Seducing Mr. Knightly (12 page)

“There will be an article advocating traffic laws, will there not?” she asked when he finally rejoined her.

“Absolutely,” he said with a grin. “And one lamenting other people’s deplorable driving skills.”

“It must be quite fun having your own newspaper to tell the world just what you think,” she mused. “It must be wonderful to have so many people read it and agree with you. Is that why you work so much, Mr. Knightly?”

“I love the work. I love the success and what comes with it,” Knightly replied frankly. He loved the challenge, and the chase, and the pride that came from his success. And all of the wealth and influence he had accumulated would soon deliver his ultimate goal.

Throw the bastard out. He doesn’t belong here.

Oh, but he did. And they would soon have to accept him as one of their own.

“I can imagine. This is a very nice carriage,” Annabelle remarked, sliding her hands along the plush velvet seat.

“It was a lot nicer an hour ago,” he said, and Annabelle laughed.

Knightly added
Annabelle has a lovely laugh
to the list of things he knew about her.

“We are nearly there,” she said, after a glance out the window. “Thank you very much for seeing me home. I hope I didn’t keep you from anything important.”

“Can’t let my star columnist go gallivanting off in the night unescorted,” Knightly said with a grin.

“Because this carriage ride with you wasn’t dangerous or improper at all,” she replied, smiling.

It wasn’t. Nothing untoward had occurred . . . and yet now that he had this new knowledge of Annabelle, it felt dangerous for some reason.

When the carriage rolled to a stop before a neat little town house, the thought of taking Annabelle in his arms and tasting that sinful mouth of hers crossed his mind. He noted that she was thinking about it, too. How else to explain the nervousness in her pretty blue eyes? Or the flush across her cheeks? Or the way she nibbled at her plump lower lip.

Why not kiss her?
The devil on his shoulder wanted to know.

Why not, indeed,
logic countered, withering.

Because she worked for him. Had he not declared her Off Limits just a quarter hour ago? Clearly, he needed to remind himself why she was Off Limits.

Because she had her heart set on either Owens or Marsden. Because she had to keep up her quest to win one of those blockheads. Her column was the talk of the town, and if everyone was discussing Annabelle’s adventures in love, they were not sparing a thought for the looming, sordid scandal brewing thanks to that damned inquiry. He’d like to keep it that way.

Because he would be courting and marrying Lady Lydia, because her hand in marriage would deliver him everything he’d always wanted: acceptance from the haute ton and protection for his newspapers. For his writers.

Because Annabelle was a sweet, innocent woman. And he was a ruthless, cold man who cared for nothing but his business and social climbing, as uncouth as that sounded. He didn’t want to break the heart of a girl like her.

“You should go,” he said. His voice was more hoarse than he would have liked.

Chapter 13

A Writing Girl’s Lamentable Household

F
ASHIONABLE
I
NTELLIGENCE BY A
L
ADY OF
D
ISTINCTION

’Tis a small crowd in London that does not read
The London Weekly.
What curious creatures.

The London Weekly

The Swift Household

B
LANCHE
descended upon Annabelle the moment she stepped into the drawing room. Blanche’s bosom friend Mrs. Underwood, who Annabelle suspected might be a witch, hovered just behind Blanche. Privately, Annabelle thought they were both ghastly, though she felt pained to do so because she always made an effort to find the good in each person.

“How kind of you to grace us with your presence, Annabelle,” Blanche remarked snidely. From the first, the woman had taken a dislike to her, and no amount of sweetness or helpfulness or anything else could dissuade her. Thomas had defended Annabelle once, when he declared his new wife would not cast out his thirteen-year-old sibling. Ever since, Annabelle had been left to manage her wicked sister-in-law on her own. For years Annabelle had tried to make Blanche happy with her choice to keep her on. Lately, she only tried to be at peace with her situation.

Blanche turned to her husband, who took refuge behind a newspaper. “Thomas, ask your sister where she has been this whole day.’ ”

“Where have you been, Annabelle?” Dear brother Thomas did not even lower his newspaper. It was
The Daily Financial Register,
and a duller publication Annabelle had never read. She didn’t blame him for hiding behind it, given the company.

“I have spent the afternoon busy with charity work,” Annabelle said, relying on her usual excuse. “And visiting some friends,” she added, in the event that they saw Knightly’s carriage and inquired about it.

Her family did not know about “Dear Annabelle.” Her family did not read
The London Weekly
and must have been the only people in London not to do so. This suited Annabelle just fine.

Her family labored under the impression that she dedicated her time to a vast array of charitable works and committees, which explained her Wednesday outings and friendship with the other Writing Girls (who she might have declined to mention happened to be duchesses and a countess).

The
London Weekly
and the Writing Girls were her secret life. They were the only things that belong to her, and her alone. Well, other than those wicked silky unmentionables (she’d ordered more) and two fine dresses.

“I personally believe that charity starts at home,” Blanche said stiffly. “Which reminds me, Cook may have set something aside for you. Or perhaps she was too vexed not to have your assistance in the kitchen this evening. You may go see for yourself.”

“You’re too kind, Blanche,” Mrs. Underwood praised, and the two old birds clucked over their generosity. Annabelle was in too fine a mood to scowl or snort or otherwise express her disbelief.

Eat? She lived on love alone. Finally she had more than crumbs to sustain her. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks to Careless in Camden Town for such a brilliant suggestion. It was all she could do not to waltz across the foyer or burst into song.

What an adventure she’d had this afternoon!

“What, pray tell, is so amusing, Annabelle?” Blanche inquired.

For a second Annabelle considered telling her the truth. But why, when Blanche would not believe it? No, this would be her secret pleasure.

“There must be a man in the picture,” Mrs. Underwood said.

“Hmm,” Thomas murmured from behind his newspaper.

“That explains the prolonged absences. The flowers. The dresses like a dockside harpy.” Blanche ticked these items off on her short fingers, much like the way she added up the accounts for the cloth business.

“Today I met with the Society for the Advancement of Female Literacy,” Annabelle replied, which was her code for
The Weekly
staff meetings. Blanche, as the businesswoman behind the man, could not disagree with it.

“But you do not deny that there is a man in the picture,” Mrs. Underwood said gleefully, as if this were a trial and she’d inadvertently made Annabelle confess to some heinous crime punishable by years of hard labor.

“Well let me inform you now that should you find yourself in a state of disgrace,” Blanche lectured, “you won’t darken this door with your presence. I shan’t abide such an example in front of my children.”

Watson, Mason, and Fleur, ages nine, seven, and five. They were miniature replicas of their parents and thus no friends of Annabelle’s, no matter that she’d functioned as their nanny and governess for their whole lives.

“Do you not agree, Thomas? We cannot have your sister setting a poor example for our children,” Blanche said loudly, as if he were deaf or as if newsprint effectively blocked sound.

“Yes, dear,” he replied.

Old Annabelle would have blinked back tears to have her brother, her own flesh and blood, agree so blindly to his wife’s cruelty. New Annabelle, however, knew that he likely hadn’t been listening to the conversation and had no idea what he’d just agreed to.

New Annabelle was also overwhelmed by the urge to waltz around her bedroom and revel in raptures of delight.

Because some people—like Owens and Careless in Camden Town, and even A Courtesan in Mayfair—cared to help her. She’d been lonely until she worked up the courage (or desperation) to ask for help and discovered that people were more than willing to oblige.

Because this scheme had been the greatest risk of her life so far, and it was proving to be a success.

Because she had a carriage ride with Knightly. Alone. At dusk. It was the stuff Old Annabelle dreamed about late at night. New Annabelle lived it.

Because she had managed an entire conversation with Knightly, instead of her usual tendency to ramble or lose the ability to construct sentences—and even after tumbling awkwardly into his lap. (Although she had ceased to think, only to feel a million exquisite new sensations when that had happened.)

Because she had an adventure with Knightly.

Because Knightly had been about to kiss her, she just knew it.

Because New Annabelle was wicked good fun.

Chapter 14

A Lady’s Lesson in Flirting

P
ARLIAMENTARY
I
NTELLIGENCE

London newspapers, beware! Lord Marsden’s Inquiry is gathering information and testimonies, all because of the nefarious actions of
The London Times
’s rogue reporter, Jack Brinsley, who is festering in Newgate, awaiting trial.

The London Weekly

Offices of
The London Weekly

W
EDNESDAYS
had long been Annabelle’s favorite day of the week. But this one made her smile a little more broadly, made her heart beat a little more quickly. The sky seemed bluer, the birdsong more pleasing. She herself was becoming a little more . . . alive or awake or in bloom or something lovely like that.

Knightly was no longer a remote figure with whom she’d never really conversed. She now knew the firmness of his chest (if only for one, exquisite and accidental instance) and what it felt like to have his arms around her (if only for one exquisite, accidental tumble in a carriage accident). She knew the truths he lived by, although it had occurred to her after their carriage ride that he’d only mentioned two of the three. She resolved to discover the third.

Yet it was Owens, not Knightly, who immediately sought her out upon her early arrival. She liked to allow for the possibility of drama or adventure to occur.

“Good afternoon, Miss Swift.” Somehow Owens had managed to make it sound like he was saying something else entirely. Something very naughty. He affectionately touched her arm. It was lovely, that.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Owens,” Annabelle said sweetly.

Heads turned in their direction. The other Writing Girls came up the stairs and looked at her very curiously as they passed by. Something about her company and her and Mr. Owens’s pose must have told them not to interrupt.