line here, his reputation amongst his staff. He was Mr. London Weekly Knightly—cool, reserved, ruthless, and inscrutable. He would be damned, damned, if they knew he had been laid low by a woman.

  However, he could not ignore her. After the other Writing Girls had mentioned their stories for the week, he turned to Annabelle and fixed her with the Knightly stare. She shrank back a little more. His head lifted higher.

  “Dear Annabelle, what’s the latest from your column?” He fought to keep any emotion from his voice. His anger, though, started to fade with every glance of her blue eyes.

  “I don’t think I’ve written about etiquette enough recently, particularly the proper use of fish knives,” she said.

  The room fell silent. Nervous glances were exchanged.

  “Bugger etiquette and the cutlery. What happened with the Nodcock?” This came from Grenville, of all people. Grumpy old, Parliament-obsessed Grenville.

  Every head swiveled in the direction of The London Weekly’s resident grouch. Julianna’s jaw dropped open. Alistair coolly lifted one brow. Sophie and Eliza were grinning, and Owens looked up from his notes, shocked.

  “What? I’m the only person here who read Annabelle’s Adventures in Love?” Grenville asked gruffly. “Anyone who claims not to have done so is a liar.”

  “We’re all agog that you are interested in something other than . . . Parliament. Something . . . human,” Julianna sputtered.

  “I’m not dead, am I? I can appreciate Annabelle’s low-cut bodices as much as the next bloke.” One of the ladies gasped.

  “Grenville,” Knightly said in a warning tone. She was not to be spoken of thusly, not in his presence.

  “I liked New Annabelle and her crazy schemes,” Owens said affectionately. He smiled at her, but she didn’t see it, as her gaze was studiously fixed upon the tabletop. “She’s got that mixture of sweetness and wickedness, if that makes sense. She’s funny.”

  “She wore much better dresses,” Alistair added, and he glanced at the grayish brown gown with a wince.

  “I’m right here,” Annabelle said. But she was Overlookable Annabelle today so her voice lacked any force or volume, and she didn’t carry herself in a way that compelled one’s attention. It was remarkable to witness. In fact, it was all too clear now how she had escaped his noticed all those years. From the softness of her voice to the quickly averted gazes, Annabelle hadn’t made herself known.

  “I for one want a conclusion to the story,” Grenville said. “Even if it turns out the Nodcock is just that. Or worse.”

  Knightly bit his tongue. The fellow writers heartily agreed, yet they all carefully avoided looking in his direction.

  “The story is over,” Annabelle said, this time with a little more force.

  All heads swiveled to look at him—not her, but him!

  At that moment a horrifying truth became clear: every single one of them had known of Annabelle’s infatuation with him, and had for years.

  All those weeks when Annabelle had sighed and he’d carried on, utterly oblivious, they had known.

  All those weeks when Annabelle tried her “crazy schemes,” they had been waiting and watching for him to finally, finally notice her.

  He truly was the last person in London to know. He deserved this torture of having glimpsed her, and lost her.

  “It ought to have a happy ending.” This came from Owens, to his surprise. What the devil did a rough and brash young reporter care about happy endings? But even Knightly couldn’t miss the affectionate glance that Owens gave Annabelle. It seemed New Annabelle had earned his affections, too.

  “Happy endings equals sales?” Julianna offered.

  “It’s up to Annabelle, is it not?” Knightly challenged.

  “Only a nodcock would think that,” Grenville stated, punctuated with a harrumph. Heads nodded all around.

  Knightly glanced at Annabelle looking all wistful and forlorn and heartsick and wearing the most god-awful gown he’d ever laid eyes upon. Old Annabelle was present today: quiet and shy and desperately trying to be overlooked.

  Oh, but he knew a different version of Annabelle, who climbed trees at midnight and kissed him like every kiss meant something beautiful and something true, like it was the first time and the last time all at once. That New Annabelle had wrapped her lithe legs around him as he buried himself in her. She went out on a limb for him, in more ways than one.

  New Annabelle had transfixed him, bewitched him.

  But she couldn’t quite shake Old Annabelle, could she? But was that such a bad thing?

  She impressed him with the way she walked steadily and kindly through life, even though more often than not the world didn’t spare a second thought for her. He finally saw that Annabelle gave, gave, gave, and asked for nothing in return. She offered thoughtful advice to complete strangers, minded those brats, and slaved away at domestic drudgery.

  Annabelle, who could contain oceans of emotion in a little sigh. Who had every reason to be bitter, yet imbued everything with such sweetness and hope.

  Annabelle, so often overlooked.

  Oh, he saw her now. Did he ever.

  Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. The truth hit hard like that.

  That was one amazing woman, sitting there, making herself invisible. She was kind, beautiful, generous, daring, and funny. She possessed the courage to ask for help and to share her triumphs and embarrassments with the whole city. She possessed the strength to do the right thing even when it was the hard thing. He could see that now.

 
At that moment Knightly fell completely in love with Annabelle.

  Chapter 42

  What Would Dear Annabelle Do?

  OVERHEARD

  When I find myself in times of trouble, I ask, “What would Annabelle do?”

  Overheard in a coffeehouse

  Galloway’s Coffeehouse

  KNIGHTLY loved her. The thought would not leave, but he didn’t exactly wish it away either. The question of his intentions regarding this newly discovered love was another matter entirely.

  “You ought to brace yourself for the mob, Knightly,” Drummond said grimly. According to Drummond, hurting Annabelle was a crime punishable by a slow and painful death by medieval torture instruments.

  Knightly didn’t want to hurt her, he wanted to love her.

  “When did the whole damn world fall in love with Annabelle?” he wondered aloud. How did he miss this?

  “I ought to plant you a facer for even asking that question,” Drummond said. “She’s a bloody delightful chit and she writes for your paper. How did you not see this unfolding?”

  “You ought to have seen it before anyone else,” Gage said. “Do you even edit the paper or just lord over it?” he, smirking.

  “Until just recently she wasn’t exactly clamoring for my attention and I had my sights set elsewhere,” Knightly answered. He knew now that she hadn’t let him see her. It was fascinating the way she could blend into the background at will, and even more amazing that she had launched herself into the spotlight.

  “Now that’s a different matter. More interesting,” Drummond mused, sipping his coffee and staring pointedly at Knightly.

  “By interesting he means feel free to elaborate,” Gage explained.

  “Annabelle inconveniences everything I had planned for myself,” Knightly confessed. “I was going to marry some aristocratic woman and take my place in society. I had even contracted an informal betrothal. An understanding, at any rate. Everything was just in reach. But I did not plan for Annabelle.”

  “Change your plans,” Gage said with a shrug.

  “This is not a matter of what to do on a Tuesday evening, Gage,” Knightly retorted. “One does not give up lifelong plans on a whim.”

  “Are you calling Annabelle a whim?” Drummond challenged, as he deliberately rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and folded his hand into a fist.

  “Look, you can drop the Protector and Defender of Annabelle act,” Knightly retorted. That was his job. Or it ought to be.

  “I don’t think I can. Not while you’re still acting like a nodcock,” Drummond said with a smirk. Knightly fought the urge to wipe the smug look right off his face in a violent manner.

  “I’ll never forgive her for that name,” he muttered instead.

  “I love it,” Gage said, grinning. “Nodcock.”

  “At any rate, Annabelle no longer wants me,” Knightly said plainly. Drummond’s reply was awfully succinct.

  “Bullshit,” he said.

  “No, really. She told me to marry Lady Marsden to save the paper. After all she did to get my attentions, and she just drops me at the slightest obstacle.”

  “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” Drummond questioned. His expression warned Knightly to answer carefully.

  Knightly shrugged and sipped his coffee. It was tantamount to a confession.

  “It’s about time,” Gage said. “Nodcock.”

  “What am I to do while she has these stupid ideas of noble self-sacrifice?” Knightly asked. If they were such geniuses, let them figure it out. His only idea was to have a reasonable, logical conversation with Annabelle where he would present the facts: they loved each other, they should marry, and it would be pleasing to them both. However, even he knew more romance and more theatrics were needed.

  Drama is for the page.

  Not anymore.

  “Funny you should ask that,” Drummond began grandly. “Because lately, when I find myself in a quandary, I merely ask myself, ‘What would Annabelle do?’ I find it’s really the only guiding principle I need.”

  “Hmm,” Knightly said. He took another sip of his coffee.

  What would Annabelle do?

  More to the point, what did Annabelle do when she wanted to attract his affections?

  Knightly’s lips tugged into a slight smile before breaking into a full grin—because she had left very detailed and explicit directions. She lowered her bodice. Tried sultry glances. Left something behind. Employed a rival. Fainted into his arms. Climbed into his window at midnight.

  Annabelle, in her infinite faith in the universe and unshakable optimism, would try no matter how risky or scary. She literally would go out on a limb for those she loved.

  Suddenly, his course of action was clear. He was going to win Annabelle’s affections back. And he was going to employ all the tricks she had.

  Chapter 43

  Fashion Alert from The London Weekly

  FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE BY A LADY OF DISTINCTION

  Particularly emotional maidens have taken to wearing pink roses pinned to their (decidedly low) bodices in support of Dear Annabelle’s heartache over the Nodcock. One hopes that he finds a way to make amends.

  The London Weekly

  Offices of The London Weekly

  ANNABELLE could not stop staring at Knightly. That was nothing new. What was new, however, was that he was not wearing a cravat, nor was his shirt done up all the way to his neck as it ought to be. In spite of fashion and respectability, he wore his shirt open, exposing a vee of his chest.

  It was distracting, to say the least.

  She had kissed him there, pressing her lips to his hot skin, tasting him. She remembered as if it was only last night. Funny how the memory brought back all those sensations. She had tried so hard to put those thoughts aside, at morning, at night, during the day, in meetings. Anytime, really.

  She had done the right thing in refusing him. She knew this in her heart and her mind. But her body craved him nonetheless.

  “Did you see that Knightly did not wear his cravat today?” Julianna asked as they strolled through The Weekly’s offices on their way outside.

  “Is it a new fashion, Sophie?” Eliza inquired of their fashion-forward friend.

  “Not that I’m aware of. And not one that my husband would ever follow, however enticing it may be,” Sophie replied. “Not that I am enticed by Knightly.”

  “Annabelle, surely you must have noticed,” Julianna said. All three paused and turned to peer at her. She fought valiantly to keep the blush from betraying her.

  Of course she had noticed. She had been riveted. If she were faced with a firing squad that had been instructed to hold its fire only if she could relate one item of discussion from that meeting, she would meet her death thinking only of the small amount of Knightly’s exposed skin that she had once kissed and caressed during the most glorious night of her entire life.

  But Annabelle did not say anything of the kind. It hurt too much to dwell upon it, and she couldn’t fathom speaking of it. Plus, they stood near the open doorway to Knightly’s office where he sat at his desk, writing. A lock of dark hair fell into his eyes. She folded her hands in her skirts to restrain herself from strolling in and brushing it aside.

  He might look up, tug her into his lap, lower his mouth to hers . . .

  “Annabelle?” Sophie said curiously. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m sure he was merely warm,” Annabelle replied. “Or perhaps the cloth had come undone and his valet was not present to attend to him.”

  Jenkins, his valet, who was paid to be inscrutable. Oh, must she know all these details about him? She had collected them carefully over the years, and months and weeks and days, never knowing how the knowledge would torture her.

  KNIGHTLY had overheard them, and he dropped his head into his hands
. He resisted the urge to pound his head against the desktop.

  “Oh, Annabelle,” he muttered. The sweet girl was utterly oblivious to his scheme—thus far. For the first time he had a hint of what Annabelle must have felt every time she sighed or blushed and he didn’t notice: utter frustration. Enormous, enraging, frustration. Wanting to howl frustration. She was amazing, that Annabelle.

  With a weary sigh of his own, Knightly reached into the top drawer of his desk, where he kept among other things—a loaded pistol, a flask of brandy, pens, important papers, and a list of every trick she had employed in order to gain his attention and affection.

  He crossed Lowered bodice—or the male approximation off the list.

  Chapter 44

  Gentleman Shows Shocking Disregard for Attire

  THE MAN ABOUT TOWN

  It seems that Mr. Knightly’s courtship of Lady Marsden has concluded—without a betrothal announcement.

  The London Times

  Offices of The London Weekly

  THE following week, Annabelle dragged her heartbroken and forlorn self to the regular gathering of writers because really, she thought, she did not suffer enough.

  Blanche had been especially keen on haranguing her lately, for the parlor wasn’t dusted thoroughly, she said, or she couldn’t see her reflection in the silver. Fleur had become exceptionally moody, prone to fits and sulks that left the entire household walking on eggshells. Watson and Mason were constantly at odds, which meant a racket the entire household had to endure, compounded by Blanche’s fishwife shrieks requesting silence. Brother Thomas continued to read The London Times.

  Annabelle sought refuge in her attic bedroom, where she was faced with letters from readers livid at her handling of “the Nodcock situation.” She read them all and desperately wished to explain that it was all a misunderstanding. That she had made a noble sacrifice. That they were hurting her feelings, and to what end?

  She had been overlooked before but she had never been so cruelly criticized.