Seducing Mr. Knightly (4 page)

“She needs a proper corset,” the modiste finally declared. “I cannot work without the lady in the right undergarments.”

“A proper corset fixes everything,” Sophie concurred.

“And lovely underthings . . .” Julianna smiled with a naughty gleam in her eye.

Annabelle began to do math in her head. Living as glorified household help for her brother and his sister meant that her
Weekly
wages went to her subscription at the circulating library and a few other inconsequential trinkets, and then the rest went into her secret account that Sophie’s husband had helped her arrange. It had been her one small act of rebellion.

“I’m not sure that underthings are necessary . . .” Annabelle began to protest. Silk underthings sounded expensive and no one would see them, so how could she justify the expense when she could have a few delicious novels instead?

“Do you have the money?” Eliza asked softly. She was a duchess now, but she’d had anything but an aristocratic upbringing or connections. She understood economies.

“Well, yes. But I feel that I should save,” Annabelle said frankly.

“For what?” Eliza asked.

“Something,” Annabelle said. Something, someday. She was always waiting and preparing for an event that never came—or had she missed it, given that she didn’t know what she was waiting for?

“Annabelle, this is that something,” Sophie said grandly. “You want Knightly to notice you, do you not?”

“And you have an occasion to wear it,” Eliza said, adding a dose of practicality.

“But he won’t see my unmentionables. Those needn’t be—”

“Well he might, if you are lucky,” Julianna said frankly. And lud, didn’t that make her cheeks burn! The thought made her entire body feel feverish, in a not altogether unpleasant way.

“Annabelle,” Sophie began, “you must think of fashion as an investment in your future happiness! That is not some silk dress, but a declaration that you are a new woman, a young, beautiful woman interested in life! And love!”

“But the underthings?” Annabelle questioned.

“I promise you will love them,” Sophie vowed. “You’ll see . . .”

In the end, Annabelle was persuaded to purchase one pink silk dress, one blue day dress, one corset that enhanced her person in ways that seemed to violate natural laws, and some pale pink silk unmentionables that were promptly stashed in the back of her armoire.

Chapter 4

Misadventures in the Ballroom

T
OWN
T
ALK

One is hard pressed to determine who is the more perfect specimen of an English gentleman: Lord Marsden or Lord Harrowby. Both are widely regarded as the catch of the season. Again.

The Morning Post

Ballroom of Hamilton House

O
N
the terrace, Derek Knightly leaned against the balustrade, gazing at the party raging within. This morning he had been in the warehouse hauling and tossing reams of paper upon which the next issue would be printed until his hands were filthy with dirt, dust, and ink and until his muscles ached from the exertion and his skin was damped by sweat. Damn, it felt good.

This evening he wore a perfectly fitted, exquisitely expensive set of evening clothes, made by Gieves & Hawkes, his tailor on Saville Row. He sipped the fine French brandy—the only thing the French were good for—and noted that it was a rare and excellent vintage.

His newspaper empire had brought him a fortune, and with it a taste for finer things, as well as the connections he had always aspired to. Here he was, a guest at the home of the Duke and Duchess of Brandon. They were friends.

Not bad for an earl’s by-blow who had sullied his hands in trade.

Yet those damning words still taunted him:
Throw the bastard out. He doesn’t belong here.

Knightly lifted his head higher, damned proud of himself. His Writing Girls stood near the French doors leading to the terrace. He watched them chattering animatedly.

Annabelle glanced his way and he caught her eye. She quickly turned away. Shy, that one. He allowed his gaze to linger. Something seemed different about her. She just seemed a bit . . .
more.
It was probably because instead of meeting at the newspaper offices in the afternoon as usual, they were at a ball and midnight was drawing near. And the brandy was taking effect.

His gaze drifted back to Annabelle. More? Yes, definitely
more.

Knightly took another measured sip of his drink and watched the party progress from his vantage point on the terrace, alone. A guest, yet an outsider all the same.

Tonight they were worse than usual. He was often tolerated, lest one risk insulting the host who had invited him. With those rumors, however . . . he saw the fear in their eyes as he wove his way through the ballroom. They wondered what he knew, what he would extort from them to keep the information private, or what he would print for all their family, friends, businessmen to see.

With just a few lines of movable type, he could reverse fortunes and ruin reputations. Aye, that explained the wary glances and averted gazes.

The New Earl was here tonight. Even after all these years, Knightly still referred to him in his head as the New Earl.
Harrowby
was his father, not this pompous oaf who still refused to acknowledge his half brother. Refused to even meet his eye, the coward. Upon occasions when they both attended the same function, Knightly made a sport of catching his eye, or even nodding, and watching the New Earl redden.

His fortune had not earned the man’s notice. Neither did his ever-growing influence over the London ton due to his immensely popular paper. Nor did the New Earl seem to notice that he never printed anything remotely damaging about him in the pages of
The Weekly.
Nor did his friendships with dukes, plural. Which brought Knightly to the last point in his plan:

An aristocratic wife would make it impossible for the New Earl to ignore and snub him without conferring the same disregard upon a member of the haute ton. Which he would not—could not—do to one of his fellow peers.

It was, for reasons Knightly did not deeply examine, imperative that the earl recognize him publicly.

Most of the ton did not want to associate with him, but unlike his brother, so many could not afford to ignore him. That was also part of the plan.

Case in point: Lord Marsden, cigar and brandy in hand, who now ambled over to where he stood. They were of the same age, approximately. In spite of his young age, Marsden was immensely respected in Parliament—in part from the legacy of his late father, and in part because of his own talents, for the man had been born to the role in more ways than one.

Marsden was a charmer who cultivated a vast array of relationships at every opportunity. He flirted with women—young, old, debutante or spinster, married or widowed. One could often find him in the card room, smoking, laughing, and wagering with his fellow peers. He peppered his conversation with stock tips, minor gossip, compliments, and he listened attentively to one’s problems. Far too attentively. He was good, Knightly had to give him that.

The marquis was forever seeking
The London Weekly
’s support for his various causes and political initiatives, given that the paper served such a large audience. Yet Knightly knew those readers flocked to his paper because it was beholden to no one, so the marquis was forever disappointed.

Nevertheless, the men were on familiar terms. It served them both well.

“I’m sure you have heard the news,” Marsden said, and when Derek deliberately did not reply, he continued, “About
The London Times
reporter. He’s in Newgate after impersonating a physician.”

“I did hear rumors to that effect,” Knightly allowed.

“Revolting, isn’t it? The haute ton is terrified. Or they will be,” Marsden said with a ruthless smile. Knightly understood how this would work: in his every conversation, the marquis would stir the pot, disseminating carefully selected bits of information designed to enrage and appall until the Upper Orders become a raging mob, hungry for the blood of newspaper magnates like him.

“I am considering how to portray this story in
The Weekly
,” Knightly remarked.

Marsden had a wide circle of friends, connections. But Knightly had power of his own: each week thousands of Londoners read his newspaper full of information that he selected, edited, and presented. And then they discussed the contents with family, friends, the news agent, the butcher, their maids . . . Marsden might wish to stir the pot, but Knightly knew he could blow the whole thing up.

“There will likely be an inquiry,” Marsden added casually, tipping the ash off his cigar. He spoke casually, but his words were always deliberately chosen and directed. This was a warning.

Translation:
Heads are about to roll.

“I’d find that very interesting,” Knightly remarked.

Meaning:
Tell me everything.

“Indeed, I shall keep you informed,” Marsden said. And then he changed the subject—or seemed to. “I am here with my sister this evening. This marriage mart business . . .” Marsden heaved a weary sigh, as if Lady Lydia was the last in a long line of troublesome sisters to foist off to the parson’s mousetrap. In fact, she was his only sister. And she had missed her second season, mysteriously. Knightly declined to mention this. For the moment.

“You must be eager for her to marry,” he said, testing Marsden’s suggestion. Among bachelors, marriage wasn’t a subject to be broached without an ulterior motive.

“As long as it’s a match I approve of. A man who is able to provide for her in a manner that she is accustomed to.” Marsden punctuated this with a heavy stare. Knightly’s fortune was no secret. Reports of Marsden’s declining coffers had made their way to Knightly’s desk.

“A suitor whose business interests don’t take a turn for the worse, perhaps,” Knightly suggested, leveling a stare.

Marsden’s eyes narrowed. He pulled on the cigar, then tapped it so the ash tumbled to the ground. Knightly did not look away.

“I am glad we understand each other,” Marsden said, blowing a curl of blue-gray smoke into the night air.

It was one hell of an offer:
You protect
The London Weekly
and I will marry your sister.

A
NNABELLE
was always aware of him, and so she knew that he was just there, on the terrace. It was a useless sixth sense. But how could she not sneak one glance after another as he leaned against the balustrade? For the hundredth time she wondered how the simple act of leaning could be so . . . so . . . arresting. Compelling. He appeared at ease but she knew he wasn’t; he was aware of everything and ready for anything.

She, who never felt quite comfortable in her own skin, envied him that.

As she stood in conversation with her fellow Writing Girls, she kept trying to angle herself so that she might display her new gown to its best advantage. The front. The very low bodice made her feel utterly naked. Perhaps even a bit wicked. Whatever it was, she barely recognized herself in this pink silk gown that slinked against her skin in a soft and sensual way.

It was just a dress, she reprimanded herself. Except that it wasn’t—for better or for worse, this gown gave her a confidence she didn’t usually possess. Annabelle caught herself standing up straighter, no longer awkward about her height but eager to show off her dress to the best effect. She smiled more because she felt pretty.

It wasn’t just a dress; it was courage in the silken form.

She stole another glance. He was conversing with another gentleman, a handsome one.

She wracked her brain for a reason to go out on the terrace alone. A “Wallflower in Mayfair” had written: “Romantic stuff always happens on terraces at balls, everyone knows that.”

She just needed an excuse.
I need air. I feel like trouble. Perhaps I’d like to try smoking a cigar. I’d like to be compromised. I can’t breathe in this stifling corset that defies laws of gravity.

“Oh, here comes Knightly,” Eliza whispered to Annabelle, who already knew. She stood up straighter. Butterflies took flight. Her heartbeat quickened.

Knightly’s gaze locked with hers. His eyes were so blue and contrasted so intensely with his black hair. Tonight he wore a black jacket and a dark blue silk waistcoat.

Do not blush. Do not blush. Smile, Annabelle. Stand up straight.

But the commands were lost between her head and her heart and the rest of her. Knightly nodded in greeting, and likely received a startled doe expression from Annabelle. She watched as he strolled purposely through the ballroom until he was lost in the crowds.