Seducing Mr. Knightly (16 page)

The competition was fierce. Swifts were not known for being fierce.

“Just be you, Annabelle. Or the you that you are becoming,” Sophie urged gently.

“If he doesn’t notice and fall madly in love, then to hell with him,” Julianna declared.

What she wouldn’t give to possess Julianna’s fiery streak. Or Sophie’s confidence. Or Eliza’s daring.

The words “to hell with him” didn’t just stick in Annabelle’s throat, she couldn’t fathom uttering such a phrase. Not for Knightly. Not for love.

“What have your readers suggested you try next?” Eliza asked, slightly changing the subject.

“Oh . . .” Annabelle sighed evasively. That was another issue. She had tried all the easy things. Each week the suggestions grew more and more outrageous.

“Annabelle, what do the heroines of the novels you like to read do?” Sophie asked.

“That’s just the thing, you see. The most compelling suggestion from a reader is to faint into Knightly’s arms, but no heroine worth her smelling salts would ever
faint
.”

And that was precisely what Swooning on Seymour Street had advised her to do: feign a faint and hope the man who never noticed her would catch her when she fell.

Chapter 18

Impossible Advice

D
EAR
A
NNABELLE

Fetch the smelling salts!

The London Weekly

Annabelle’s attic bedchamber

O
F
all the letters Annabelle had received in her years as an advice columnist, of those hundreds upon thousands of questions and pleas, not one had tugged at her conscious, tormented soul or broke her heart quite like this one.

It quite took her breath away, this letter. Squeezed the air right out of her lungs.

It came from Lady Lydia Marsden. Not that she signed her name; Annabelle recognized the crest on the sealing wax. It was the same crest that accompanied the note that had been tucked into the bouquet of pink roses her brother sent. This little slip revealed oh so much more than the author intended.

If Annabelle hadn’t noticed that detail, she would have easily composed a reply urging one to pursue true love at all costs. But Annabelle had noticed, and thought twice about encouraging her rival to increase her efforts to ensnare the man she herself loved.

After she finally completed her domestic drudgery for the day—tending to the children’s bedtime routine, dusting Blanche’s collection of breakable porcelain shepherdesses with a scrap of white flannel, mending her brother’s shirts—Annabelle returned to her bedchamber to practice fainting, along with reading her letters and drafting her next column.

Now she actually did feel faint, thanks to this letter. Who needed air, anyway? Who needed to breathe when her heart was torn in two?

Where were the smelling salts when a girl needed them?

The letter began
Dear Annabelle
, as all letters to her did. It read:

I am in love with an unsuitable man, for his station is far below mine. My brother wishes me to marry another. Surely you, Dear Annabelle, believe in the love match! My dear brother will listen to you. Perhaps you might advocate for true love as the primary consideration in marriage?

Scandalously in Love in Mayfair

Annabelle understood, plain as day: Lady Lydia had fallen in love with Knightly. Given that she was the sister of a marquis and he was the son of an actress . . . of course they could not be together.

How on earth was she to advise Lady Lydia without compromising her own ideals (true love!) or without compromising her own aims (Knightly!)?

Annabelle believed in love the way the Pope believed in the holy trinity or physicists believed in gravity. She could not, in good conscience, advise Lydia
not
to pursue true love. Yet to encourage Lady Lydia was to thwart her own aims. Could she so willingly thwart herself?

A heroine would fight for her love, Annabelle thought as she tucked the letter into her copy of
Belinda
and stuck the novel high on the shelf.

A heroine would also never be so lily-livered as to faint, and certainly not deliberately. And yet . . .

Annabelle stood next to her bed for a soft landing. She wavered on her feet. The waver had to be essential, so that Knightly would have a moment to, oh, notice she was unsteady and prepare to catch her. For dramatic effect, she tenderly draped the back of her hand across her brow.

And then she let go . . .

Let herself simply collapse . . .

No more strained effort to keep her spine straight and proud. No more tense muscles, awaiting some kiss or heated gaze that never came her way. She allowed her knees to be weak (for that happened to heroines all the time). She allowed herself to stop trying so darned hard to be still and strong in a world with all odds stacked high against her.

She fell softly on her feather mattress. Her breath escaped in a whoosh.

She had let go and landed unharmed.

She stood again, and closed her eyes this time. She released all of the problems that came her way—those of her readers, Lady Lydia’s, and those of her own creation. Just let them, let herself, go.

This time when she faux fainted she let her arms splay out. Her hair started to escape from its confines and it felt so pleasant to be so unrestrained. She thought of Owens, and that he was right to risk such an intimate gesture to loosen those hairpins. To let her hair down. To let herself go.

Again and again Annabelle practiced her swoon. Again and again she discovered the pleasure of letting go.

Chapter 19

A Lady’s Guide to Feigning Faints

T
HE
M
AN
A
BOUT
T
OWN

Lord Harrowby has pledged his support of Lord Marsden’s Inquiry.

The London Times

Offices of
The London Weekly

T
HE
meeting passed as all the others did. Her heart thudded, the butterflies in her stomach fluttered, her eyelashes batted. And above all Annabelle admired. Even his rumored courtship of Lady Lydia, while troubling, was not sufficient to thwart her passion for him.

In fact, for the first time in her life, Annabelle felt . . . competitive. Old Annabelle put everyone else’s needs first. New Annabelle fought for her beliefs, and loves, and desires.

Oh, yes, desires.

The meeting proceeded, and she didn’t hear a word.

When Knightly wasn’t leaning like some devil-may-care rogue with all the time in the world for some Grand Seduction, he stood tall with his wide shoulders thrown back. As someone who usually turned in on herself as if to take shelter from the world, she admired how he always seemed poised to manage anything. And everything.

Knightly was so controlled, too, from the lift of his brow to the tug of a grin. He did not tap his fingers or his foot in idle energy. He didn’t run his fingers through his hair rakishly, or fidget in any way. His every movement was restrained and possessed by purpose.

She could only imagine if they made love, what it would be like to have that energy—his blue eyes, his strong hands—harnessed and focused upon herself. In bed. Making love. With Knightly. Honestly, she didn’t think she’d survive that.

“Annabelle, are you overheated?” Knightly interrupted the meeting to ask.

She sighed, so mortified there was no point in pretending otherwise. There was no denying the telltale redness of her cheeks.

“Perhaps you should remove your shawl,” Owens suggested with a rakish grin and a suggestive nod of his head. Knightly scowled at him.

“I’m not feeling quite myself,” Annabelle said, to foreshadow what was to come. But wasn’t that the truth! Her own thoughts were making her feel faint. Perhaps a feigned swoon wasn’t necessary. She’d just have to keep imagining Knightly. Making Love. In bed. With her.

The clothing would have to go. Each layer stripped off. She vividly recalled how warm and firm his chest was. She could only imagine it uncovered . . . could only imagine his hot, naked skin next to her own. Could only imagine how that faint stubble upon his jaw would feel against her cheek as they kissed and . . .

She did imagine. In great detail. Her face positively flamed.

Other parts of her were rather warm as well, starting in her belly and fanning out. Warm and aching for something . . . she knew not what, exactly. Just that she’d do anything to find satisfaction for this craving.

For one thing, she’d start by fainting into Knightly’s arms this very afternoon.

Knightly glanced at her, concerned.

“Owens, open the window,” he ordered. Owens did and a rush of cool air stole over her scorching skin. She almost sighed from the pleasure of it.

“Are you quite all right? Should we abandon the mission?” Julianna whispered.

“I’m fine. Just warm,” Annabelle replied briskly. It had nothing to do with the temperature in the room, and everything to do with the scorching thoughts in her head. Her. Knightly. Limbs tangled. His lips upon her skin.

“I wonder why . . .” Julianna murmured.

“You wonder no such thing, Julianna,” Annabelle hissed. No one could know that she was entertaining the most wanton, lustful fantasies when she ought to be occupying her brain with serious thoughts.

“Oh, Knightly, if I might have a word with you . . .” Julianna requested at the end of the meeting as the other writers were quitting the room. Annabelle lingered by her friend’s side.

This was all part of the plan to faint into his arms. She realized now what an extraordinary leap of faith this required. To expect the man who never noticed her to catch her when she fell. This was madness.

What was the worst that could happen? Julianna would catch her. Or she might collapse on the floor, possibly doing herself an injury. Yet she would certainly survive it, and Lord knows she’d already survived embarrassment in front of Knightly.

Like this afternoon, when she thought about him hot and naked, entwined with her . . . His kiss. His touch.

“Oooh,” she groaned again. Really, this must stop. Knightly glanced at her, his blue eyes narrowed in concern.

“What is it, Julianna?” he asked. He stood close enough to Annabelle that she thought her plan might just work. His arm brushed against hers as he folded his arms over his chest. She recalled the last time she’d been so close to him—at the theater—and the mortifying brush of her hand upon his . . .

Oh, her skin felt positively aflame.

“It’s about Lady Marsden,” Julianna said, her voice low. Knightly leaned in. Annabelle groaned again—this time it had nothing to do with her feigned faint or explicit romantic thoughts.

That cursed letter still remained, unanswered, and tucked in a volume of
Belinda
on the highest shelf in her bedroom.

“I told you, no mentions of the Marsdens,” Knightly said firmly. Impatiently. He loves her, Annabelle thought wildly, and Lady Lydia loves him. They were star-crossed lovers, with cruel brothers and society conspiring against them! Every reader of romantic novels knew it was a recipe for some Grand Gesture and Bold Romantic Display.