Seducing Mr. Knightly (7 page)

K
NIGHTLY
strolled into the room and began the meeting as he’d begun every other one, with a grin and a cheeky nod to the Writing Girls.

His gaze was immediately drawn to Annabelle. To be exact, specific parts of Annabelle. The conversation in the coffeehouse came galloping back to mind. Lowered bodices. Advice from idiots. Young. Pretty. Quiet. Significantly lowered bodices that revealed . . . a handful. A mouthful. A woman.

He cleared his throat.

“Ladies first,” he said, hoping not to sound . . . distracted.

Julianna launched into the ton’s latest scandal and Knightly didn’t listen to a word of it. His gaze kept shifting one seat to her left, to Annabelle. When he managed to wrench his focus away from her very low bodice and up, he saw a dreamy expression on her face. Her blue eyes were focused on something far off and far away. Her full pink lips were curved into the slightest trace of a smile. Annabelle was daydreaming.

In a meeting.

Which he was leading. He would not be ignored.

“Miss Swift, you and your column were the topic of conversation in the coffeehouse Saturday last,” he said briskly. He fought to keep his expression neutral as he recalled that bedeviling conversation with Drummond and Gage. He’d be damned if his staff saw that he was affected by her. It was bad enough to mention this topic of her bodice in a room of mixed company, in a professional setting, however indirectly.

He wanted to look. He could . . . not . . . look.

“Oh? It was?” Jolted from her reverie, she fixed those big blue eyes upon him, the force of which stunned him for a second. Then she lowered her lids and lifted them again. And pouted her lips, almost as if she were sucking on a lemon. Was she unwell?

“I urge you to take care with the advice you elect to follow. I’m not sure if indelicate or idiotic is the right word for some of these bloke’s suggestions,” he lectured. In the back of his mind, he wondered when he’d become so stuffy.

Her eyes seemed bluer today. Why was he noticing her eyes? Was it her blue dress? Didn’t she always wear brownish-grayish dresses? His gaze dropped to Annabelle’s dress, and he did not take note of the color at all. He saw creamy white skin rising in tantalizing swells above an extremely low bodice.

“With all due respect, Mr. Knightly, it seems to be working.” She said it softly, with a hint of defiance mingling with deference. Her mouth reminded him of an angel’s pout—sulky, sweet, mysterious and mischievous.

The kind of mouth a man thought of kissing.

And thoughts like that were exactly why women were not oft employed with men. Damned distracting.

“Annabelle’s column has taken the ton by storm,” Sophie said.

To Knightly’s surprise, Owens—the most promising young rogue reporter who covered all manner of sordid stories—spoke up. “My mum and sisters keep yammering on about it. Miss Swift, they are of the opinion that you should try a different manner of styling your hair. I told ’em blokes don’t notice that sort of thing. Instead what they really notice is—”

“That’s enough, Owens,” Knightly said sharply. If that cad mentioned anything below Annabelle’s neck . . .

Knightly snuck another glance.

Damn.

She had caught his eye and then closed her eyes for a second or two, slowly lifting her lashes, fluttering them, and then sort of pouting again. How odd. Truly strange.

“Is this more rubbish about attracting a gentleman’s attentions?” Grenville muttered. “Because the word in Parliament is that an inquiry is being formed to examine journalistic practices in light of
The London Times
reporter’s arrest and subsequent imprisonment. I for one am concerned about what this means for our own publication.”

Knightly offered a prayer of thanks to Grenville for ending the conversation about Annabelle’s . . . charms. And for sitting on the far side of the room so that he could focus on Grenville and turn his back to her . . . charms.

“Will that parliamentary inquiry be focused on
The London Times
, specifically, or other publications, generally?” Owens asked. “Rumors are flying. I heard every periodical will have to submit to a government review before publication. A footman was fired from Lord Milford’s employ after it was suspected he sold secrets to the press.”

“Oh, it’s worse than that,” Julianna added gravely. “I heard Lord Milford gave the poor footman quite a thrashing before turning him out on the streets. To quote Lord Marsden, ‘One is appalled at the peddling of aristocratic secrets for the profit and amusement of the lower classes.’ Many are in agreement with him.”

The room fell silent. The faces of his writers peered at him expectantly. Of course they would assume he would have a strategy or a scheme to exploit public opinion to their advantage or to otherwise ensure that
The London Weekly
was triumphant—and that their livelihoods and reputations were secure.

This thing with
The London Times
might be another newspaper’s problem, or it could explode into an industrywide scandal and investigation. It looked like Marsden had a taste for blood, and intended more than the ruination of one reporter, or one newspaper.

The question was, how would
The London Weekly
fare in the midst of this crusade?

His writers routinely risked everything and anything for stories that had made
The London Weekly
great. Eliza had done numerous dangerous undercover stints, including disguising herself as a maid in a duke’s household—the very exploits that had the ton riled up and calling for blood. Julianna routinely put her reputation on the line by exposing the scandals and foibles of her peers. Owens never met an assignment he didn’t risk a stint in prison for, and no person or thing was too sacred for his ruthless investigating. What would become of Alistair or Grenville if they didn’t have an outlet for their wit and discerning writing?

Knightly knew that he might own the newspaper, but it would be worthless without them. He couldn’t let this scandal blow out of control, and definitely couldn’t let his faithful and talented writers be sent to Newgate for their work, which served a city, both informing and entertaining the population.

He hadn’t given much thought to Marsden’s offer until this moment when it seemed he was the only thing standing between safety and disaster for the people he owed
everything
to.

Though the marquis dangled something he wanted very badly—entrée into high society with a strategic marriage—it conflicted with truth number three:
Be beholden to no one.

But if it would protect his newspaper and his writers—while assuring his prominence in London society—hell, it was an offer worth entertaining. The New Earl would never be able to snub the man so connected to such a prominent marquis. This inquiry would turn a blind eye to his scandalous newspaper and the exploits of its writers.

It was an offer worth taking. Knightly made decisions quickly, and then abided by them. On the spot, he made up his mind to court Lady Lydia and probably marry her. He would take Marsden up on his offer to protect his paper and his writers.

“Rest assured, I’m doing everything in my power to ensure the authorities don’t turn their attentions to
The Weekly
,” Knightly said confidently. He could see them all visibly relax at the pronouncement, and he knew he’d made the right choice.

But speaking of turning one’s attentions . . .

Knightly’s eyes reluctantly flicked back to Annabelle. She did that strange thing with her very blue eyes again. Her lips were pursed into a pout that verged precariously on the side of ridiculous, and yet was strangely tempting all the same.

Grenville mercifully carried on about other, duller matters of government, and Damien Owens regaled everyone with that week’s news of robberies, fires, murders, ridiculous wagers, and notable court cases. Knightly rushed everyone through, eager to conclude the meeting so that he might further investigate the burgeoning scandal with
The London Times
. And, frankly, so he could escape the distraction that Annabelle had suddenly, inexplicably, become.

He could kill Gage for suggesting the lowered bodice. But he suspected that damned actor wasn’t the only one to send in that advice, and for good reason: it worked. Yea gods, it worked. Knightly couldn’t stop looking—Annabelle and her décolletage was a sight to behold. That he’d forbidden himself made it all the more alluring.

She caught his eye again, and shyly looked down at her lap. He watched her lips murmur something incomprehensible, and then she glanced back at him. Eyelashes batting at a rapid pace. Lips pushed out. What the devil was she doing?

“Miss Swift, is there something in your eye?” he asked when he could restrain his curiosity no more.

“I am perfectly fine,” she replied as a flush crept into her cheeks.

“Ah, it seemed you had something in your eye,” he remarked, quizzically.

“No, nothing. I’m fine. Just fine.” There was a hollow note in her voice. But he couldn’t puzzle over that. Not when his empire was possibly under attack and it was up to him to protect it.

Chapter 8

A Writing Girl, Writing

D
EAR
A
NNABELLE

In reply to Embarrassed in East End, I suggest fleeing to America, praying fervently for the floorboards to open up and swallow you whole, or do your best to pretend the mortifying incident never occurred.

—Annabelle, who has herself addressed many prayers to the floorboards and even investigated the price of a one-way ticket to America

The London Weekly

Annabelle’s attic bedroom

A
NNABELLE
sat frozen at her writing desk, still paralyzed with mortification hours after the Awful Incident. Never in her entire life had she been more embarrassed, including the occasion in her twelfth year when she had unwittingly tucked her petticoats and skirts into her unmentionables and proceeded to church. Thomas had paid attention to her then, and laughed heartily despite the chastising of their parents.

The Awful Incident was even more horrifying than the time she accidentally sat on a freshly painted brown park bench whilst daydreaming . . . and en route to a weekly writers meeting. It was the only time she’d ever been thankful for her grayish dresses, though the paint was still visible. In attempting to keep her backside from view of anyone, particularly Knightly, she tripped over a chair and fell sprawled to the floor.

Annabelle groaned and replayed the worst of the Awful Incident again in her mind. The thrill of Knightly fixing his attentions upon her. The devastating realization of why.
Miss Swift, is there something in your eye?

Her attempts to appear seductive were an unmitigated failure. If she couldn’t even look at the man seductively, how was she to make him love her? After the success of the lowered bodice, she thought a sultry gaze would spark his interest, and perhaps he would start to fall in love with the mysterious Writing Girl in his midst. Intrigued, he would begin to seduce her and she would prettily resist his advances for the appropriate amount of time, at which point . . .

She sighed as the truth sunk in: it seemed she would have to seduce Mr. Knightly and that it would require a few more tricks from her readers.

Annabelle crossed the room to the mirror and tried her sultry gaze once more. Lowered eyelashes. Pouting lips. Smoldering thoughts. Oh very well, she did look ridiculous! In a fit of despair and humiliation, she flung herself on her bed.

She had gotten his attention, at least. But for looking like a fool of the first water! In her head she heard his voice echoing over and over, asking that wretched question:
Miss Swift, is there something in your eye? Miss Swift, is there something in your eye? Miss Swift, is there something in your eye?

She groaned and flung an arm over her eyes.

Not even the pink roses from Lord Marsden could console her. Very well, they did, slightly. Annabelle lifted her arm and looked at the gorgeous, fragrant bouquet sitting proudly and so
pinkly
on her writing desk, reminding her that a gentleman,
a marquis
, paid attention to her and read her column and shared private jokes with her.

Not all hope was lost, sultry gazes notwithstanding.

No man had ever sent her flowers before. She bolted upright, needing advice. Was she to write a thank-you note? If so, what did one say? She was an advice columnist and thus she ought to know these things.