Seducing Mr. Knightly (21 page)

“I will insist the drawing room door remains open,” she said harshly. “The last thing I need is a moral lapse that results in a poor example for my own children.” She turned quickly and quit the room. No one was sorry to see her go.

Had he not been fully in the mode of Haughty Commander of All He Surveyed, his jaw might have dropped open.

Did this woman not know Annabelle? He’d wager his fortune she was the
last
person in the world who might corrupt an innocent youth. She was probably the last woman in the world who set a poor example. She was a paragon.

Or did
he
not know her?

Speaking of the little minx, she’d been hiding behind him during that strange introduction, and he turned to face her now. He smiled. And took a seat on the damned uncomfortable sofa.

“My dear Annabelle, you have some explaining to do.”

Chapter 25

A First Kiss

D
OMESTIC
I
NTELLIGENCE

The Duke of Kent dismissed his secretary upon discovering the man was bribed to relay information to writers of
The Morning Chronicle.
The editor and reporter’s arrests are imminent.

The London Weekly

I
N
the history of bad days, Annabelle was certain this one would rank in the top one hundred. Perhaps even the top ten. It was certainly one of the worst days in her own life, along with the death and funeral of her parents and the day Blanche married her brother.

There was the horrible fight with her fellow Writing Girls earlier that morning. All these years, she’d been afraid they would find her tedious or foolish. Today her fears were confirmed. It was everything she had dreaded, and more.

Even worse, Knightly had asked her to debase herself for him. While she had not agreed, she had not refused. In fact, she had defended him when she ought to have stood up for herself. That he was here in her drawing room, apologizing, only confirmed that Julianna was correct and she had been a fool.

Had she not been so fixated upon Knightly, to the exclusion of all sense, reason, and eligible bachelors, she might have married another by now. She could be a mother of a darling brood with a home of her own. Annabelle thought of Mr. Nathan Smythe and his bakery down the road. She was baking bread anyway; why not in her own kitchen instead of slaving for the ever-unappreciative Blanche?

Worst of all, she had imagined Knightly calling upon her at home a time or two or twenty. But not like this. Not when she wore her worst dress and her eyes were red after sobbing in a hired hack all the way from Mayfair to Bloomsbury.

Not when she ungraciously ignored his apology, bickered, burst into tears, buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed.

He had held her; it was lovely beyond words to have a man’s strong arms holding her close and secure, as if protecting her from the world. She had wanted to savor it more but was all too aware that she was soaking his fine white linen shirt. All too aware that a dream of hers was coming true—Knightly, embracing her—but she was too distraught to enjoy a second of it.

Cruel, cruel world!

Then Blanche interrupted and mortified her. Treating her like a servant was one thing, but to do so in front of Knightly? Words could not describe the humiliation of having him see just how worthless and unloved she was by her own family, in her own home.

He could never love her now. She had a prodigious imagination, but even she could not envision how a man so strong and commanding as he could ever fall for a delusional, foolish, and unappreciated girl like her.

“Miss Swift,” Knightly said sternly as he sat on the settee. She stood before him, emotionally distraught and utterly exhausted.

“My dear Annabelle,” he said, and she wondered if he was mocking her.

She heaved a sigh.

“You have some explaining to do,” Knightly commanded. It was as if the Swift drawing room was his office at
The London Weekly.
Well, it wasn’t and she didn’t have to explain anything. She told him just that.

“This is not your office. I don’t have to explain anything to you,” she said. For emphasis, she folded her arms over her chest. Was it her imagination, or did his gaze stray to her décolletage?

“Annabelle, you intrigue me more each day,” he said, and her lips parted in shock.

“What do you mean?”

“The Society for the Advancement of Female Literacy?” he questioned with a lift of his brow. She sighed again and sat beside him.

“They do not know the truth,” she confessed quietly.

“You’ve kept that secret for three years?” he asked incredulously.

“Three years, seven months, and five days,” she clarified out of habit. “They do not read
The Weekly.
I did not care to encourage them. I fear they would not approve of me writing and would forbid me from doing so.”

And it was something that belonged to her, and her alone. Writing for
The Weekly
had been her secret, happy life. Advising and helping other people was the one thing she was good at, and it satisfied her deeply to be recognized for her talent. Much as she assisted at home, her family never gave her much credit for it.

“How did you keep such a secret for so long?” Knightly asked, his blue eyes searching hers for more answers.

“Mr. Knightly,” she began impatiently. She moved away and began to pace about the sparsely decorated room. “I exist in the shadows, overlooked. I do not bother people. I live to serve. I am a professional solver of other people’s problems, often at the expense of my own. And above all, expectations for me are low. Even if you told Blanche now who you are and what I write, it would take a quarter hour, at least, to convince her you told the truth.”

“I see,” he said after a long silence.

“Do you? Do you really?”

“I’m beginning to,” he said. He glanced over at the open door. “And why do you think Julianna motivated my apology?”

“You know, it’s awfully audacious of you to call upon me for this interrogation,” Annabelle replied, because she didn’t want to answer that question and say that Julianna meddled terribly and that she didn’t have faith that Knightly would recognize what a wretched position his request placed her in.

“I came only to apologize. This interrogation was inspired by the oceans of domestic drama I have witnessed in your drawing room. Besides, I didn’t become so successful by standing aside,” he said, to the girl who was an expert at taking one step to the left—or right, you pick!—and generally getting out of the way.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“Be bold, Annabelle,” Knightly said, his voice all low and urgent and making her want to do just that, in spite of herself. “I like it. And it probably suits you more than you realize.”

“I’ve been trying,” she replied, and there was anguish in her voice. Because this boldness didn’t come naturally to her. It was a conscious thought, a deliberate action. For every success, she encountered some sort of trouble Old Annabelle never would have succumbed to.

Old Annabelle never fought with her friends. But then again, Knightly never called upon Old Annabelle.

“I know you’ve been trying. Trying to the tune of four thousand extra copies each week,” Knightly replied with a grin. A usual printing was around ten or twelve thousand. This was really good. She allowed herself to enjoy the rush of enjoyment upon the news.

They both cringed at a massive clattering in the kitchen and paused to identify the unmistakable sound of Blanche, grumbling and storming off to the back of the house.

Knightly stood, walked over to the drawing room door and shut it.

Annabelle did not protest.

“You have not answered my question,” Knightly persisted as he strolled toward her. “About Julianna. My apology.”

“I fought with them,” Annabelle said with a shrug. “They think I am a fool. They are probably right. I certainly feel like one. And I don’t want to talk about it with you. I cannot.”

Knightly took a step closer to her, closing the distance. With his fingertip, he gently tilted her chin so her face was peering up at him.

“So don’t talk, Annabelle,” he murmured. And then he lowered his mouth to hers.

And then he kissed her.

Knightly. Kissing. Her.

On one of the top five worst days of her life.

She felt the heat first, of his lips upon hers. Of him being near her. It was a particular sort of heat—smoldering and building up to a crackling fire—and now that she basked in it, Annabelle realized she’d been so very cold for so very long.

This heat: a man’s warm palm cradling her cheek, the warmth from his body enveloping hers, and the warmth from his mouth upon hers.

At first it was just the gentle touch of his lips against hers. She felt sparks, she felt fireworks. Her first kiss. A once in a lifetime kiss. With the man she loved. This alone was worth waiting for.

Aye, there was a surge of triumph with this kiss, along with the sparks and shivers of pleasure. She had waited for this. She had
fought
for this. She
earned
this. She was going to enjoy every exquisite second of it.

And then it became something else entirely. His lips parting hers. Her, yielding. Knightly urged her to open to him, and because she trusted him implicitly, she followed his lead with utter abandon. She had no idea where this would go, but she knew she would not go there alone.

This kiss was not at all like she had imagined—she hadn’t
known
the possibilities—it was so much more magical. She let him in. She dared the same. She tasted him. Let him taste her.

A sigh escaped her lips, and it did not travel far. This sigh was one of contentment. No, she was not at all content. This was a sigh of utter pleasure, experienced for the first time. This was a sigh that only Knightly’s kiss could elicit.

He placed his hand upon her waist, just above the curve of her hip. It was a possessive caress. She wanted to be possessed. She clasped the fabric of his jacket. Her whole world was spinning wildly—in a magical way—and she was dizzy with the delight of it. But still, she needed to hold on. Needed to ground this moment in physical, earthly sensations so she’d know it wasn’t some flight of her own fancy.

There was the wool of his coat in her palms.

His cheek against hers. A little bit rough. So very male.

The scent of him, so indescribable but intoxicating all the same. She wanted to breathe him in forever.

The sound of his breathing, the rushed whisper of her own sighs. Little sounds, to be sure, ones that spoke of intimacy and passion.

The pounding of her heart.

The taste of him . . .

His mouth, firm, determined, generous, hot, and possessive against her own. She melted against him. Whatever he wanted, she would indulge. And she wanted, needed, him to know, how much this kiss meant to her. How she had waited her whole life for this kiss. She kissed him with years’ worth of pent-up desire. And the amazing, wonderful, exhilarating thing was . . . he kissed her with a passion to match.

Chapter 26

The Nodcock Begins to Wonder if He Is the Nodcock

D
EAR
A
NNABELLE

While many readers have written with encouragement and advice for my quest to attract the love of the Nodcock, many have challenged me to explain why I bother. I confess, this author does wonder if he is deserving of my efforts, or if I should give up. But just when I am ready to admit defeat, some magic occurs to convince me to carry on. Dear readers, please advise! How far does one go for love?