Seducing Mr. Knightly (29 page)

“What desperate measures do you have in mind?” Sophie asked.

“Well, there are quite a few options,” Annabelle said as she rummaged through her reticule and pulled out a packet of letters. “I have received dozens, but these are some of the more outrageous suggestions. This one says I ought to just print the truth in my column.”

“Direct. But not exactly thrilling,” Julianna replied.

“Unless you can be there when he reads it,” Sophie said. “How fascinating it would be to watch his reaction! I wonder if he knows and would just coolly lift one brow and—”

“Correct a comma and carry on,” Julianna added with a smirk.

“If he reads it, that is,” Annabelle grumbled.

“You are not still vexed about that?” Eliza asked. “Because I’d wager he’s poring over your every word these days.” Annabelle hoped that was the case. If he wasn’t wondering at this point, then he was more of a nodcock that she had thought.

“Perhaps. At any rate there are significantly more dramatic options than just telling him. For example, this one suggests I make a grand declaration at a ball.”

“It’s often so hard to hear in a ballroom,” Sophie said thoughtfully. “And if he’s in the card room or the necessary when you give your big speech, it would be all for naught.”

“With careful preparation, it could work,” Julianna said. “It’d be terrifically entertaining.”

“If I didn’t perish of mortification first,” Annabelle replied. She shuddered just thinking about speaking in public, let alone confessing the deep secrets of her heart to a crowd of strangers. “Here’s another one: write a sonnet that confesses his identity and my love for him, commission a printing of one thousand flyers with the sonnet and toss them ‘like leaves in the wind’ from a hot-air balloon.”

“That’s an awful lot of effort,” Eliza remarked. “But I know where you could get a hot-air balloon.”

The other Writing Girls peered at her curiously and decided not to pursue that avenue of conversation.

“People have quite the flair for the dramatic,” Julianna remarked, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. Eliza shrugged, reached over and selected a few of the pages from Annabelle.

“But a deplorable lack of consideration for logistics and costs,” Sophie said. “Especially when they are not paying for it. Not that I blame them for it.”

“If I’m to invest in this venture,” Annabelle said, “I’d rather just buy more silk dresses and underthings. I certainly wouldn’t spend it on printing sonnets or chartering hot-air balloons.”

“Especially if you follow this reader’s advice,” Eliza said, ”and run through the streets in broad daylight, wearing nothing but your unmentionables, proclaiming your love at the top of your voice.” Sophie reached out for one, too.

“This one literally suggests shouting your love from the rooftops,” she said with a laugh.

“I’ll be carted off to Bedlam!” Annabelle exclaimed.

“It almost makes this one sound sane,” Eliza said, looking up from the page in her hands. “Simply steal into his bedroom at the midnight hour.”

“And then what?” Annabelle asked.

“Annabelle, please,” Julianna said with a dose of exasperation in her voice. “Surely it’s been covered in your novels and our conversations. If it hasn’t been, then I am ashamed of our discussions and your reading material.”

“Knightly will either ravish you or he will send you home directly,” Sophie clarified.

“But when do I tell him?
What
do I tell him?” Annabelle asked, anxious. It was well and truly time for some sort of reckoning. If Knightly wasn’t going to figure out that he was the Nodcock and
do something about it,
then she would make it abundantly clear so that he’d have no choice but to explain himself. Yet she wasn’t sure how to make such a declaration.

“I can just see it now: ‘Oh, good evening, Knightly! I just thought I’d drop by at this outrageously inappropriate hour to let you know that you are the Nodcock.’ ”

“There would be no room for ambiguity or misunderstanding,” Julianna pointed out.

“Oh, he’ll know he’s the Nodcock the minute she falls off the windowsill onto his carpet,” Sophie said. “Why else would she steal into his bedroom at the midnight hour?”

“We’ll have to dress you in breeches,” Eliza said, apropos of nothing.

“Why?” Annabelle asked, very nervous about the answer.

“For when you climb up a tree to the second-story window.” Eliza said this so matter-of-factly that Annabelle was aghast.

“Are you mad?” she said. “Breeches! Climbing to a second-story window! Do you even know if there is a tree to climb?”

For goodness sakes, until recently the most daring thing she had done was lower her bodices or pretend a swoon. This was in another league entirely.

“Grand Gesture, Annabelle,” Julianna reminded her. “Think of the great story this will make. Readers will devour it, and if nothing else, there is nothing Knightly loves like a stellar week of sales.”

She was, alas, correct. But still . . . Annabelle was not convinced. Obstacles. She needed to present logical and insurmountable obstacles to this cork-brained scheme.

“I’m not sure of his address,” she said.

“Number ten, Bruton Street. The red brick house,” Julianna answered easily.

“Nor do I have breeches,” Annabelle pointed out.

“I do,” Sophie said. “They were Brandon’s back in the day. Of course you may borrow them.”

“You’re too kind. But I have no idea how to climb a tree or a wall,” she said with some desperation.

“It’s easy, I can show you,” Eliza said with a mischievous smile.

And that was how Annabelle came to be perched precariously on the windowsill of Knightly’s bedroom. In breeches. In the midnight hour.

Chapter 35

Annabelle, Out on a Limb

D
EAR
A
NNABELLE

On behalf of your readers, I do declare it is time you employ drastic measures.

Penelope from Piccadilly

The London Weekly

A
NNABELLE
generally believed in focusing upon the positive things in life. Thus, as she dangled precariously in the tree outside of Knightly’s house, she thought, At least I’m not in a hot-air balloon. As per Eliza’s tree-climbing instructions, she kept hold of one branch at all times and thanked her lucky stars her friend advised her to wear gloves. Her friend did not mention this activity would ruin said gloves. But at least she would get a new pair. A small consolation.

That is, if she survived.

As Annabelle increased her distance from the ground, she had second thoughts. Did love really require grand gestures? Wasn’t true love to be found in the little things, like holding one’s hand or sitting comfortably around a gentle fire? Inside. On the ground.

When it came time to ease off the rough branch and onto the stone windowsill, Annabelle saw new merit in the suggestion of dashing through the crowded city streets clad in nothing but her unmentionables. Surely that was a much less perilous activity.

She finally reached the window of what she hoped was Knightly’s bedchamber. Although, a small part of her hoped she tumbled into an empty room and could slink away and pretend this whole thing never happened.

She held onto a branch and with one hand reached out precariously to open the window. One awful truth was clear:

The window was locked.

“Oh no,” she muttered. “Oh no, no, no, no, no.”

An unfortunate creaking sound emerged from the branch. The kind of creaking sound before the whole limb threatened to break off and plummet to the ground.

“No,” Annabelle told it. “Stay.”

She felt it sag under her weight. Awkwardly, she adjusted her position to rely more heavily on the windowsill.

Some bits of gravel and brick broke off, falling ominously to the ground.

Desperately and carefully, she tried to open the window again. It was large, heavy, and very much locked.

She really ought to have run through the streets in her unmentionables instead.

“Okay, Annabelle, you have three options,” she said. Yes, she was now speaking aloud to herself. If she survived this, then she’d go straight to Bedlam and check herself in for the safety of herself and tree branches everywhere.

Option the first:
attempt to climb down and hopefully pretend nothing ever happened. And never ever complain about a lack of romance or grand gestures again. At the moment both seemed vastly overrated, and it was her noble duty to warn every other young, romantic woman that she ought to relinquish such foolish notions.

Option the second:
Holler for help. Because when one was in such a mortifying position, drawing the attention of the entire neighborhood was just the thing. Option the second was quickly dismissed.

Option the third:
knock on the window. And pray that a very blind and mute servant assisted her entry and subsequent exit from the house so no one would be any wiser.

The sound of wood splitting rent through the night air. The branch suffered some fractures. Annabelle’s heart missed a few beats.

Option the fourth:
fall to her death in Knightly’s garden. It would make a dreadful mess, and be terribly awkward for him, she presumed. She did so hate to inconvenience people . . . However, she would be dead and presumably no longer plagued by such worries.

Annabelle instead knocked on the window glass. And waited. She knocked again.

Somewhere nearby a cat mewled. A dark cloud passed over the cool, bright moon. A cool breeze rustled the leaves on the tree.

This was his bedroom window, was it not? It had been a calculated guess based upon Julianna’s visit to Lady Pettigrew’s home just two doors down.

“Oh blast,” Annabelle muttered.

The tree branch cracked and creaked again.

“Curses,” she swore. “Gosh darn it to heck.”

Annabelle knocked on the window again. And finally, oh finally, Knightly opened the window. She had never been so happy to see him. She had also never wished to see him less.

“Annabelle?” He rubbed his eyes as if he could not believe that she was perilously clinging to his windowsill and a tree branch.

“Hello,” she said.
Hello? Oh for Lord’s sake.
She was trapped on his windowsill, clinging desperately for her life, in the middle of the night, so
Hello
probably wasn’t the worst thing she could have said. She ought to have gone with
Help
instead.

“What the devil are you doing?” he asked. Rightfully so. But truly, not the best time.

“Um, a grand romantic gesture?” she offered. He lifted one brow and didn’t say a word. He was going to let her ramble out an explanation, drat the man. Well in that case she would give the only reason he would accept. “This is actually research for my column. For
The Weekly
.”

“I know where you work, Annabelle.”

“One of my readers suggested it . . .” Her mouth went dry when she saw that he was not completely attired. He wore breeches. And a shirt that was carelessly thrown on and not one button done up. Not one. His bare chest was exposed. His hard bare chest. It was very flat, except for all the planes and ridges of his muscles. She thought about tracing her fingers along . . . feeling him . . .

And it would be the last thing she ever did. Falling to her death because she let go of her tree branch in order to caress Knightly’s bare chest.

“I recognize that this is an unexpected and increasingly awkward situation,” Annabelle said. “I considered climbing down and pretending nothing ever happened, but the branch is beginning to break—I’m terribly sorry and you can take it out of my wages.”

She paused for breath and to consider the cost of one, lone tree branch. “The fact of the matter is that I’d be much obliged if you’d help me in. It turns out that given the choice, I’d rather die of embarrassment instead of falling and breaking my neck.”

“Come inside, Annabelle. But you have some explaining to do.”

Knightly held out his hand. She hesitated. The prospect of explaining to him that he was the Nodcock, that she had involved all of
The Weekly
’s readers in a scheme to seduce him, and that she risked her neck to do so, all while he wore naught but fitted breeches and an open shirt was just . . . unfathomable, impossible, and utterly terrifying.

She really ought to have run through the streets in her unmentionables. This was London, no one would have blinked twice.

But the branch cracked further, and a shriek might have escaped her.