Seducing Mr. Knightly (26 page)

“Who says I’m encouraging him for you or
The Weekly,
Mr. Knightly? What does it matter, anyway?” she asked. He had apologized, she accepted it, and they had moved on, hadn’t they? Or was there another reason?

“I don’t know, Annabelle, I don’t know,” he said, sounding awfully frustrated.

She took a deep breath and straightened her spine, as if it might give her the courage to ask a certain vexing question.

“Is it for the newspaper that you are courting Lady Lydia? So that she will plead your cause with her brother?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Knightly replied, which only raised more questions. Did he love her? She wished to express her skepticism, her curiosity, with the lift of one brow arched.

“I really wish I had the ability to raise one eyebrow,” she said wistfully, and Knightly laughed. The conversation had been taking a turn for the far-too-serious anyway. “You can do it. Julianna can. All the heroes and heroines in novels can do it.”

“It’s easy. You just have to look all haughty and superior. Like this.” Knightly’s demonstration looked remarkably like . . . Knightly did all the time. Lofty, unattainable, wickedly handsome, mysterious.

“Who is Harrowby?” she asked, and Knightly’s shock was evident. But how could she not ask, after what she had heard? “I saw you speaking to him. And when I say ‘I saw,’ I might actually mean that I happened to overhear your conversation with him. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t see you,” Knightly replied, and Annabelle smiled wryly at that. She gazed at his face, which she knew and loved so well—the slanting cheekbones, firm jaw, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes and dark lashes.

“Haven’t I told you that I am Miss Overlooked Swift? There might have been a potted fern standing between myself and the rest of the ballroom,” she replied, a touch ruefully. “I understand you and that Lord Harrowby fellow are related in some fashion?”

“You’ve an awful lot of personal questions this evening, my dear Annabelle.” Knightly brushed a wayward curl away from her face. His fingers grazed her cheek, ever so slightly. It was the familiarity of the gesture that made heart beat faster, and it was the possessive
my
in
my dear Annabelle
that thrilled her.

She remembered a time when he addressed a letter to her as “Miss Swift.” How far they’d come!

She was his Dear Annabelle, wasn’t she? Always had been since he’d named the column she was to write, and named it after her, thus bestowing an identity beyond Spinster Auntie or unfortunate, destitute relation.

Dear Annabelle was a girl of his own creation. She belonged to him and had for three years, seven months, one week, and five days. And now he was finally starting to see.

“It is Julianna’s terrible influence, you see,” Annabelle explained. “She is encouraging me to have more gumption.”

“And how does it feel, Annabelle?” Knightly leaned upon the balustrade. She did so love it when he leaned, for he appeared at ease even though she knew he wasn’t. What would it be like to see him truly at ease? To slumber beside him, to wake with him . . .

Really, she had to stop imagining these things when he was right there. Or at least blushing at the thoughts. Because Knightly leaned in close, observed her every blush and grinned wickedly as if he could read her mind.

“It feels exhilarating. Constantly. But don’t worry, I shall write all about it,” she told him.

“Speaking of your writing, how fares your progress in attracting the attentions of the Nodcock?” Knightly inquired. Wasn’t that the question of the hour, the week, the month, the year, the moment?

Annabelle smiled, and her cheeks burned, utterly at a loss about how to answer
that
question. And in her silence, she thought she might have detected caring in the way his breath hitched. As if he were holding it, awaiting her answer. Only she would notice such a thing, thanks to all those novels loaded with such details, and thanks to all those hours in which she was so utterly devoted to loving and knowing him.

But one’s breath only hitched like that if they cared. And why should Knightly care about the identity of the Nodcock, unless . . .

Unless he had a wager on the outcome, or something. No, she ought to give him more credit than that.

Unless he suspected that he was the Nodcock? How on earth could she ever tell him now, after that awful nickname? She ought to never write in a fit of pique again.

Annabelle found herself leaning in toward Knightly, drawn to his warmth. She dared to brush an invisible piece of lint from the lapel of his jacket as Affectionate from All Saints Road had told her to, in a letter weeks ago.

“Are you not reading my articles, Mr. Knightly?”

“Of course I am, ” he replied, in a tone that affectionately called her silly, and ducking his head a bit closer to hers so he might whisper in her ear. “Perhaps I want to know the secret, Annabelle. Perhaps I want the unpublished version of the truth.”

“That’s awfully demanding of you, Knightly,” she said softly. Oh, he was closer to her now. Their mouths, just inches away, quite possibly close enough to kiss.

“That’s how I am, Dear Annabelle,” he murmured, and Lord above if she didn’t feel the vibrations from his voice all over and deep down inside.

“You told me to keep up the ruse,” she reminded him, a bit breathless. He traced one finger along her jaw, down the slender column of her neck. Knightly, touching her. Such a light touch, such a little thing, but she felt it in spades.

“What if I said to hell with it?” he asked. He lifted one brow, and she couldn’t help but smile even as her heart was thundering from the thrill of his touch.

“What if I am enjoying it, Mr. Knightly?”

She did not want this moment to end. She wanted to stay here, suspended between knowing and not knowing, where everything was lovely. The final risk she was not yet ready to take.

Knightly traced along her collarbone, dared to trace his fingertip lower, along the edge of her bodice where lace rested against her skin. It was the smallest caress, but so possessive. Her skin felt feverish, and she wondered if he could tell.

“Do you like all that waiting, wanting, anticipation?” he asked. “Do you not want satisfaction?” His voice was low and rough.

“When I am assured of it,” she whispered. This moment was magical and lovely. She had an idea of the kind of satisfaction he spoke of, and it was one she mostly dwelled on very late at night.

But there were other kinds of satisfaction, and though she was well aware that beggars shouldn’t be choosers, she wanted him to fall in love with her. Not just to discover she was in love with him.

Knightly dropped his touch, and Annabelle missed it intensely, immediately.

“What about Marsden? Was that part of the ruse?” Her heart thumped hard in her chest. Knightly was asking an awful lot of questions that were homing in on the truth. Did he know . . . ?

“Perhaps I enjoy his conversation and take pleasure in his company,” Annabelle replied. “And the pink roses he sent me.”

But she thought she was allowed to ask questions, too. “Who is Harrowby?”

“Harrowby is my half brother,” Knightly said plainly, and then added, “I hope Julianna’s influence hasn’t rubbed off on you too much because I wouldn’t want that talked about.”

Annabelle counted to three, summoning up her courage to ask the question she knew would cut to the heart of the matter.

“
You
wouldn’t like it, or
he
wouldn’t like it?” A quiet rush of mocking laughter escaped him.

“Is there a difference?’ he asked skeptically.

“There’s a world of difference,” she replied. Everything she’d seen and heard—that Knightly had even confided in her—told her that he would declare the news on the front page of
The London Weekly
were it not for Harrowby’s refusal to acknowledge the relationship.

If there was one thing she knew even better than the back of her own hand, it was the desperate, driving need to seek approval and acceptance. All these years she had thought Knightly didn’t need that. He carried himself like he didn’t give a damn.

And now she’d learned that Knightly was not immune to seeking acceptance and recognition, as she was. He was not an impossible, remote god, but a man who was perhaps more similar to her than she’d thought.

He wanted to belong, just as much as she.

This was the moment that she really, truly fell in love with Knightly.

The for better or for worse kind of love. A love based on acceptance of the real person, and not some imagined fantasy.

“I don’t want to talk about Harrowby,” he said bluntly, and it took Annabelle a moment to place the name and recall their conversation. Once she caught up, she suspected that what Knightly really didn’t want to discuss was his humanity, despite all of his efforts to portray himself as above the worldly fray.

“I’m sorry for mentioning it,” she said automatically. “No, I’m not. Well, ‘I’m sorry’ is just a thing to say, you see. I’m trying not to be so apologetic and obsequious all the time. It’s just such a habit and—”

“Annabelle?”

“Yes?” She looked up at him, and he pressed his hand against the small of her back and then pressed her close to him. Then Knightly’s mouth claimed hers for a kiss. In the moonlight. Oh Lord above, the romance.

Annabelle closed her eyes, blocking out the ballroom behind her and the moonlight above them so that the only thing she was aware of was Knightly’s mouth upon hers, hot, searching, and wanting. She was aware, too, of those sparks and shivers at an ever-growing intensity that threatened to overwhelm her, except . . .

She wondered if he was only kissing her because she’d been rambling on a subject he didn’t wish to discuss and he wanted to stop her from talking. Or was he overwhelmed by passion? Did the intentions of the kiss matter? Why the devil could she not just enjoy it? How did one turn their brain off?

Knightly pulled back, just a bit. He cradled her head in his hands, his fingers entwined in her mass of curls. Her coiffure would be wrecked. She didn’t care. Knightly looked her firmly in the eyes. They were so blue, even in the moonlight.

“Just so we’re clear, Annabelle,” he said in the calm, self-assured way in which he stated facts and gave orders, “I’m kissing you because I want to, not to make you stop talking, or to avoid the conversation. And you need to stop thinking.”

“How did you know that I was—”

“I’m learning you, Annabelle,” he said with a knowing smile, and she wondered if there were any words more magical than those:
I’m learning you, Annabelle
. “Now enjoy this because I’ve been at war with myself over it and I’d like to thoroughly enjoy the spoils.”

His lips were firm against hers, his intentions clear. Annabelle could not think this kiss was accident or that he was overtaken by the moonlight.

Could anything possibly matter more than Knightly’s arms wound around her, holding her in a haven she had only dreamed of?

He urged her to open to him, deepening the kiss. She responded with a fervor that came from years of longing and loneliness. Knightly wrapped his arms around her, tighter, pressing her close to him. She slid her arms around him, holding onto not just the man but this moment. She had dreamed of this.

This moment, this real moment, was better.

She tasted him, let him taste her. His every touch set her aflame. A slow, ever-growing heat that pooled in her belly and radiated to every inch of her. With her silk-clad body pressed against his, she felt his arousal pressing hard against her, there. Her cheeks flushed, and that blush crept all over her skin, leaving her feeling feverish in a wickedly wonderful way.

“Oh, Derek . . .” She sighed his name. There was so much she wanted him to know—her love for him, this hot, surging desire he was awakening within her, that she wanted to do
everything
with him—but words were impossible. She contented herself with a sigh of his name.

She sighed his name again.

K
NIGHTLY
tasted that sigh, and understood all the unspoken thoughts and feelings it conveyed. He felt that sigh deeply. He’d never felt so wanted, and because he now did, he could just savor all these little moments adding up to this soul-altering kiss. There was no need to seduce or impress or win; he just needed to kiss like it was the first and last thing in the world.

Or so he tried to reason, but then logic fled, leaving one thought in its wake: no one would ever kiss him with the passion that Annabelle did. No woman would ever sigh his name the same way, and if she did, it wouldn’t mean anything. This kiss meant something. What, he knew not. Thinking was impossible. He desperately needed to taste the soft skin where Annabelle’s neck curved gracefully into her shoulder, so he pressed his mouth there for a kiss. She murmured her pleasure. He felt like a king.

He ran his fingers through her hair. He caressed the curve in her hip, slid his hands lower still and pressed her close. There was something about Annabelle that required delicacy and there was something about restraining himself that made him feel every little touch, and sigh a thousand times more intensely.

He wanted to feel her, everywhere. Feel her, without this silk dress, without anything at all . . . but enough higher brain functioning remained to tell him they were at a ball. They were in public. He needed to stop this.

But he didn’t want to.

Chapter 32