Seducing Mr. Knightly (23 page)

“What the devil is going on?” He asked, irritated, and itching to put his fist through the wall. Or into Owens’s jaw. No one answered. “Miss Swift, why are you over there?”

Then he remembered how she preferred the sidelines to the center of attention and resolved to not make her uncomfortable before the other writers.

“Never mind,” he said gruffly. And then the meeting proceeded mostly as usual. His staff chattered. They debated the Scandal at
The Times.
He stole glances at Annabelle, her lowered bodice. Her lowered gaze.

At the conclusion of the meeting, he clasped Annabelle by the arm as she attempted to slink past him, arm in arm with Owens. He had questions—he didn’t know quite what they were—and he suspected she had answers.

It had been his plan to act even more imperiously to remind them both of the Right Order in the world. But when he said her name, “Annabelle,” he heard the questions, the sleeplessness, and something like feelings in his voice.

“If you’re going to apologize again, I’d rather you wouldn’t,” she said, stunning him.

“Why would I apologize, Annabelle?” He leaned against the doorway.

“For the kiss,” she whispered, and she leaned toward him to keep the words private. He breathed deep, breathing in Annabelle.

He ought to apologize, probably. For taking advantage of a woman in a state of despair, and who was in his employ and thus could not risk rebuffing his advances. But he had tasted her wanting, her desire—along with that intoxicating sweetness. There was no way in hell he’d apologize because he wasn’t the slightest bit sorry.

And as anyone could attest, he hadn’t become so damned successful by issuing apologies. So he leaned in closer to her and murmured:

“Oh, I’m not sorry for that kiss, Annabelle.”

It was the truth. He was bewildered by it, wanted it again, couldn’t make sense of it, craved it . . . he had a million thoughts and feelings about that kiss, but regret was not one of them.

“You’re not?” she asked. Her expectation didn’t surprise him, but it bothered him. She had no idea how beautiful and alluring she was, did she? But then again, why should she if she loved a man from afar, for years, and he never paid attention to her?

“Are you sorry?” he asked.

“You didn’t mean to do it, did you?” she questioned. She must have spent hours fretting over what it meant and what his intentions were. When was a kiss not just a kiss? When it was with Annabelle. He meant that in the very best and worst ways. The best answer he could give her was plain honesty.

“I did not drive from Fleet Street to Bloomsbury with the intention, no. But it’s not as if I tripped and fell and our mouths collided.”

She couldn’t help it; she giggled. Progress. He grinned.

The words “Am I the Nodcock” were just there in the back of his throat, waiting to be spoken aloud. But it sounded too ridiculous to actually say aloud. Frankly, he did not want to know.

Because if he knew . . .

If it was he . . .

If she had been pining after him all these years and he was only just noticing her now, when he intended to marry another woman, then fate was a cruel mistress indeed. Knightly could not think of this here, now. Instead he snuck another glance at her bodice to clear his mind. And then his gaze fell on a thick packet of letters in her hands.

“What scheme are you up to this week?” he inquired. What did he have to watch out for? he wondered. Or was it none of his concern? He couldn’t rule out Owens—not with those damned winks and whispers they shared throughout the meeting.

“I can’t tell you yet,” she said, with a nervous laugh. He lifted one brow, questioning. “Because . . . I haven’t read them through, all of them. The suggestions are becoming more and more outlandish. Like this one: compose a song and hire a group of singers to serenade him.”

“I don’t know if that’s the way to appeal to men,” Knightly said frankly. But it surely would put to rest the matter of who she was after.
Which he did not want to know. Why did he not want to know?

“I don’t know that I’d have time to write my column after composing a song, hiring and training singers, and finding a moment when they might perform for the Nodcock.”

“Your advice column must come first,” he insisted.

“Then I shan’t take this reader’s advice to commission a portrait of myself in a suggestive pose and have it delivered to the Nodcock or displayed at the National Gallery. Just imagine those hours of sitting still and not writing. Nor shall I fling myself in front of an oncoming carriage while the Nodcock looks on and presumably rescues me. If he notices me . . .”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say,
Have that put on my schedule, it would make great copy,
but he felt like an ass for presuming it was he, and that she wanted him enough to risk life and limb like that for him. That was the thing; he could not
ask
without sounding like the most pompous, presumptuous nodcock.

“I am appalled at these suggestions,” he stated. “And like these readers, the blokes down at the coffeehouse are full of idiotic ideas. They also fancy themselves in love with you.”

“Are they suitable gentlemen?” Annabelle inquired, and his jealousy flared. “If so, I may wish to meet them.”

“They are not suitable at all,” Knightly said flatly. And then he could not resist inquiring further—because one did not attain his level of success without always inquiring further. “More to the point, I thought you were quite taken with the Nodcock, as you call him.”

“It’s a funny thing, really,” Annabelle said in a thoughtful tone. He caught himself holding his breath, hanging off her every word. Because what she was saying wasn’t what he expected. He didn’t like it either, and he didn’t know why, and deliberately avoided a thorough examination of his heart and mind.

“I suppose the question is, is the Nodcock taken with me?” she asked. “And how far is this scheme supposed to go? But don’t worry, Mr. Knightly. I’ll turn in good copy, as befitting
The London Weekly
.”

Bryson, the secretary, stood off to the left and cleared his throat.

“Yes, what is it?” Knightly asked. He didn’t take his eyes off Annabelle.

“Mr. Knightly, you asked that I remind you of your afternoon appointments. Mr. Skelly is here to see you about the new factory acquisitions, Mr. Mitchell requested an interview, and you had promised to visit with Lady Marsden this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Bryson. I’ll just be a moment,” Knightly said. He didn’t once take his eyes off Annabelle.

Fact:
Annabelle did that thing where she tried to make herself invisible. She took a step away from him. She developed a sudden fascination with the hem of her dress. She clasped her arms over her chest, turning in on herself.

It had been the mention of Lady Marsden, no? What else might it be?

Fact:
He was stricken with the preference to spend the afternoon with Annabelle, rather than call upon Lady Marsden. Rather than issue the proposal that would assure him the success he’d sought all his life. Since the moment the New Earl uttered those crushing words:

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

Fact:
Lady Marsden was the golden ticket to all of his long-held plans. Success. Power. Vindication. Recognition—especially from the New Earl.

Fact:
Men in their right mind didn’t throw the lot of that away, and he’d always prided himself on logical, rational behavior.

“You have a busy afternoon. I shan’t keep you any longer,” Annabelle said, and she bid him a good afternoon.

Fact:
He wanted her to keep him longer.

Chapter 28

Lady Roxbury’s Apology

F
ASHIONABLE
I
NTELLIGENCE BY A
L
ADY OF
D
ISTINCTION

The identity of Dear Annabelle’s nodcock is the best kept secret in London, and apparently a secret from the Nodcock himself. But how much longer must she—and her readers—wait for him to come to his senses?

The London Weekly

A
FTER
the meeting in which Annabelle cowardly avoided her friends, Julianna clasped her arm and tugged her down the stairs and out to her awaiting carriage. The Roxbury crest was emblazoned on the side in bright gold. A bullet hole pierced the very center of it, courtesy of an irate Julianna. Unlike this version of Julianna, sitting opposite her in the carriage. She appeared to be making a concerted effort to appear woeful and contrite.

“I owe you an apology,” Julianna stated, presumably in reference to their argument the previous week. Annabelle had been in a wretched mood ever since. It had even dulled the lovely glow from Knightly’s kiss, which was an unforgivable sin.

Old Annabelle didn’t have these problems. New Annabelle had considered reverting to her previous ways.

“So much talk of apologies lately,” Annabelle mused.

“Who else . . . ? Was it . . . ?” Julianna leaned forward eagerly. Then, remembering herself, she leaned back and folded her hands primly in her lap. “No, that is not the point. I behaved abominably toward you, Annabelle, and it was horrid of me to do so. I am so very sorry. You love Knightly. He just doesn’t realize what a treasure your love is, and that angers me.”

Annabelle eyed her cautiously. She did seem sorry. Julianna did have the unfortunate habit of shooting her mouth off (and actually shooting—Annabelle took a moment to be grateful it hadn’t come to that).

“If you must know, Knightly also apologized. That should answer the question you remarkably restrained yourself from asking. Which means you were right, that it was wrong of him to ask me to encourage Marsden. Upon that we all agree. It’s funny, though: I was a fool, and yet everyone is groveling to me.”

“I’m sorry that I was right,” Julianna said, and Annabelle laughed at the sentence least likely ever to be uttered by her friend.

“Let’s not get carried away, Julianna,” she cautioned, but a smile tugged at her mouth.

“No, truly. I want you to be happy, and Knightly, too. But only if his happiness is found with you. And yes, I know that’s probably the wrong thing to say. But I’m not as goodhearted as you, Annabelle. And my own experiences with Knightly have been . . . difficult.”

“Is that because of him, or because of you?” Annabelle asked.

“Eliza also— What is your point?”

“My point is that it was simple before. I adored, he ignored . . .” Annabelle paused to marvel on the poetry of that. “But now it seems that not only is he beginning to see me, but I am also beginning to see him as he is and not how I have imagined him to be.”

“Do you still love him?” Julianna asked.

“Does it even matter?” Annabelle mused, shrugging. “He kissed me, Julianna. And yet now he is calling upon Lady Marsden and probably proposing marriage to her this very moment. I do not know how much more I can bear.”

Her love of Knightly, the thrill of her successes, the terror of still losing, was beginning to exact a toll on Annabelle. This past week, after the fight with her friends and Knightly’s kiss had lead to hours of musing, pondering, wondering. In the end, she’d barely ate or slept and was none the wiser.

And know Knightly was still going to call upon Lady Marsden after he had kissed her. The Nodcock.

“Did you love the kiss? Was the kiss just delicious?” Julianna asked, eyes aglow.

“Yes,” Annabelle replied. The exact details—the taste of him, the heat of his touch—those were hers to savor and hers alone. And yet . . . “However, I fear I may go mad trying to puzzle out what it all means. What do you know about him and Lady Marsden?”

“Would you believe me if I said nothing?” Julianna asked, cringing.

“Not at all,” Annabelle retorted. Perhaps she wasn’t a fool after all.

“This is part of the reason I behaved so horribly. Everyone believes a proposal is imminent. It was in
The Morning Post
that he was sighted perusing jewelry at Burlington Arcade. He did not purchase anything.”

Another matter that had weighed heavily upon Annabelle’s conscience was that Letter from Lady Marsden, which had spent days and nights tucked away in a novel, on a very high shelf. It remained unanswered.

But Annabelle knew the contents well:
I am pressured to marry but I love someone far below my station . . .

She really ought to give her an answer. Or admit that she didn’t know what to do. Or do the
right
thing and suggest she hold out for true love.

“Will her brother allow it?” Annabelle asked. Lord Marsden had sent her flowers, and might just forbid the marriage that would destroy her hopes and dreams. She liked him.