“Have you told him your feelings on said matter?”
Fancy squirmed beneath the princess’s stare. “Not entirely.”
“Then why are you sitting in an alcove talking to me?” Princess Adelaide scolded. “Go find your husband and talk to him.”
“What if…what if I don’t want to know how he feels?” Fancy said in a whisper.
“I did not take you for a wilting hothouse flower,” the princess said. “In my country, we value hardiness and strength of will. The royal flower of Hessenstein is the alpine rose. It is not a rarefied species, but one that blooms year after year, in the harshest of climes. Your roots may be common, gel, but I sense your backbone is not.”
Princess Adelaide’s words bolstered Fancy’s resolve. She had been hiding from the truth, and it wasn’t getting her anywhere. One way or another, she had to find out what lay in Knight’s heart…and whether there was any hope for their future.
She drew a breath. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
“Run along and find your husband.” Princess Adelaide waved her fingers in dismissal. “Last I saw him, he was headed to the south balcony.”
Fancy went to the balcony before she lost her nerve. It was off a quiet area of the ballroom, and she was glad for the privacy given the conversation she needed to have with Knight. The French doors were open, thick red velvet drapes covering the entryway. As she neared, she heard Knight’s voice…and he was not alone. The hairs on her nape rose at the familiar bell-like tones.
Her heart hammering, she peered through the slit in the velvet panels.
Knight was standing at the far end of the balcony, and Imogen was with him. They were talking, too low for Fancy to hear what they were saying. Knight leaned closer, and the rest seemed to happen in slowed time: Imogen wound her arms around Knight’s neck…and pressed her lips to his in a passionate kiss.
Knight went still. But he didn’t push Imogen away.
Fancy stumbled backward from the curtain, her jagged breath scoring her throat. The destruction of her dreams felt like a physical thing: its shards slashed at her tender core, pain bleeding through her veins. She might have crumpled if her survival instincts hadn’t kicked in. The grit and fortitude of a tinker’s daughter came to her rescue.
I have my answer, she thought numbly.Now I know what I need to do.
34
As Severin walkedthe final blocks toward his home, it was nearing eleven in the morning. He had not slept, but he didn’t feel tired. He felt as if he were awakening from a daze. Last night’s events had made him see things clearly at last. The cloudless sky seemed a reflection of his own state of mind. The truth was obvious to him now: he was in love with his wife.
With Fancy, his beloved, his duchess.
It had taken Imogen’s rash kiss to make him realize that he didn’t want anyone but Fancy. The touch of Imogen’s lips against his own—which he had for so long fooled himself into thinking he wanted—had felt wrong. He had felt nothing, in truth, but a sense of shock.
Snapping out of his paralysis, he had pushed Imogen away, yet he knew with stabbing guilt that the damage had been done. He would have one more apology to add to all the rest, and he could only hope that Fancy, with her generous heart, could forgive him that too. He would spend the rest of his life making it up to her…making her as happy as she made him.
For hewashappy. Over the bloody moon when he was with Fancy…or even when he was just thinking about her, the memory of her smile lighting him up inside. Having never experienced such unfettered joy, he hadn’t recognized it for what it was.
He had hated leaving Fancy at the soiree last night. But after he had repudiated Imogen’s advances, she had broken down in tears, the awful facts pouring out of her. Her marriage to Cardiff wasn’t merely unhappy, it was abusive. She’d lifted her sapphire necklace, showing Severin the bruises her brute of a husband had left on her throat, and tearfully asked for his help.
As a gentleman and her friend, he could not ignore her plight. Thus, he had sought out Fancy, who’d been about to leave with Aunt Esther. His aunt had informed him that his wife had a headache, but when he’d tried to ask Fancy about it, she had given him the infamous cold shoulder (a lady-like behavior he wished she hadn’t mastered quite so well). As he couldn’t very well discuss Imogen’s abuse in public, he had told his wife and aunt that a pressing matter had come up, and he would meet them later at home.
Then he had attended to Imogen.
While Imogen had wanted Severin to be her champion, he had known with crystal clarity that it wasn’t his role or, frankly, one that he desired. His heart and his protection were pledged to Fancy—even if, idiot that he was, he hadn’t recognized it—and he would not betray his wife.
He could not leave Imogen in dire straits, however. He’d taken her to her father’s house. Hammond hadn’t been happy to see him, but he didn’t give a damn. He’d given Imogen the support of a friend as she haltingly revealed the truth of Cardiff’s cruelty. The shattering of Severin’s illusions continued from there.
For the first time, he witnessed what lay beneath the cultivated façade of the Hammond family. Mrs. Hammond had blamed her husband for marrying Imogen off to a cad because he was too busy dallying with his whores to pay proper attention to their daughter. Mr. Hammond had retorted that if his wife hadn’t been such an icicle in bed, he would not need to find pleasure elsewhere. Mrs. Hammond had shot back that he was a fortune hunter who’d married her for her dowry.
And on it had went. The pair shredded their canvas of perfection with malicious glee, hurling the strips of their discontent at one other. Finally, Severin had cut in to ask if anybody planned to help Imogen, who’d been sitting by quietly, her expression resigned. Luckily, Imogen’s older brother Roger had arrived and said that he would talk to Cardiff—do more than talk, if necessary, to keep his sister safe. Seeing the resolve in Roger Hammond’s eyes, Severin knew his time with the Hammonds was done.
Imogen had seen him to the door…and she had apologized.
“I don’t know what came over me,” she whispered. “I hope it will not ruin things between us.”
Things between them were already ruined, Severin had realized. Had been the moment he’d seen their relationship for what it was: an illusion. He had mistaken his boyish idealization of Imogen for love. As a man, what he felt for her was gratitude for the years of friendship, for her kindness to him when he had had no one else.
