Seducing Mr. Knightly by Maya Rodale

Author:Maya Rodale [Rodale, Maya]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2012-10-31T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 26

The Nodcock Begins to Wonder if He Is the Nodcock

DEAR ANNABELLE

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?

The London Weekly

Galloway’s Coffeehouse

KNIGHTLY sat with a newspaper and a hot coffee at Galloway’s coffeehouse, as he did every Saturday morning. His love of newspapers extended beyond his own. He loved, too, the atmosphere in the coffeehouse—the rich smell of coffee mingling with the smoke of cigars and cheroots. The rustle of newsprint. The hum of conversations.

He badly needed the coffee, for he had not slept.

He badly needed a distraction, but this was not to be.

He had kissed Annabelle.

Shy, quiet, Writing Girl number four. Annabelle. Just weeks ago he’d barely spared a thought for her, and now . . .

He had kissed Annabelle.

What madness had impelled him, he knew not. But some force beyond his control had him strolling across her horrible drawing room and tilting her chin to his, lowering his mouth to hers.

It had been a good kiss.

So good he had the damnedest time thinking of anything else since it happened. She tasted sweet, dear Annabelle. She kissed with an artlessness and enthusiasm that undid him.

It was not calculated to please, like that of a mistress, and it was all the more seductive because of it. It was a kiss for the sake of it. Purely for the love of it.

Knightly had discovered all these truths in the moments when her tongue tangled with his, just as he had known then that it was her first kiss. The implications of that kind of kiss made his chest feel tight and deprived of air.

But to hell with the implications, if a certain part of him had its way. The memory of the taste, the touch, kept him awake at night, inspiring wicked dreams. He sought relief. He attained it. And yet still, he craved Annabelle.

In an attempt to restore his world to rights, he would coolly consider the facts:

Fact: Annabelle was in his employ. No law prohibited him from ravishing his workforce should he so choose, but it just felt . . . wrong. Like taking advantage. That was not the pleasure he sought—and he had given extensive thought to the pleasures he might have with Annabelle.

Fact: Annabelle lived with strong contenders for the dubious distinction of London’s Worst Relatives. Her family treated her like a servant. Right before his eyes Annabelle shriveled under the menacing glare of the Mean Mrs. Swift, who put him in mind of a particularly nasty school warden.

Annabelle was no servant. She was a beautiful woman and a talented writer—which all of London seemed to know except her family.

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