Severin couldn’t stem his antipathy toward the mad-doctor even though he knew it wasn’t fair. The man was doing his job. Erlenmeyer had nothing to do with the way Severin’smamanhad been treated in Bedlam, the bruises and cigar burns Severin had found on her…the dried blood on her thighs.
Darkness welled. Years of self-discipline allowed him to shove back the rage of powerlessness before it swamped him. He faced the mad-doctor with the polished control of a gentleman—a duke. Although he knew that his past colored his perception of Erlenmeyer, his instincts told him that something wasn’t right with this bloodless fellow.
“For my wife’s safety, Miss Smith must be kept confined here at the asylum,” Severin said. “I will not have it done in an inhumane fashion, however. See that she has regular meals and a chance to take air in the garden daily. She will have a female attendant with her at all times. If you do not have one, hire one, and send the bill to me.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” Erlenmeyer said. “Will there be anything else?”
The mad-doctor’s apparent deference did not hide the resentful glint in his eyes. He didn’t like having his authority questioned, which was too bloody bad. Severin couldn’t shake his feeling of suspicion. Recalling that Harry Kent’s older brother Ambrose was a renowned investigator, he decided to retain the services of the senior Kent forthwith to make enquiries into Erlenmeyer’s past.
“I will expect weekly reports on Miss Smith’s treatment,” Severin said coldly. “If anything happens, I want to be the first to know. And if Miss Smith manages to escape again…you will have to answer to me.”
32
Although the threatto her life had ended, Fancy found herself more worried than ever. This time her concern was over the state of her marriage. Knight was behaving strangely, and she feared she knew the reason why. Since the attack by Anna Smith two nights ago, Knight had retreated into himself. He was polite, speaking when spoken to, his gaze cool and remote. To Fancy, he seemed to be going through the motions, and she had asked him if he was all right.
Predictably his answer had been, “I am fine.”
Then why was he avoiding her?
The night of the attack, Knight had come to her bed, and they’d both fallen into an exhausted sleep. When she woke up, he was gone; there was no affectionate note to tell her where, although she knew he had gone to see Anna Smith at the asylum. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to rouse Fancy’s anxieties by reminding her of the sad and terrifying affair. The next evening, he had stayed late at work. She had fallen asleep before he returned, and when she’d knocked on his door in the morning, he had already left.
The pattern was becoming undeniable.
Until two nights ago, their intimacy had been growing day by day. Fancy could only think of one thing that could have brought on Knight’s brooding mood—the same thing that had brought it on the time before: Imogen.
Fancy tried to battle her insecurities, remembering what Maggie had said about Knight watchingherwhilst talking to the other woman, but her doubts proliferated like weeds. Could she ever replace the angelic Imogen in Knight’s affections? Could she win her husband’s heart? Would he ever want to kiss her and only her?
Fancy didn’t know the answers. What shedidknow was that she loved her husband. She couldn’t allow him to build a wall—or close the door—between them when they’d been making such good progress. Thus, that evening, she nursed a pot of tea and waited up for Knight.
At half-past midnight, she heard him enter his chamber. He had a murmured exchange with Verney, followed by the sounds of the valet readying him for bed. Hearing Verney leave, Fancy pounced on the opportunity and knocked on the door. Her pulse thrummed as footsteps sounded on the other side.
The barrier opened, revealing Knight. He was ready for bed. The vee of his dressing gown showed the hard, hair-dusted contours of his chest, his muscular calves bulging below the hem. The fact that he was obviously naked beneath his robe caused a flutter between her legs to accompany the one in her heart.
“Yes, sweeting?” He gave her an inquiring look. “Do you need something?”
You,she thought in frustration.Why are you acting differently? Did one look from Imogen destroy all the progress we’ve made?
His polite tone and veiled gaze made her afraid of the answers. She flashed back to the perfection of Knight and Imogen beneath the potted palm. Imogen, slender, beautiful, and breathtakingly fragile staring up at Knight with her heaven-blue eyes. And Knight, tall, dark, and handsome, bending to murmur a reply. It could be the perfect scene from a faerie tale—except the prince was with the wrong princess.
Knight’s mine,Fancy thought with a surge of possessiveness.He lives with me, sleeps with me, and he is blooming well going to loveme.
“Fancy? Are you all right?”
Seeing Knight’s quizzical expression, she summoned her courage.
“I was wondering if you would like company tonight,” she said.
Her breath held as his brows drew together. He’d told her once that he would always welcome her in his bedchamber; had he lied? Had his desire for her faded after seeing Imogen?
Clearing his throat, he stepped aside. “Yes, of course. Come in.”
Exhaling, she entered his bedchamber. His gaze grew heavy-lidded as it roamed over her, building her confidence. She was wearing another of Madame Rousseau’s creations, this bedtime set the most daring of them all. The cherry satin peignoir and negligee were cut to cling to her curves. The neckline plunged in a deep vee and was covered in scandalous black lace, which gave a peekaboo view of her breasts.
She might not possess Lady Cardiff’s cool, fair beauty, but she had her own attractions. She knew Knight liked her breasts because he’d told her repeatedly as well as shown it. Determination unfurled in her to stake her claim on her husband…and she knew exactly how to do it.
Trying her best to be seductive and sophisticated, she walked over to his bed, giving her hips an extra wriggle. Her attempt to be a temptress was somewhat marred by the fact that she wasn’t tall enough to slide sinuously onto the bed. She had to give an inelegant little hop to boost herself up, her bottom bouncing when it hit the mattress.
Recovering, she leaned back in what she hoped was a languid pose, giving Knight a come-hither look. She felt a charge of power when he prowled toward her. He towered over her like a stern yet sensual god, silver lightning in his eyes. His smoldering intensity fed the reckless beat in her blood, as did the prominent bulge at the front of his robe.
