Seducing Mr. Knightly (17 page)

“What if the Man About Town scoops us?” Julianna questioned sharply.

“It won’t happen because Hardwicke is quaking in his boots in fear of Marsden and his Inquiry,” Knightly said, becoming visibly irritated. That was not part of her plan, but there was no stopping Julianna once she pounced upon a subject.

“Of course that silly man is. But are you?” Julianna challenged.

“Julianna.” Knightly and Annabelle said this at the same time, both adopting tones of warning.

Knightly glanced at Annabelle. She wavered on her feet. This was her moment. She knew it like she knew the earth revolved around the sun, like spring follows winter, like the sun rises in the east.

Be bold,
she told herself.
Let go. Have faith in Knightly and in the advice of Swooning on Seymour Street.

She fluttered her lashes. In order to bring a feverish blush to her cheeks, she imagined how it would feel to be embraced by Knightly with his strong arms holding her against the muscled planes of his hot, firm chest.

“Are you all right?” he asked, looking closely at her. He pressed his palm on the small of her back. It was amazing how such a small gesture could be felt so intensely and all over.

“No, I don’t think I am,” Annabelle replied truthfully. She loved him, and he courted another, while she could not restrain the most wicked and wanton thoughts. She was not all right. She was the very definition of wretched, hopelessly in love, desperate to win his heart. “I feel . . .”

Faint.

And then she fainted.

Or pretended to.

She let her knees go weak, her eyelashes flutter and close, and then let herself fall.

She even managed to languorously drape a hand across her brow for dramatic effect.

The next thing she knew, she had landed right in Knightly’s arms. Right where she had always wanted to be.

She had dreamed of this, and the reality far surpassed it.

The man was all muscle—from his arms to his chest—hard and strong. She inhaled the clean scent of wool suit, the indescribable scent that was just him and that she’d only recently gotten close enough to know. Heaven couldn’t possibly be better than this.

When she opened her eyes, his vivid blue eyes were fixed upon her face and Knightly gazed at her intently. The blue had darkened considerably. His lips parted slightly.

When he looked at her like that, she
felt
it. Everywhere. It made her skin feel feverish.

“Annabelle?” he said, and there was a rough quality to his voice. His gaze roamed over her, as if searching for answers. Her lips parted to explain . . . but there was nothing she could say.

Her heart began to pound.

Was this
actually working
? She’d been so accustomed to being overlooked that she hadn’t quite considered that this mad scheme of hers might actual succeed.

And yet here she was, in Knightly’s arms, as he lifted her up and carried her away, like a princess. He carried her over the threshold to his office, like a bride. He held her like a woman he noticed.

Chapter 20

The Dangers of Fainting

T
OWN
T
ALK

Mr. Knightly’s courtship of Lady Marsden continues. She has confided to friends that she expects a proposal soon.

The Morning Post

N
O
one actually fainted so prettily, complete with the hand over the forehead. In fact, women did not actually faint as much as the stories would have one believe. Knightly might have allowed that her corset was laced tightly, depriving her of air, for he had noted that her waist was narrow and her breasts were marvelously high and nearly spilling out of her gown.

But he knew a fake faint when he saw one, especially when it swooned delicately into his arms, bringing an end to the world as he had known it.

It was just Annabelle, he tried to convince himself.

Just Annabelle, lovely and luscious in his arms with her soft gold curls escaping from restraint and tumbling down around the soft curve of her cheeks. Just Annabelle, with her lips slightly parted while he thought of nothing—
nothing
—else but pressing his mouth to hers to discover, to taste, to know, and to claim.

For the first time he truly noticed her blue eyes and dark lashes. He saw the depths of emotion there. Desire. Uncertainty. Hope and fear.

He thought this was how she must appear in the throes of pleasure—tussled hair, desiring eyes, lips slightly parted to share sighs of pleasure. His body responded to the vision as if it were real. As if he had inspired that blush, made her lips part for gasps of pleasure . . .

Knightly wanted to lay her down, have his way with her, and give her that pleasure.

Now that he’d seen Annabelle like this . . .

He knew he wouldn’t be able to look at her again without seeing her thusly. That wicked, seductive, wanton, and sensual image was now seared into his brain forevermore.

In the far recesses of his brain shards of logic remained and alerted him to the facts: this was a ruse for her column, for her elaborate seduction. But was this moment just practice? In other words, was this the closest he would ever be to witnessing Annabelle as if in the throes of pleasure?

Or . . .

Was he the infamous object of her affections? Otherwise known, lamentably, as the Nodcock. To that, his heart, his brain, every fiber of his being firmly declared . . .

No.
No.

“Where are you taking me?” Annabelle asked. He forced a slight smile, even though the world as he knew it was coming to an end. She’d been “the quiet one,” and now he wanted to lay her on his office floor and have his wicked way with her.

“I’m taking you to my office,” he said. Where we might have some privacy, he thought.
Wrong.
Wrong!

They were going to his office, where she might recover herself and he might have a drink and restore sense and reason in his brain.
Think of Lady Lydia,
he ordered himself.
Think of that damned New Earl and everything you’ve ever wanted.
Then he promptly ignored the command.

“I’m certain I can walk,” she said. Probably because all the other writers were staring as he made his way to his office with Annabelle in his arms. She did seem to have an aversion to being the center of attention.

“Let’s not risk it,” he said, because he couldn’t actually say that he rather liked the feel of her in his arms and in a moment would set her down and probably never hold her thusly again.

Lady Lydia. Everything he’d ever wanted.

He set her down in one of the large plush chairs before his desk and proceeded to pour himself a brandy. He took a large sip and tried to convince himself that it was truly Owens she was after, not him.

What the devil did he do now, with Annabelle gazing up at him expectantly?

“How are you feeling?” he asked. That was a safe question.

“Oh . . . I’m fine. Truly. I feel a bit silly,” she said sheepishly.

She had made him see . . .

Knightly eyed her now. Blond curls pulled back. Blue eyes full of questions. Her sinfully full mouth making him think of kissing, which made him think of how she’d appeared in his arms just a moment ago. As if in the midst of a damn good ravishing.

Knightly moved behind his desk so she would not see that he was in a state to give her a damn good ravishing.

He’d never thought Dear Annabelle would torture him thusly. Two could play that game, he thought with a slight grin. And speaking of playing the game, he ought to act as if she had actually fainted. Pretending to be obtuse and oblivious to the scheme would afford him time to figure something out.

“We should send for a doctor,” he said gravely.

Her eyes widened significantly. Perhaps he’d inherited some of his mother’s flair for acting after all.

“Oh no, I feel significantly improved. I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said. Which wasn’t fair, because he wasn’t sure he’d ever erase the image of Annabelle, as if in the throes of passion, out of his head. It was going to drive him mad.

“A real doctor, I promise,” he said, and she laughed. It was a girlish laugh, very sweet. She didn’t laugh enough—or had he never really paid attention before? What else had he missed over the years? Why did he have to notice now?

“I don’t want to cause any more trouble. I’ve inconvenienced you enough already . . .” Before his eyes, Knightly watched Annabelle in retreat. Her shoulders curved and her voice dropped to nearly a whisper.

“I do hate to be a bother,” she said softly. Said the woman who had just faked a swoon into his outstretched arms. It didn’t entirely add up.

His gaze locked with hers for one intense second before she looked away. Knightly watched her look around the room, as if looking for some shadows to blend in with.

Had he not noticed her before because she didn’t let him?

“You’re not a bother, Annabelle.” She flashed a shy glance in his direction. She didn’t believe him. And why should she? She had just faux fainted directly into his arms and was now keeping him from his work, and life as he had known it.

But he saw daring Annabelle starting to retreat, and he sought to cajole her out of hiding.

“Very well, you are a bother. But I don’t mind being given the opportunity to demonstrate my strength and quick reflexes.”

And then she treated him to that lovely girlish laugh again. It was shy and nervous and happy all at once. Damn, if it wasn’t a powerful feeling to have teased her out of the shadows. But did that mean . . . ? Knightly took another sip of his drink.

“It’s important that the other staff be aware of my many talents, including my physical prowess,” he continued. “So I do believe thanks are in order.”

He raised his glass in cheers to her and took another sip to drown out the words
besides, there are worse things than holding a beautiful woman.
While he didn’t want her to feel wretched—and she was clearly the romantic, dramatic sort who would mope for days on end—he couldn’t bring himself to say anything that would make things awkward.

And since she was clearly the romantic, dramatic sort who would puzzle over every word for days on end, he did not want to give her Ideas. Not when he had to continue his courtship of Lady Lydia and ensure that Annabelle’s column remained the smashing success that it was, so that he didn’t lose everything, starting with
The London Weekly.

At that thought, Knightly took another sip and savored the burn.

“Should I have some of that?” Annabelle asked, and he choked.

“Brandy?” he sputtered.

“In novels, the heroes always force the heroines to drink brandy after they have fainted. Apparently, it is very restorative,” she informed him.

“It burns like the devil and will likely make you ill,” he lectured. But damn, did he want to laugh. Especially when she pouted so adorably at him. Where had this Annabelle been all these years? And why did she have to appear now?

“I should still like to try,” she said.

“I’m not giving you brandy,” he told her. It seemed like something done by the vile seducer character in a novel. He would not play that part.

“Very well. What if it was research for my column?” She smiled, pleased with her strategy of selecting the excuse he could not refuse.

“Oh, Dear Annabelle . . .” he said, laughing, and handing over his glass. One small sip remained.

She lifted the glass to her mouth. After one whiff she wrinkled her nose.

“Perhaps I needn’t try it,” she said. “And pray do not say I told you so.”

Knightly grinned, enjoying her company tremendously, even though that was the road to ruin.
Think of Lady Lydia. Think of everything you ever wanted.
But he didn’t.

“Come on, Annabelle, let’s take you home. No, do not protest,” he said to her as much as to himself. “I cannot send you off in a hired hack after you’ve just fainted. What kind of gentleman would that make me?”

Chapter 21