Seducing Mr. Knightly (11 page)

That’s what happened when one made a habit of being deferential and always thinking of others first. It became an automatic behavior that, in spite of her every effort, she still occasionally defaulted to.

“I couldn’t call myself a gentleman and allow you to go off into the London night. Alone,” Knightly said. She had come alone, for Spinster Aunties such as herself didn’t have chaperones, they were chaperones.

“Well if you insist,” Annabelle replied, quite possibly sounding coy for the first time in her life.

Chapter 12

Carriage Rides Ought to Be Chaperoned

D
EAR
A
NNABELLE

Some gentlemen are N.S.I.C. (Not Safe in Carriages). I hope your nodcock is one them.

Frisky on Farringdon Road

The London Weekly

K
NIGHTLY
couldn’t say
why,
but the prospect of this journey with Miss Swift intrigued him. Possibly because she was the last female in the world he expected to find himself alone with, like this. Shy, quiet, pretty, unassuming Annabelle. Seated nervously across from him in the dim, velvet interior of his carriage.

She was a woman whom he’d barely given any thought to for four years, and now she constantly intruded upon his thoughts and conversations. Everyone, it seemed, was talking about Annabelle.

She was also a woman who by all accounts had no romantic entanglements until just this week, when he could link her to two unlikely prospects.

Lord Marsden, a bloody marquis and a notoriously charming one, sending her roses.

And then there was
something
between her and Damien Owens. How else to explain her tussled hair, pink cheeks, and the fact that she was in his arms?

More irritating was why the thought of them together bothered him. So much so that he’d left his desk to investigate their lengthy silence behind a closed door. And when he opened it? The sight before him sent a surge of jealously, and a desire to plant a facer on Owens.

And now here he was, alone, with Annabelle.

“Where to, Miss Swift?” he asked once they were settled into his carriage. It was a very fine carriage, if he did say so himself: the newest design, comfortable forest green velvet seats, black lacquer detailing. He did enjoy the trappings of success: a stately home, the finest tailoring, and the best of anything money could buy.

“One hundred fifty Montague Street, Bloomsbury,” she answered. “Or did you already know that?”

“I already knew. But it seemed prudent to confirm your destination in the event you planned to go elsewhere,” Knightly said.
Like Lord Marsden’s residence. Or Owens’s flat.
The thought caused a knot to form in his gut.

“That is very considerate of you,” she replied, and then paused, obviously debating whether to say what was on her mind. In the habit of snap decisions himself, it was intriguing to watch this internal debate.

“What else do you know about me?” Annabelle decided to ask. He watched her straighten her spine as she did, as if it required such determination to do so.

“You are six and twenty years of age,” he answered.

“It’s not polite to mention that,” she replied, inadvertently confirming it.

“You live with your brother, the cloth merchant, and his wife. You have doled out advice to the curious, lovelorn, and unfortunate for about three years,” Knightly told her.

It was an easy matter to accumulate basic facts about people, which often proved useful to have in hand.

Some other newly discovered facts would go unmentioned: Annabelle looked angelic with her tussled golden curls free of the knot she usually kept her hair in. And yet her mouth—all plump and red—hinted of sin. When she smiled, there was a slight dimple in her left cheek. She was prone to blushes and sighs, and he thought it fascinating that one should be able to feel so passionately and to show it.

He never could. But that was a woman for you. Most of them never had a thought or feeling they didn’t share.

“I’m curious what you know of me,” he said, turning the tables on her. She smiled, and thought for a moment, as if debating where to begin.

“I know that you are five and thirty years of age, that your mother is an actress, you have a town house in Mayfair, and your handwriting is an impossible scrawl,” she replied pertly.

“And that my chest is firm,” Knightly couldn’t resist adding.

Annabelle only groaned in response. He couldn’t quite see in the dim light of the carriage, but he would wager that a blush was creeping into her cheeks.

“You embarrass easily,” he said, adding to his list of Facts About Annabelle.

“Did you know that already or are you only just discovering it?” she asked with a laugh.

“I’m learning,” he said. He knew less about her than the other Writing Girls mainly because the others were in the habit of barging into his office, giving him a piece of their mind, and generally raising hell and causing trouble.

In fact, this might have been the longest conversation he and Annabelle had to date. Funny, that.

“I also know that your column has been the talk of the town,” he added. Besides Drummond, Gage, and his mother, everyone seemed to be talking about Dear Annabelle’s quest to win the Nodcock. (Owens? Or Marsden?) In every meeting he took, be it with a writer or fellow businessmen, they were discussing the matter. He’d even overheard his valet and butler in a heated discussion over just how low a woman’s bodice should go.

“What do you think of my column lately?” she asked.

“It has been immensely popular,” Knightly said. “You even have the blokes in the coffeehouses devoted to it. You should keep up the ruse as long as possible, because readers love it.” Annabelle’s Adventures in Love made for a great story. Great stories equaled great sales.

Also, the continuation of the ruse meant delayed satisfaction for Owens. Or was it Marsden? One of the two was surely the infamous Nodcock.

“I see,” she said softly, and idly stroked the velvet of the carriage seat. She looked out the window for a moment. It was as if a cloud passed over, for she suddenly was just a bit less vivacious. It was as if he’d said the wrong thing, which was confusing, as he had intended a compliment.

“The mail clerks have been complaining to me about the volume of letters you are receiving,” he said, hoping that a mention of her popularity would bring back some brightness.

“They always complain about that,” Annabelle said with a smile. “People do love to send their problems to me.”

“You must have a knack for solving them. And giving good advice,” he said idly. Her shawl had slipped off her shoulders, exposing her first trick in attracting that nodcock. Knightly was suddenly aware that he desired her, and that they were alone.

“I must have? Do you not
know
?” she asked, peering up at him with those big blue eyes of hers. He’d lost track of the conversation, distracted as he’d been by the swells of her breasts and a dawning awareness of his desire for Annabelle.

“I don’t know how your readers fare after your suggestions. Or what constitutes good advice, which is why you won’t see me penning your column. I have three truths I live by, that is all.” And really, did a man need more? No.

“Scandal equals sales,” Annabelle said, predictably sounding bored, as all the writers did when reciting that particular phrase. Yet it worked like a charm. They shared a grin over the shared knowledge.

“What is the next one?” she asked.

“Drama is for the page,” he told her. Even though he never actually said these truths aloud and he especially didn’t talk about them. But with Dear Annabelle it felt safe to do so.

“Funny, given that your mother is an actress,” Annabelle remarked.

“Or precisely because my mother is an actress,” he countered.

“More drama
off
the page would be greatly welcomed by me,” Annabelle said wistfully. “Of course, it must be different for men. There is very little adventure and excitement available to us unmarried females.”

“Doesn’t this count?” he asked. It was just a carriage ride. But there was nothing to stop him from tugging her into his lap and ravishing her completely. Nothing, that is, save for his self-restraint, which seemed to be eroding with every moment.

It was just Annabelle,
or so he tried to tell himself. But it wasn’t. He was discovering, slowly but surely, that Annabelle possessed a mouth he wished to taste, pale skin he wanted to touch, and breasts that—oh God, the wicked thoughts she inspired. How had he not noticed her all these years?

In his defense, she hadn’t been wearing these revealing dresses until lately. She pulled the shawl up closer around her shoulders. Her best shawl, she had said. Or a ruse to meet privately with Owens?

“Oh, yes, this might count as an adventure,” she replied with a smile that might actually be described as wicked. “Fortunately for you, I am not a Person of Consequence. Nor will my relatives ask you to declare your intentions.”

“Why is that?” Knightly asked, because that was a deuced unusual attitude for relatives of unmarried females. Usually they were keen to foist off their sisters and daughters as early and as soon as possible. Look at Marsden, for instance.

“That would mean losing their free household help,” Annabelle said. She forced a laughed that stabbed at his heart. She tried to be light about it but came just short of succeeding. “Blanche has actually done the math . . .”

Knightly assumed Blanche was her brother’s wife, and that she must be horrid. The impulse to rescue Annabelle from this wretched situation stole over him; he chalked it up to some notion of ingrained gentlemanly behavior. Or too many hours at the theater.

Drama is for the page. Repeat. Drama is for the page.

“No wonder you crave adventure,” he said, steering the conversation away from the apparently awful Swift household.

While the words still hung in the air a huge thud and a jolt rocked the carriage, sending Annabelle flying into his lap and bringing the vehicle to a halt. A loud commotion ensued just outside of the carriage. They must have collided with another vehicle.

He ought to go see what happened.

Knightly remained inside and discovered new things about Annabelle. She was warm. He knew this because he was suddenly, incredibly overheated. And she was luscious. He’d instinctively wrapped his arms around her to keep her steady. He felt the curve of her hips, the curve of her bottom, the curve of her breasts.

Fact: Annabelle was a tempting armful of woman. It wasn’t just her mouth that tempted a man to sin. The rest of her, too.

Tempting as sin, that Angelic Annabelle.

How had he not discovered this about her before?

For one thing, he hadn’t held her in his arms before. He certainly hadn’t done so for longer than was necessary or proper.

Knightly also discovered that his body very much liked Annabelle on his lap. In fact, certain portions of his anatomy strained to display its fondness. It was positively indecent how much he liked it.

“I should go see what happened,” he said, though it was another moment before either made an attempt to move.

As they disentangled themselves, he might have accidentally been less than concerned about the proper placement of his hands and might have unintentionally brushed his hand against certain round portions of her person.

He was a man, after all.

But it was wrong. She worked for him. Worked . . . for . . . him.

To play there would be to take unfair advantage. And it would be just a dalliance, given his impending betrothal to Lady Marsden. All of which would inevitably lead to hurt feelings, awkwardness, issues of pride, etc., etc., and the loss of one of his writers who was currently writing an increasingly popular column.

Annabelle was Off Limits.

As Knightly stepped out into the crisp evening air, his first thought had nothing to do with the melee before him. His first thought was:
Good thing Annabelle has her shawl.

And then he focused on the situation at hand.

A collision had occurred between two carriages. One of them, unfortunately, belonged to him. The cattle were fine, thank God. No one was injured, save for some minor damage to his conveyance. The occupants of the offending vehicle were hollering and blustering and it took some time before Knightly’s cool demeanor calmed them down, sorted out the mess, and sent everyone on their way.

Meanwhile, he was aware of Annabelle watching from the carriage windows. Which is why he did not take a swing at the man who accused his driver of ineptitude and hurled curses at everyone in vicinity. It was the reason why Knightly was in such a hurry to have the matter resolved. Not that he would have ever been inclined for a drawn-out scene, but knowing Annabelle waited in the dim confines of his carriage lent an urgency to the situation.