Seducing Mr. Knightly (35 page)

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?

O
VERHEARD

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

Overheard in a coffeehouse

Galloway’s Coffeehouse

K
NIGHTLY
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

F
ASHIONABLE
I
NTELLIGENCE BY A
L
ADY OF
D
ISTINCTION

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

A
NNABELLE
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.