Seducing Mr. Knightly (36 page)

She had done the right thing in refusing him. She knew this in her heart and her mind. But her body craved him nonetheless.

“Did you see that Knightly did not wear his cravat today?” Julianna asked as they strolled through
The Weekly
’s offices on their way outside.

“Is it a new fashion, Sophie?” Eliza inquired of their fashion-forward friend.

“Not that I’m aware of. And not one that my husband would ever follow, however enticing it may be,” Sophie replied. “Not that I am enticed by Knightly.”

“Annabelle, surely you must have noticed,” Julianna said. All three paused and turned to peer at her. She fought valiantly to keep the blush from betraying her.

Of course she had noticed. She had been riveted. If she were faced with a firing squad that had been instructed to hold its fire only
if
she could relate one item of discussion from that meeting, she would meet her death thinking only of the small amount of Knightly’s exposed skin that she had once kissed and caressed during the most glorious night of her entire life.

But Annabelle did not say anything of the kind. It hurt too much to dwell upon it, and she couldn’t fathom speaking of it. Plus, they stood near the open doorway to Knightly’s office where he sat at his desk, writing. A lock of dark hair fell into his eyes. She folded her hands in her skirts to restrain herself from strolling in and brushing it aside.

He might look up, tug her into his lap, lower his mouth to hers . . .

“Annabelle?” Sophie said curiously. “Are you all right?”

“I’m sure he was merely warm,” Annabelle replied. “Or perhaps the cloth had come undone and his valet was not present to attend to him.”

Jenkins, his valet, who was paid to be inscrutable. Oh, must she know all these details about him? She had collected them carefully over the years, and months and weeks and days, never knowing how the knowledge would torture her.

K
NIGHTLY
had overheard them, and he dropped his head into his hands. He resisted the urge to pound his head against the desktop.

“Oh, Annabelle,” he muttered. The sweet girl was utterly oblivious to his scheme—thus far. For the first time he had a hint of what Annabelle must have felt every time she sighed or blushed and he didn’t notice: utter frustration. Enormous, enraging, frustration. Wanting to howl frustration. She was amazing, that Annabelle.

With a weary sigh of his own, Knightly reached into the top drawer of his desk, where he kept among other things—a loaded pistol, a flask of brandy, pens, important papers, and a list of every trick she had employed in order to gain his attention and affection.

He crossed
Lowered bodice—or the male approximation
off the list.

Chapter 44

Gentleman Shows Shocking Disregard for Attire

T
HE
M
AN
A
BOUT
T
OWN

It seems that Mr. Knightly’s courtship of Lady Marsden has concluded—without a betrothal announcement.

The London Times

Offices of
The London Weekly

T
HE
following week, Annabelle dragged her heartbroken and forlorn self to the regular gathering of writers because really, she thought, she did not suffer enough.

Blanche had been especially keen on haranguing her lately, for the parlor wasn’t dusted thoroughly, she said, or she couldn’t see her reflection in the silver. Fleur had become exceptionally moody, prone to fits and sulks that left the entire household walking on eggshells. Watson and Mason were constantly at odds, which meant a racket the entire household had to endure, compounded by Blanche’s fishwife shrieks requesting silence. Brother Thomas continued to read
The London Times.

Annabelle sought refuge in her attic bedroom, where she was faced with letters from readers livid at her handling of “the Nodcock situation.” She read them all and desperately wished to explain that it was all a misunderstanding. That she had made a noble sacrifice. That they were hurting her feelings, and to what end?

She had been overlooked before but she had never been so cruelly criticized.

You made a mistake and you will rue the day you threw his proposal into his face,
wrote Harriet from Hampstead Heath.

You’re a cruel, heartless woman. How do I cancel my subscription?
wrote Angry in Amersham.

My sympathies had been with you and now they are with the Nodcock, you wanton hussy,
wrote some coward who hadn’t dared sign a name.

Had she made a mistake? She thought about it and shed copious amounts of hot, salty tears and thought some more (and in all honesty wept more, too). In the end she concluded that she had done the right thing, despite the furious letters. It was love under false pretenses—if at all—and it wasn’t acceptable.

She had waited far too long to settle for anything less than true, eternal love.

The Writing Girls had discussed it over a strong pot of black tea and ginger biscuits.

“I think you might be absolutely mad,” Julianna had told her. “But that is always what they say of the most courageous.”

“I think she is very wise and noble in her actions,” Sophie said. “Especially as she was so swept up in the throes of passion.”

“You did the right thing, Annabelle,” Eliza said, patting her hand consolingly. “He’ll come around.”

“And if not . . . ?” Annabelle asked. She tried to lift one brow and couldn’t manage it. She’d taken to practicing that in front of the mirror and had about as much luck as she did with the sultry gazes. Which is to say, no luck at all. Curses.

They hadn’t a reply for that, which was not reassuring in the slightest.

Would it really be the end of the world if Knightly never truly loved her?

Yes, she concluded. It was one thing to be a Spinster Auntie to Wretched Relatives, but to do so after knowing, for one night, the most exquisite and glorious passions and the heart-stopping, breathtaking, soul-shattering touch of a devastatingly handsome man? Returning to the dull lonely life of Old Annabelle was unbearable.

Nevertheless, Annabelle endured, because that is what Annabelle did.

Thus she attended meetings even as they were now a particular kind of torture because of the pleasure she had known and forgone.

There was never any thought of giving up her writing, though. Other people’s problems distracted her from her own. And it felt good to help other people use the right fork, address a countess properly, find new uses for vinegar, or solve a spat between sisters. With her writing, she made other people happier, and someone ought to be happy, if it wouldn’t be her.

The writers had all gathered, waiting. Knightly always made it a point to arrive last. Outside, wind rattled the windowpanes. There was a low rumble of thunder in the distance. The air was positively electric.

Knightly strolled in.

“Ladies first,” he said with a grin. She didn’t sigh because she was distracted by something particularly wicked in his grin today. She saw a certain light in his eyes. It went without saying she knew all the sparks and dimensions of Knightly’s gaze.

Annabelle sat up straighter.

A meeting progressed in which nothing remarkable happened, or so Annabelle assumed. Her attention had been drawn to the exposed vee of Knightly’s chest. Once again he was eschewing fashion and modesty and not wearing a cravat. How positively scandalous.

It put her in mind of that night. That one glorious night. She clasped her hands in her lap.

About halfway through the meeting he slowly shrugged out of his jacket. That night he’d allowed his shirt to slide off his shoulders, down his muscled arms and falling to the floor, exposing the broad expanse of his chest. Today he set the jacket on the chair and carried on with the meeting wearing nothing but his shirtsleeves and a waistcoat that highlighted how his chest tapered from his broad shoulders to his waist . . . and lower.

Annabelle’s cheeks flamed at her wicked thoughts of Knightly, naked. She bit her lip, hard.

Of course he took his jacket off, she thought; the temperature seemed to have spiked ten degrees. Yet when she glanced around, no one else seemed bothered. Sophie even pulled her shawl tighter around her. She ought to see a doctor about that, for she herself was just about burning up.

Knightly stretched his arms, and she could have sworn she saw the ripple of muscles under the thin white linen of his shirt. Her mouth went dry. She was suddenly parched.

She missed him. Oh, did she ever. She missed his voice and his smile and discovering the real Mr. Knightly. She missed his touch and a whole lot of very unladylike things.

Knightly rolled up the sleeves on his shirt, exposing his forearms. Good Lord, she was now all agog over his arms. Who was the Nodcock now? But those arms had held her—no one else ever held her. Those arms had pulled her close and made her feel loved and cherished, if only for one night. She decided then and there that Knightly would be the only man to know her thus. No matter what happened, there would be no one else.

The heat increased, her skin felt feverish. She was certain her cheeks were pink and that everyone would know she was thinking such wanton thoughts.

Perhaps she did make a mistake. Perhaps she had been too picky and particular about the exact proper circumstances in which love ought to happen. It was a wild thing, wasn’t it? Who was she to impose all the rules and strictures on love?

The meeting concluded and Knightly walked out. She felt the loss intensely as she watched his retreating form while still stuck in her chair.

The other writers trickled out and Sophie dawdled gathering her things. The Writing Girls chattered about society gossip and the latest Paris fashions and other things Annabelle was only paying half a mind to.

In the distance thunder rumbled again. It would rain. Perhaps that would cool her heated skin. But even the thought of cool raindrops tumbling on her scorching skin made her breath hitch. She had become far too sensitive lately.

And then Knightly returned.

“I forgot my jacket,” he drawled, leaning in the doorway. She fought hard for a gulp of air. God, she loved it when he leaned like that. Her mouth went dry. Words eluded her.

“Oh, goodness, is that the time!” Sophie said. “I have an appointment with the modiste.” Annabelle was too tongue-tied to point out that she hadn’t even looked at a timepiece.

“Yes, I promised Roxbury . . .” Julianna said, hot on Sophie’s heels as they pushed past Knightly.

“Wycliff is expecting me . . .” Eliza said, and she too followed the others out of the room, leaving Annabelle and Knightly alone. Quite alone.

“Hello, Annabelle.” His voice was low, and it sent shivers up and down her spine. Goodness, she had better steel herself if he only had to say
Hello,
Annabelle
and she nearly went to pieces. She’d do well to remember that he was probably going to marry lady Lydia to save his newspapers.

But she had to reply to his hello; it would be rude not to. Annabelle, both Old and New, was nothing if not polite.

“Hello.” Her voice had never sounded so breathless, as if she had dashed through Hyde Park with a vile seducer and nefarious murderer in hot pursuit.

“How are you?” he asked. The question was politeness itself, and yet he managed to imbue each word with a hint of wickedness.

“I’m fine, thank you. And yourself?” she replied politely. Young ladies were polite. Young ladies also did not imagine handsome partially clad men closing the door and ravishing them upon the tabletop. Oh very well, this one did. What had become of her?

“Oh, I’m good. Very good,” he said, sounding wicked, very wicked. She longed to fan herself.

“Good,” she echoed, as her brain was not up to the task of forming complex thoughts or sentences. It was still focused on him, leaning, against the doorway. She could see the muscles of his chest outlined through the thin fabric of his shirt. That vee of exposed skin taunted her, begged for her to touch. With her mouth.

“Might you need someone to escort you home?” he inquired.

The words were polite, but delivered in such a wicked way. And how torturous would it be to find herself in an enclosed carriage with him for the long ride to Bloomsbury whilst rain lashed at the windows, and the air was so electrified, and when he had mischief in his eyes?

Annabelle could not conceive of a greater torment. Other than his marriage to Lady Lydia. She ought to remember that. She ought not to think of all the privacy his carriage afforded, those plush velvet seats . . .

“I don’t think so. Why?” she replied suspiciously.