Seducing Mr. Knightly (18 page)

What
Not
to Ask a Woman

T
HE
M
AN
A
BOUT
T
OWN

Lord Marsden was joined by an unlikely guest at White’s—Derek Knightly, owner of
The London Weekly.
The two gentlemen were in deep discussion. Was it about Marsden’s Inquiry into the reporting methods of the press, or Knightly’s courtship of Marsden’s sister?

The London Times

A
NNABELLE
had done it again—she somehow contrived to find herself alone with Knightly and to indulge in the tortured pleasures of his presence. Had she known what to do years ago . . .

She still wouldn’t have done a thing, because she wouldn’t have been desperate enough to ask for help or to risk taking the advice of Sneaky in Southwark or Careless in Camden Town and especially Swooning in Mayfair.

“Thank you for taking me home,” she said. “I am sorry to inconvenience you. Well, a little bit. But this, with you, is far preferable to a hired hack or a long walk. But I sincerely hope this isn’t too much trouble for you.” She was a bit awed, truth be told, at these situations that she had conjured up. Like she possessed magical powers and was only just discovering it.

“You don’t like to ask for things for yourself, do you?” Knightly questioned. “You just fainted, Annabelle. I can’t let you walk across town alone. Back in the office, you didn’t want me to send for a doctor because you might be a bother.”

This was Knightly seeing her. Seeing into her soul, even. Seeing into the dark, quiet parts of her. The part that was forever afraid of being too much of a nuisance and left behind accordingly.

Annabelle was afraid that if she didn’t prove useful around the house, Blanche would cast her out, as she had threatened shortly after the marriage. What bride wanted her husband’s awkward, orphaned sister lurking around the house? Why pay to send her to finishing school when she could earn her keep—and save household funds—by acting as a servant?

She was afraid that if her column was late or not good enough, she’d demand too much of Knightly’s limited time and he’d decide to find a better advice columnist. She labored over each column as if her hopes and dreams depended on each word being perfect.

She was afraid to burden her fellow Writing Girls with these fears in case they found her tedious or hopeless and then cast her aside for more fascinating and fashionable friends.

Having Knightly glimpse these fears was wonderful and terrifying all at once. Before, she could dismiss any slight as simple carelessness or obliviousness. But now that he was learning about her, she had opened herself up to all kinds of hurt and vulnerabilities.

“I hate to cause trouble,” Annabelle said softly, finding herself still too tongue-tied around Knightly to say any more.

“How do you get ahead?” he asked, perplexed. The question was blunt; her answer was, too.

“I don’t. I get by.” She said this with a sigh, of course.

“That’s no way to live, Annabelle.” Knightly drawled the word in a way that tempted her—forever shy, forever cautious—to throw all caution to the wind and try to be great instead of ducking her head and hoping to get through the day.

“I’m improving,” she said, proud, and also relieved to be able to say so truthfully. Yet it was a constant effort to let go of Old Annabelle and adopt New Annabelle. Even now, after having done the most dramatic, daring thing of her life—fainting into his arms—she found herself retreating to more familiar safer, calmer waters.

“You are improving,” Knightly said, “thanks to this column of yours.” He noticed! Again!

“See, it’s taking all of London to instruct me on how to be a bother,” she said with a little laugh. Across the carriage, Knightly smiled.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. She wondered, desperately, what he was holding back.

“I trust you are succeeding? Is the Nodcock noticing you?” Knightly asked.

How, oh, how to answer! Her heart started to thud because she wanted to declare,
You are the Nodcock and here we are!
and launch herself into his arms. But she did no such thing, because she was not yet sure how he would take it. Would he kiss her passionately? Or awkwardly untangle their limbs and stop the carriage?

She was still the “Annabelle that just gets by,” even though she was slowly, agonizingly becoming bold New Annabelle.

And she also didn’t tell him if she was succeeding with ”the Nodcock” because that wasn’t how she dreamed the moment would be. She had not yet given up her hopes and dreams in which he declared his love for her.

“I am making progress,” she allowed. And then she gave voice to the vexing truth. “But not too much . . . you said it’s very popular and you’d like it to continue.”

“It’s the saving grace of
The Weekly
right now. With all eyes focused on the scandal at
The Times,
it’s only a matter of time until they examine the journalistic practices at
The Weekly,”
he said, plainly stating the facts.

“And then we are doomed,” Annabelle said dramatically.

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Knightly said. His voice was calm, but his intentions were fierce. Oh, to be loved the way Knightly loved his newspaper!

Quietly, but steadfast and strong, with a relentless, daily devotion. To know that your beloved would fight to death to protect you. Knightly had taken bullets for the paper.

“You love this newspaper more than anything.” Annabelle said the truth aloud.

“It’s mine.” Plain. Simple. Fact. But there was a world of emotion in that little phrase,
it’s mine.

Knightly might be remote or apparently unfeeling, but if he could say those words,
it’s mine
, like that, for a newspaper, then he could love a woman tremendously. She wanted to be that woman more than anything.

“A man. A newspaper. A love story: a novel in three parts,” Annabelle said, and Knightly laughed, which gave her the confidence to say more. “What is your story? How did you fall in love with
The Weekly
?”

“It was a second-rate newspaper—yesterday’s news, poorly edited—and it was for sale. The editor had married a woman of means and wished to retire. I wanted it, and I had the means to acquire it.”

“Starting right at the top,” she remarked.

“Actually, I was one of the writers,” Knightly said, surprising her. “Before that I worked the printing presses, and before that I delivered them to all the aristocratic households.”

Annabelle smiled at the image of a young Knightly standing before a Mayfair mansion with a hot-off-the-presses edition of
The London Weekly
in his hand. Had he known or dreamed then that he would one day live in such a grand home?

“No one knew that paper like I did. The owner offered me the opportunity to buy it,” Knightly explained, and she marveled that there was no note of apology in his voice, as there would have been in hers in detailing an accomplishment. That was another reason why she adored him.

That, and the way he made her heart beat a bit faster and heightened her awareness of her every breath, of the rustle of silk against her skin.

When he looked at her, when Knightly noticed her, she felt like she existed.

And she could see the woman she wanted to become.

Starting with not being afraid to ask questions.

“But how did you have money to buy a newspaper? Which isn’t to say that writers are not paid enough. But if . . .” Oh, how to ask the question without insulting her wages and the man who paid them? “I do not mean to suggest that you compensate your writers inadequately . . .”

“It was cheap,” Knightly said bluntly.

“Not
that
cheap, I’m sure,” Annabelle said, daring to contradict him.

He shrugged then, and looked out the window. Drummed his fingers on the seat next to him. Things the calm, cool, utterly self-possessed Mr. Knightly ordinarily Did Not Do.

Had she discovered a vulnerability? Was Knightly
not
perfect? She had thought she’d known him over the years, but apparently there was more to discover. This only made her more enthralled with the man seated across from her in the carriage.

“I had an inheritance, from my father.” The way he said it, it sounded like a confession.

In the years, seven months, and a few days since she had loved Knightly, she’d always kept an ear out for information about him. Not even Julianna mentioned much about their employer’s family or past. His father had been a peer; Annabelle knew that much. She also knew he was illegitimate. Julianna had told the Writing Girls one day, in the strictest confidence.

“If it was enough to buy a business, wasn’t it enough to just live off of?” she asked now. That’s what her brother would do, if he could. Just sit in his library chair with a stack of newspapers and pay no attention to the world around him.

“I could not idly go through life, watching my bank account dwindle and not do something with my time. I have to build and create,” he said passionately. “And now I have accomplished something: a successful business. And a bloody fortune, every penny of which I earned my damned self.”

“And yet you do not retire,” she pointed out.

“It would kill me,” he said simply. Knightly paused, fixed his blue eyes on hers, and she knew that what he would say next would be vitally important. “I haven’t yet accomplished everything that I intend to.”

“What is left?” she asked, her breath hitching as she awaited his response.

He stared at her for a moment, as if debating whether to tell her.

“I want my place in society,” he said, and she dearly wished he hadn’t. The facts aligned swiftly to reveal a heartbreaking truth. Lady Lydia was high society. Marriage to her—and his bloody fortune—would all but assure his impeachable status in the ton.

“You can’t lose your paper now, can you?” she said, referring to the threat of the parliamentary Inquiry. It was the only thing that could ruin
The Weekly
. “Not when you are so close to the ton and everything you ever wanted.”

“So close I can taste it,” he said, his voice rough.

Annabelle smiled wryly, for they were more alike in this moment than ever before, yet in the most wretched way. Each of them so close to attaining that one thing. Though she had found herself alone with Knightly, and even managed to gain his attention, he had just effectively told her they could have no future together—unless she wanted him to give up his life’s dream and burning ambition.

Just for her. Little old Overlooked Annabelle.

She nearly laughed. It was either that or cry.

“Speaking of high society,” Knightly began slowly, building up to something. “Lord Marsden has taken a liking to you.”

“I suppose he has,” Annabelle said carefully, so that she might not betray one of the decoys. She knew, too, what Marsden was to the newspaper at this moment. Possibly its savior; possibly the destroyer.

“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.