Seducing Mr. Knightly (19 page)

“Annabelle . . .” he said again, his voice rough, trailing off as if there were more to say. Vaguely she was aware of her lips parting.
If he kisses me I’ll forgive anything . . .

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of her house.

He wasn’t going to kiss her. It didn’t feel right. He was probably going to say something wretched and heartbreaking and possibly about Lady Lydia or Lord Marsden or how he loved
The London Weekly
above all else. She knew all of these things.

She also knew that Blanche was likely watching from behind the drawing room drapes.

“I must go,” she said, recognizing her moment to employ Mysterious in Chelsea’s advice to “leave the Nodcock wanting more.”

Chapter 22

Newspaper Tycoon Sighted in the Most Unlikely of Places

D
EAR
A
NNABELLE

I’m glad Remorseful in Richmond asked for the best way to apologize to a woman. ’Tis information many men need to know. Flowers wouldn’t be remiss; this author is partial to pink roses (in the event the Nodcock is reading this).

The London Weekly

The warehouse

H
E
was not brooding. Knightly preferred to view it as thinking logically and rationally about a frustrating situation. Brooding men paced like caged lions or drank whiskey to intensify the burn.

Instead, he went down to the warehouse and printing presses. Nothing cleared a man’s mind like the sweat and strain of manual labor and the roar of machines so loud that thought became almost impossible.

Almost.

The noise of the steam-powered printing presses generally had a way of drowning out all distractions. Except for Annabelle and that awful thing he’d asked of her.

With a crew of laborers, Knightly lifted and tossed reams of paper that would be fed into the printing press. The warehouse was so hot it felt like an inner circle of hell. The work was tedious. After a while, a long while, his muscles start to holler in protest at him. It was a feeling he craved. Pain. Agony. But damn good all at once.

This soothed more than brandy or boxing.

Usually.

Even over the shout of his muscles and the din of the presses, some damn pesky thoughts persevered. They nipped and nagged at his conscience.

He should not have asked Annabelle to encourage Marsden. Not for him, not for the paper. It was just plain wrong. He resolved to remedy the situation later and then he put the matter aside.

Or tried.

Annabelle. The clang of the machines seemed to rap out her name.

The hiss of the steam engine, sounding like
Miss
. The deep clank of the cast iron upon cast iron:
An . . . na . . . belle.
The rush of paper through the machine sounding like
Swift.

Knightly bent to lift the next ream of paper and hurled it to the bloke on his right.

He thought of Annabelle.

I know it was wrong to ask,
Knightly told himself.
It’s inappropriate and taking unfair advantage. I will even concede that it might be morally reprehensible.

Hell, he knew it was wrong the moment he’d said it. And he’d tried to amend it on the spot but the words died in his throat. Her sweet smile had faded. Her sparkling blue eyes dimmed and then she had averted from his gaze. Right before his eyes she seemed to shrink and fade in a desperate attempt to disappear. He’d been the one to extinguish her with his selfish, brutal request.

The fact remained: an apology was in order. He resolved to do it this afternoon.

Thus, at the moment there was no point in thinking about it further.

And yet, he was still bothered, like a stone in his boot or a wasp trapped under his shirt. The damned machines kept it up, churning out issues of
The London Weekly
and sounding out her name.

An . . . na . . . belle.

His muscles began to burn from the exertion. He’d been here hours by now. Sweat soaked though his white linen shirt, flattening it to his chest and abdomen. The exhaustion weakened his mental defenses, so the truth was now unavoidable.

It was the way she felt in his arms. Like ravishment waiting to happen. His mouth went dry thinking of her in his arms: warm, luscious, and pure. A man could lose himself in those curves. Spend a lifetime exploring every wondrous inch of her.

It was that innocence. He wanted to taste it. Touch it. Love it. Be redeemed by it.

And he had tainted it with that loathsome request. Sent her off to seduce another man when he wanted to claim that ripe, red mouth of hers for himself. To capture Annabelle’s sighs before they escaped her lips.

Knightly wanted to know that purity, that innocence, the sweetness that was Annabelle. He wanted to know every last inch of her pure milky white skin.

Each and every curve, from the swells of her breasts rising above those newly lowered bodices to the less obvious but just as tantalizing dip in her lower back. There was the tilt at the outer corners of her eyes, catlike, with lashes reaching high. Eyes he had seen closed as she swooned. As she might appear in a real swoon of pleasure. As she might appear in a thoroughly satiated sleep.

That damned faint really did a number on him. Making him see her thus.

Miss
.
An . . . na . . . belle.
Swift.

He knew it was wrong to ask Annabelle to appeal to Marsden, but that wasn’t what made him feel like a damned devil. He didn’t get to where he was by worrying about the delicate sensibilities and bloody feelings of others.

He understood now.

The request he’d made was driving him mad because he wanted her for himself.

Wanted her in a wicked, sinful way.

Her innocence and sweetness was like a breath of fresh air, and here he was in the polluted stench of the factories.

Strange, that. Wanting Annabelle all of a sudden with a profoundly unsettling intensity . . . after all these years when she had been around, under his nose, shrinking back and not wanting to be a bother.

Well, she was a damned bother now, though he’d wager she had no idea about it.

On his way out of the warehouse, Knightly passed a group of workers gathered around the new issue of
The Weekly,
steaming hot off the presses, ink smearing under their already dirty fingertips. One worker read aloud to the others as they shifted around, smoking and listening to the news. Seven or eight men, one newspaper.

Knightly slowed, listening, allowing himself to be drawn into their conversation of the news of the day. This might distract him. He might learn something. He listened to the gruff voice of the man reading, and the thoughtful silence of the other men who listened. It occurred to him in an instant: pictures.

If there were more pictures so even the illiterate could understand if no one was around to read the words to them. It would require some advances to the printing press, some experiments.

“That’s Knightly. That’s the owner,” one of them said roughly as he nodded and picked up his pace, now eager to return to the offices. But first: he owed Annabelle an apology.

Chapter 23

Writing Girls, Enraged

D
EAR
A
NNABELLE

Perhaps you might do the Nodcock a favor. He’ll have to pay attention to you then.

Helpful from Holburn

The London Weekly

Roxbury House, teatime

“H
E
asked you to do
what
?” Julianna gasped. Annabelle shrank back against the settee. One minute she had been delightfully retelling her fainting adventures and subsequent carriage ride with Knightly. The next moment an uncomfortable silence had fallen over her fellow Writing Girls when she mentioned Knightly’s request that she encourage Lord Marsden’s attentions for the good of the paper.

“It makes perfect sense if you think about it,” Annabelle said defensively. She did understand Knightly’s motives, his logic. She had been hurt by it, but he didn’t know how she felt about him, which lessened the sting. And should she succeed, she might just get his attention. And everlasting gratitude.

Julianna, even more brash and fiery than usual, scoffed openly. Sophie and Eliza exchanged nervous glances.

“Explain to me how this is anything but a horribly offensive, inconsiderate thing to ask of you,” Julianna said sharply. So sharply it hurt, like a knife to the heart. Annabelle was taken aback by this sudden attack. A second ago they were all laughing over her request to taste Knightly’s whiskey.

“He loves his newspaper and it’s in trouble. He merely asked for help. People help those whom they love,” Annabelle explained. Really, it did make sense. Did it not? She didn’t like that he had asked this of her, but understood that it came from a place of love or passion. Or something like it.

“Perhaps,” Julianna retorted. “But one does not ask them to encourage the affections of another man. That is not love.”

“It’s not like that. It’s not that simple,” Annabelle said, because . . . because . . . of course there was a reason why this was all fine. She just couldn’t think of it at the moment. Her urge to help him, to demonstrate her usefulness and love, surpassed all else, but she couldn’t quite find the words to explain.

“Annabelle, why don’t you explain again,” Sophie said gently, resting her hand on hers. “Perhaps Julianna is misunderstanding the situation.”

Annabelle recognized the diplomacy; it was usually her role. She wasn’t usually the one in the thick of drama. With three grave, concerned faces peering at her, she felt like she was on trial. Her crime: idiocy. Her defense: love. Being helpful. Generally trying to prove she wasn’t a nitwit.

She wasn’t. Right?

“Knightly noted that Marsden seems to have an interest in me, and asked that I encourage it. My column is also a bit of a success, so he asked that I keep up the ruse. It’s business and it’s Knightly,” she said, as if that
explained
everything. The man thought of nothing else.

But did it excuse his behavior?

Doubts began to creep in, like the dampness in a drafty house on a cold wet winter day. Even under Julianna’s scorching glare.

“He doesn’t know . . . how I feel,” Annabelle added, nervously sipping from the teacup she held in her hands, even though she had no idea what Knightly knew. Or didn’t.

“How do you know that, Annabelle?” Sophie asked gently. “How did this make you feel?”

“If he knew, he wouldn’t ask this of me,” she said stubbornly, even though she was well aware that this was based firmly upon the flimsy foundation of her own wishes. Not hard fact.

The doubts continued their march.

Why was she defending him?

What did she know, anyway? The truth began to dawn: where she had thought herself a noble maiden on a quest for true love, she was probably, in fact, an foolish lovesick girl who was so blinded by the stars in her eyes that she’d hand her murderer the weapon.

Annabelle’s head began to throb. A headache.