Before the madness had claimed hismaman, she had loved him. He thought, with a sharp twinge of the old scar, that she’d loved him even when the illness took away her control. She’d sacrificed everything for their survival. When he was old enough to realize what she was doing, he’d begged her not to do it. He’d offered to steal—to do anything—rather than have her earn their keep in an alleyway.
You are not big or strong enough to do a man’s work, mon chou.She’d brushed her worn fingertips across his brow.If you want to make your maman happy, then be better than what the streets have taught you to be. Don’t be like those animals you run with, oui?
He had tried to be a man, tried to take care of her, but he’d failed.
Then he’d met Imogen, and she’d needed him to be something he wasn’t...or hadn’t been, at the time. Now that hewasa duke, it was too late. He couldn’t turn back time, even for her.
But Fancy…he felt he had a chance to do right by her. Somehow she had forgiven him for his disgraceful assumptions and the callous way he’d taken her virginity. She hadn’t flinched when he’d told her those unsavory facts about his past, although he’d taken care not to share the worst of it, the memories he himself kept locked away.
The important thing was that Fancy seemed to want him, even knowing that he was incapable of giving her his heart. Or even kisses. Her honesty and generosity made him burn to lay claim on her.
Where in blazes is she?he thought with roiling impatience.
He balled his hands. He knew where the Sheridans were camping. If need be, he would go there, fetch his bride, fight off any of her kinfolk who got in his way.
As he turned toward the door, it opened, and Fancy rushed inside.
She was pink-cheeked and a bit disheveled. A shiny lock of chestnut hair had escaped her simple topknot studded with fresh flowers. She wore one of her usual frocks, one that was an indiscriminate beige color and discreetly patched at the hem.
She was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.
She hurried up to him, obviously out of breath. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I ’ad an accident.”
“Accident?” His relief at her appearance gave way to concern. “Are you all right?”
“Nothing is ’urt but my pride.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “I planned to wear my best dress, the pink one. I ’ad it on, was ready to go, but Bertrand refused to get moving. I should ’ave let Da ’andle it, but I was in such a rush, I ’opped down and started to lecture the beast. Bertrand doesn’t like to be lectured and, the next thing you know, the blooming ass kickedmudat me.”
Severin’s lips quivered. Fancy’s story was so uniquelyher.He couldn’t imagine another bride having a spat with a donkey—and losing—on her wedding day, nor one that looked so adorably woeful.
She sighed, looking down at herself. “And now I ’ave to be married in this old dress.”
He tipped her chin up. Looked into her embarrassed brown eyes.
“You are still the prettiest bride I’ve ever seen,” he said.
Her cheeks turned rosy. “You’re just being nice.”
“Not nice—truthful.” He managed to coax a smile from her. “I’m sorry we didn’t have time to get you a proper wedding dress. We’ll shop for your trousseau when we get to London.”
“I’ll never be as grand as you,” she said wistfully. “You make a fine bridegroom, Knight.”
Her unabashed feminine approval brought a rush of heat to his groin, threatening to ruin the crisp lines of his tailoring. At the same time, he noticed that her father and brothers had entered. The lads waved at him, grinning, and Severin nodded back. Seeing Milton Sheridan’s troubled look, however, Severin decided not to dally.
“I wouldn’t be a bridegroom without you.” He offered Fancy his arm. “Ready, sweeting?”
She placed her small, ungloved hand on his sleeve, and her trusting smile caused a sweet pang in his chest.
“I’m ready,” she said.
14
I’m married to Knight.
Fancy wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
After the disaster of her wedding dress, the rest of the day had thankfully gone without a hitch. Truth be told, she’d been surprised at the swiftness of the ceremony that had bound her and Knight for life. Mr. Clewis, the blacksmith who’d officiated the ceremony, had instructed them to stand by the large anvil at the center of the room and join hands.
“Are ye o’ age to marry?” he’d asked in a thick Scottish brogue.
