Seducing Mr. Knightly (5 page)

“Oh, look, if it isn’t Lord Marsden,” Sophie said flirtatiously to a handsome man walking by; the very one Knightly had been speaking with on the terrace.

The man in question stopped and gave the duchess a delicious smile. Annabelle recalled a mention of his name from Grenville’s parliamentary reports (the man was apparently a born leader) and from Julianna’s gossip columns (the man was widely regarded as an eminently eligible bachelor). She knew he worked closely with the Duke of Brandon, Sophie’s husband, on parliamentary matters.

“If it isn’t the lovely duchess,” Marsden replied with an easy smile and kissing Sophie’s outstretched hand.

“Don’t flirt with me, Marsden,” Sophie admonished. “Please meet my friend, Miss Swift. You may know her as Dear Annabelle.”

“From the pages of
The Weekly
?” This, Marsden inquired with brow lifted. It was not an unexpected question, given that it was well known that Sophie wrote for the paper and alternately covered society weddings and the latest fashions.

“The very one,” she replied.

Annabelle noted that this Lord Marsden was so classically, perfectly handsome that she found herself reluctantly searching for some flaw. His hair was blond, and brushed back from his perfectly chiseled cheekbones. If anything, he wore a dash too much pomade. But his eyes were warm and brown and they focused upon her.

Most importantly, he knew of her writing. She liked him immediately.

“You have a gift, Miss Swift,” he said, and she found herself smiling. “I have often remarked at how gently you advise and rebuke people, whereas I would be sorely tempted to write something along the lines of ‘You are a nodcock. Cease at once.’ Tell me, did you ever consider it?”

“Everybody deserves sensitivity and a genuine—” She stopped when he arranged his handsome features into a look of utter skepticism. “Oh, very well, yes!” she said, laughter escaping her.

“If you do ever call someone a nodcock in print, it would please me immeasurably,” Lord Marsden said, grinning.

Annabelle laughed. Then she caught a glimpse of Knightly speaking with a beautiful woman, decked in diamonds.

“I can foresee an instance when I might,” Annabelle remarked coyly. When did she ever say anything coyly? Goodness. It must be those silky underthings she dared to wear this evening, making her bold. Or the warmth and encouragement in Marsden’s expression.

“Would you like to waltz, Dear Annabelle?” Lord Marsden asked, offering his arm. She linked hers in his and allowed him to lead her to join the other dancers. It was only after the first steps of the waltz that she realized Sophie had quietly slipped away. And that she had lost sight of Knightly because she’d ceased to pay attention to his every movement. And that she didn’t know how to waltz. And that she was quite excited to try with Lord Marsden.

She thought the evening couldn’t possibly improve, however . . .

Chapter 5

The Dangers of Dimly Lit Corridors

D
EAR
A
NNABELLE

If one wishes for romantic encounters, one ought to abandon the ballroom and venture to places more secluded and dimly lit, such as the terrace, or corridors . . . But do so at your own risk!

Yours Fondly,

A Rakish Rogue

The London Weekly

A dimly lit corridor

A
NNABELLE
swayed on her feet, light-headed and breathless.

The hour was late and her senses had been dulled by the pleasant fatigue of waltzing and two glasses of finely sparkling champagne. Happily, she hummed a tune under her breath and imagined Knightly asking her to waltz as she made her way back to the ballroom through a dimly lit corridor.

And then she walked straight into a gentleman. Or he barreled right into her. One might say they collided. The result was, Annabelle swayed on her feet, and breathlessly uttered a single, unfortunate syllable: “Oof.”

Then her senses started to focus and she noticed she had crashed into a very fine wool jacket, a crisp white linen shirt, and a dark silk waistcoat, all of which covered a rather firm and broad male chest.

Had she known it was Knightly, she might have lingered to breathe in the scent of him (a combination of wool, faint cigar smoke, brandy, and
him
) or savor the feel of him under her palms (and not just the quality of his wool jacket either). She certainly wouldn’t have said “Oof” like a barnyard animal.

Two warm, bare hands grasped her arms to hold her steady.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she had said, stepping back and tilting her head up to see who owned this firm chest that positively radiated heat and impelled her to curl up against it. Her eyes adjusted to light and then widened considerably when she saw whom she had collided with: Knightly, the man of her dreams, the King of her heart, the object of her affections . . .

“Miss Swift,” Knightly said, with a nod in greeting. “My apologies, I hadn’t seen you.”

Of course he didn’t. He never did. But that was just the way of things. Also the way of things was her unfortunate tendency to either go mute in his presence or ramble excessively. She had yet to manage a normal conversation with the man.

“Mr. Knightly. Good evening. I’m sorry, I was not attending to my surroundings . . .” Annabelle rambled. To her horror, the words kept coming, oblivious to her fervent wishes to stop. “Obviously, I had not seen you. For if I had seen you, I certainly wouldn’t have barreled headlong into you.”

Surely some reader was bound to suggest the very tactic.

“So I gathered. Are you all right?” He inquired politely.

“Yes, quite. Though your chest is rather hard,” Annabelle said. Then she closed her eyes and groaned. Had she
really
just said that? Was it too much to ask that she not make a complete nitwit of herself all the time?

“Thank you,” he replied, ever so gentlemanly. But there was enough light to see that he was amused.

“My apologies. A lady ought not attend to such things, or mention them aloud. Rest assured I would never advise a reader to—” She was babbling. She couldn’t stop.

And yet, through the mortification a sweet truth dawned. She was alone with Knightly. And she was dressed for the occasion. Even better, she had felt the firm strength of his chest for one extraordinarily exquisite second that she wished to repeat (albeit in a far more seductive manner).

“I’m sure that would be scandalous, if you did tell a reader to compliment a man thusly. However, I can’t imagine any man would be bothered by it,” Knightly said, a faint grin on his lips, which was his way of saying it was fine. She exhaled in relief.

“But I do apologize that I wasn’t attending to my surroundings. I was quite distracted.”

“Something on your mind?” Knightly inquired. And then he folded his arms over his very hard chest and leaned against the wall. He gazed down at her.

That was all it took for the world to shift on its axis, right under her feet.

Because Knightly had asked her a question. About herself. About her
mind.

How to answer
that
?

“Oh, just enjoying the evening. And you?” she replied, hoping to sound as if she chatted with dashing gentleman all the time and wasn’t beset with nerves. Even though every nerve in her body with tingling pleasantly. For here she was in a dark, secluded place having
an actual conversation
with Knightly.

More to the point, it was a conversation that was not about the newspaper.

“This evening has been . . . interesting,” he replied.

“How so?” Annabelle asked, still breathless, but now for an altogether different reason.

“Life takes a strange turn upon occasion, does it not?” he remarked, and she didn’t quite know what he was referring to, only that it fit her moment perfectly.

“Oh, yes,” she replied. What gods had conspired to bring about this fortuitous occurrence of circumstances, Annabelle knew not. But she was happy. And hopeful. And proud of herself for trying; this had to be her reward.

Now if only she could prolong the moment . . .

“The duchess has outdone herself this evening,” Knightly said. “We’d better return before—”

“Someone notices that we are missing,” Annabelle said, perhaps a touch too eagerly. Not that she would mind being caught in a compromising position with him. Not at all.

“Or before someone else with less noble intentions accosts you in the dark hallway. Can’t have any danger befall my Writing Girls,” he said, gently pressing his palm to her elbow, guiding them both to the ballroom.

Annabelle only smiled faintly and wondered if it was wrong to wish a gentleman’s intentions were less than noble.

Chapter 6

The London Coffeehouse: Meeting Place of “Gentlemen”

F
ASHIONABLE
I
NTELLIGENCE BY A
L
ADY OF
D
ISTINCTION

The London Weekly
’s own Mr. Knightly was seen waltzing with Lady Lydia Marsden, whose talents and elegance in the waltz surpass all others. We can only wonder what they discussed; perhaps he has uncovered the secret to her missing season?

The London Weekly,
as edited by D. Knightly

G
ALLOWAY’S
coffeehouse was full of men, high- and lowborn alike, sipping coffee and delving into the assortment of periodicals offered. Everything from literary publications to periodicals devoted to sport. The air was full of men’s conversations both serious and bawdy, cigar smoke, the heavy fragrance of coffee, and the shuffling of pages.

Knightly was in the habit of meeting at Galloway’s every Saturday, joined by Peter Drummond, a playwright and theater owner—who had been his comrade in trouble since Cambridge—and their scoundrel of a friend, Julian Gage, a renowned stage actor who was better known for his disastrous romantic entanglements than the quality of his acting.

After all, it’s not like White’s would admit the likes of them as members. They hadn’t the birth, status, wealth, or connections required for access to that exclusive enclave. Galloway’s was their club instead.

“Women never bloody listen to me,” Drummond muttered into his newspaper. He grasped a handful of his salt and pepper hair in utter vexation. “I vow, I could tell a lass to get out of a sinking boat and she’d protest.”

“Is that in reference to something specific or the general lament that women don’t take the advice of a man who makes up stories for a living?” Knightly asked casually. A copy of
Cobott’s Weekly Register
lay before him.

“It’s playwriting. And your mother would have your head to hear you dismiss the theater like that. If you must know, I am grumbling about your Dear Annabelle,” Drummond answered. He punctuated this with a frustrated shake of the newspaper.

Knightly coolly lifted one brow. The conversation had suddenly turned toward the unexpected and possibly unfathomable.