Seducing Mr. Knightly (10 page)

Every Rogue Needs a Rival

F
ASHIONABLE
I
NTELLIGENCE BY A
L
ADY OF
D
ISTINCTION

With all of Dear Annabelle’s delightful schemes, one cannot help but wonder: How can the Nodcock be so oblivious?

The London Weekly

Offices of
The London Weekly,
late

T
HIS
was madness. This was dangerous. The suggestion of Careless in Camden Town had seemed clever and simple when it was just the few lines of a letter. Leave something behind. Return for it later. Find herself alone with Knightly. Allow romance to ensue.

Simple, no?

It had seemed imperative to Annabelle that she try something more daring after learning she had competition: Lady Lydia Marsden. It wasn’t just the walk in the park. Julianna had learned that Lord Marsden was encouraging the courtship. They would have more walks in the park until they walked down the aisle.

Unless she managed to win his heart . . .

At the moment, however, Annabelle was having second thoughts about her quest, and in particular, this latest scheme. But it was too late to turn back, for she had already arrived at the offices of
The Weekly
after hours.

At the end of this week’s staff meeting, Annabelle had left behind her shawl. Her nicest shawl, to add credence for her subsequent return for it. For the expedition, she wore her newly purchased day dress cut in a style that flattered her figure and in a shade of pale blue that enhanced her eyes. At the very least, she looked her best for this poorly planned adventure.

At home, Blanche would be wondering where she’d gotten off to—after realizing that the children hadn’t had their lessons and fires hadn’t been lit.

How was she to explain herself? She hadn’t thought every aspect of this mad scheme all the way through because if she had, Old Annabelle would have concocted a million things that could go wrong and a million other reasons why she ought to stay home, safe.

New Annabelle prevailed.

And if anyone asked why she didn’t wait until next week’s writers’ gathering, she had no good answer other than that dusk was much more romantic than daylight, and romance was more likely to occur in solitude rather than with the editorial staff of
The London Weekly
looking on.

Plus, she had a column due. She needed something to write about.

Thus, Annabelle slipped into the offices at the end of the day.

Knightly was still here, thank goodness, but he wasn’t alone. She lingered in the shadows outside of his office, waffling over her course of action but ultimately settling upon eavesdropping. Julianna would have her head if she didn’t.

“What have you found out?” Knightly asked. She recognized the impatient tone of his voice. As if the earth didn’t spin fast enough for him.

“Brinsley had kept up the ruse of doctor for months and ventured into many a proper woman’s bedchamber,” another man said.

Annabelle recognized the voice as belonging to Damien Owens. If Knightly had an heir to his empire, it would be Owens—young, brash, ruthless, and quite the charmer.

They could only be talking about the scandal with
The London Times
. Brinsley must be the reporter who had been arrested and now languished in Newgate.

“Bloody hell,” Knightly swore. “What he must know . . .”

“My thoughts exactly,” Owens agreed.

Annabelle dared to peek around the corner, glancing into Knightly’s office, for the door remained ajar. She saw him pacing, hands clasped behind his back and brow furrowed in thought.

She bit back a sigh.

There was an intensity, depth, and energy about him that awed her and captivated her attentions. She noted the lock of hair that fell rakishly into his eyes, which he ruthlessly shoved back. How she wanted to run her own fingers through his hair . . .

His mouth was pressed into a hard line; she thought only of softening it by pressing her own lips to his.

“I want to talk to Brinsley,” Knightly said briskly. “Our best angle is to portray it as a crime of one rogue reporter, not endemic of the entire newspaper industry,” he added confidently.

“Understood, sir,” Damien said.

She, too, understood that numerous articles would soon appear suggesting exactly that, then rumors to that effect would circulate. It was only a matter of time before Londoners believed it as the gospel—and marveled how
The London Weekly
was always so in tune with the heart of the city.

The conversation ended and Owens stepped out of the office, bumping right into Annabelle.

“Oof,” she said. Again. For goodness sakes.

“Miss Swift! What are you doing here?” Owens asked, looking at her curiously.

“My shawl,” she said. She became aware of Knightly glancing at them through the open door. “I had forgotten it here. It’s my best one.”

“You probably left it in the writers’ room. I’ll go look with you,” Owens offered. Then he linked his arm with hers and led her along.

“What are you—” Annabelle started to ask in a hushed whisper, but Owens cut her off.

“Lovely weather today,” he remarked. What did that have to do with anything? And didn’t the man realize he ought to make his exit, leaving her alone with Knightly?

Owens followed her into the writer’s room and then he
closed the door,
effectively shutting them alone, together.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, reaching for the doorknob.

Owens blocked her access by stepping in front of the doorway. For the first time, she noticed that he was quite tall, and his shoulders were rather broad. His torso was flat and underneath his jacket he was probably well muscled from all of his dangerous exploits.

Her eyes locked with his. Dark brown. Long lashes. She had never noticed.

Annabelle’s mind reeled. This was not what she had planned. What on earth was occurring?

“Is this one of your schemes?” Owens asked, a slight grin playing on his lips. There was no escaping and avoiding the question.

He leaned against the door. Lord save her from men who leaned.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked. She didn’t want to answer the question. She didn’t quite know what was happening.

“Oh, come off it, Miss Swift. We’re not all as dense as he is,” Owens replied.

“So what if it is?” she asked, a bit miffed. “If so, you are standing in the way of my . . . story. My work. For the paper.”

Of true love,
she wanted to add. Instead, for emphasis, she uttered a certain three words for the first time in her life. “How dare you.”

Owens laughed. “It’s a good trick, Annabelle, leaving something behind. Classic. But how are you going to write about this without him discovering everything? He isn’t stupid.”

That was a good question. One she didn’t have an answer for. Especially since Owens was right: she couldn’t write about this without giving herself away. Again she realized that she hadn’t thought this through. She blamed deadlines for her hasty actions. And the sad fact that if she thought about something too much, then she’d never do it.

“I’ll come up with something,” she replied. The room felt small all of a sudden. And warm. Owens peered down at her with dark, velvety brown eyes.

His response was unexpected.

“You’re welcome,” he said bluntly.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, aghast. He was ruining her plans with every moment that he stood blocking the door with his tall and strong self and every second that he kept them mysteriously ensconced in this room. Together. Alone.

“Look, Annabelle, here is some free advice. Men thrive on rivalry. On the chase. On the challenge. And for the sake of your column, you need to raise some suspicions in his mind. If he’s certain that he’s the Nodcock, then it’s too easy. But if it might be me,” Owens let his voice trail off as the suggestion sank in.

Annabelle paused, allowing the words to sink in.

Making Knightly doubt would give her the liberty to write freely, without fear of betraying herself. It would make for better copy, which would make for better sales. And if there was one thing that caught Knightly’s eye like nothing else, it was stellar sales.

People had written her letters suggesting that she encourage a rival and competition, but she’d dismissed it as impossible, for who would play such a part with her?

Owens, that’s who. Owens who, she was now noticing, was a rather handsome young man.

“I see your point,” she conceded. “But why would you do this to help me?”

“Because the sooner he gets married and starts having a life outside of this office, the sooner I get a promotion,” Owens explained, as if it should have been obvious. “He’s not the only one with ambitions around here.”

“How does this work?” she asked.

“It’s already working. Because now you can write about this and he’ll wonder if you’re after me or him. It’ll make you interesting.”

“Are you saying I’m dull?” she asked, aghast. Again.

“Not anymore, Annabelle,” Owens said, grinning. “Not anymore.”

“I’m not quite sure how to take that,” she muttered, brow furrowing.

“I’m being helpful, Annabelle. And really, do something else with your hair,” he said.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, aghast. Again. But her hands reached up to that tight bun held fast by a ribbon and pins.

“Allow me,” Owens said softly, and reached out to expertly remove a hairpin or two, thus freeing a few wavy strands that fell softly around her cheeks. She watched him watching her. His gaze was warm and she saw something like wonder in his expression.

“Much better,” he murmured. Her lips parted but no sound emerged. Something was happening—something far more than the removal of a few hairpins. Annabelle, always one to shy away from things, took a step back.

And promptly tripped over a chair.

She started to fall, but Owens moved quickly to catch her in his arms.

At that moment Knightly happened to open the door, discovering her in the arms of another man with her hair tussled and her lips parted. She knew it could only mean one thing to him: that she and Owens were up to something wicked.

“Is something amiss?” Knightly inquired.

“I forgot my shawl,” Annabelle blurted out, which didn’t explain anything, really.

Owens helped her to her feet and stood by her side.

“I was assisting Miss Swift,” he said smoothly.

It wasn’t exactly a lie. Owens deviously let those words hang in the air, allowing Knightly to make assumptions. Annabelle watched Knightly process the scene with narrowed eyes and clenched jaw. Was Owens right? Was a rival just what she needed?

“I was just leaving to see about that thing we discussed,” Owens said, affectionately touching Annabelle on the elbow before quitting the room, leaving her alone with Knightly.

Knightly leaned against the doorjamb. She bit back a sigh. She did so love it when he leaned.

“That must be quite the shawl,” Knightly remarked.

“It’s my best one,” she replied, wrapping the blue cashmere around her even though she wasn’t cold in the slightest. Quite the contrary, in fact.

“Is there a particular event you require it for?” he asked politely. Too politely. As if he suspected that she was up to her neck in some sort of scheme. She told herself she was oversensitive.

“Church on Sunday, of course,” she said. But then she didn’t stop there, as she ought to have done. Nerves got the better of her. Rambling Annabelle took over: “Which will come before our next weekly staff meeting, and I didn’t dare risk forgetting to come another time. I must have my best shawl for church as it’s the only one that matches my best dress and of course I have to wear my best dress to church. Do you attend church?”

“No,” Knightly said flatly. “Not unless you count this.”

By “this” she presumed he meant
The London Weekly.

“Oh,” Annabelle replied. She did not know if that counted. Didn’t know how quite to reply, really. She loosened the shawl, for she was now quite hot. They really ought to open a window.

Knightly smiled at her in a way that made her heart race. Like he had a secret. Like they had a private joke. Like he knew she was up to something.

“I’m glad that you have your shawl,” he said. “Given that it’s June.”

“Oh, you know the weather in England . . . so very fickle,” Annabelle managed to reply.

“A second best shawl just wouldn’t do,” Knightly persisted, wickedly having fun at her expense, she was sure of it. This was not how this was supposed to go. And yet she was alone, with Knightly, when otherwise she would be sitting at home while her brother read the newspapers and Blanche read improving literature aloud to the family. Such was the unexciting life of Old Annabelle.

This was wicked good fun, and New Annabelle would enjoy it and play along.

“What makes you think I have a second best shawl?” She tried to sound perfectly natural, and thought she did an all right job of it.

“Your family owns a cloth importing business. If there is one thing you are lacking in, I would not put my money on it being shawls,” Knightly replied as her mouth parted slightly in shock.

Some days she had wondered if he even knew her name, and yet he was aware of her family’s business? Her jaw might have dropped open.

“How did you know that?”

“Miss Swift, it is my business to know,” Knightly replied. Then, pushing off the doorjamb, he stood tall and said, “Come, let’s take you home.”

“Oh I couldn’t impossibly intrude.” The words—stupid words refusing such a coveted invitation—were off her tongue before she could stop them because she knew her home was impossibly out of the way.