She tried to look at him, but he planted his palm on the middle of her back, pressing her down against the mattress. With his other hand, he held her bottom high for his pounding. She felt his urgency and dark need as he slaked his lust upon her, as he tupped her wordlessly.
Without returning her declaration of love.
Pain and pleasure knifed her chest. Eyes stinging, she fought against her rising orgasm, but he shoved his hand around her hip, his knowing fingers searching out the heart of her desire. He rubbed the throbbing bud, and a humiliating climax broke. She came and came, and he groaned, his hips pummeling her bottom with even greater power. His fingers held her hips in a bruising grip as he filled her with his copious heat.
For long moments, neither of them moved. His harsh breaths filtered through the pounding in her ears. He withdrew, and the wet rush that leaked down her leg jolted her out of paralysis. She scurried off the bed, yanking the negligee he hadn’t bothered to remove into place. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, his chest damp and heaving, his cock still hard and glistening, Knight looked at her—and the shield in his eyes chilled her to the core.
“I think…I think I’ll sleep in my own room,” she said through serrated breaths.
He’d never looked more foreboding, his expression starker.
“Perhaps that is a good idea,” he said in a low voice.
She exited his room as quickly as she could without running. Once she reached the safety of her own bedchamber, she closed the door and locked it. Only then did she allow the shocked tears to fall.
33
“Francesca is doing tolerably well,” Aunt Esther said. “Better than to be expected.”
Severin’s aunt was the master of understatement. They were at Princess Adelaide’s glittering soiree the following evening, and Severin watched Fancy smile as she chatted with a ring of admirers. The Duchess of Knighton was a smashing success, and it was easy to see why.
Fancy looked captivating in an ivory silk gown that bared her shoulders and showed off her nipped-in waist. Embroidered flowers were scattered over the tulle overskirt of her gown and on the tiny puffed sleeves. To complete her transformation into a faerie queen, her hair had been fashioned into a lustrous coronet studded with golden pins shaped like bumblebees.
Yet it was more than Fancy’s physical charms that drew admirers buzzing to her side. She radiated a genuine warmth that, evidently, even the jaded ton couldn’t resist. Her beauty was tempered by the vulnerability in her doe-brown eyes; when she accepted an offer to dance, she always seemed surprised, as if she didn’t expect or take her popularity for granted.
Severin watched on with pride, even as a vise of guilt clamped around his chest. He had behaved despicably toward her last night. He’d been in a dangerous mood since the Anna Smith business, which was why he’d avoided Fancy: he didn’t want to be around her when he was not entirely in control of himself.
Yet when she’d opened the door last night, his good intentions had gone out the window. He hadn’t been able to resist her sweet initiative, the feminine yearning in her eyes. No woman had ever given herself to him so freely. He’d taken advantage of her generosity, losing himself in her sweetness, in the marital heat that set his loins afire.
Then she had whispered words of love and he had…panicked. There was no other way to describe his reaction. The door had blown off the cage inside him: pain, fear, and need escaping in a dark charge. Caught in the mayhem, he had acted like a goddamned animal.
He’d fucked Fancy. There was no other word for it. No excuses for his conduct.
Although he knew he hadn’t hurt her physically, he had done damage in other ways. He saw it in the way she had avoided his gaze since then. Even now she wouldn’t look at him.
Shame and wordless terror twisted his gut.
“Knighton, what is the matter?” his aunt asked. “You do not seem yourself.”
He wasn’t himself. He didn’t know who the bloody hell he was—and that was the problem. Fancy stirred the chaos inside him, and he was swamped by powerlessness, a feeling he’d hated since he was a boy.
Realizing that his aunt was awaiting a reply, he clipped out, “I’m fine.”
“Fine?” She raised her brows. “One would think you would have more of a reaction to Francesca’s success. She has wasted no effort, you know, and all to please you.”
“I know,” he said, his jaw clenching.
I know that I’m a damned bastard. That she deserves better than me.
“For heaven’s sake, did the two of you have a row?”
He swung a surprised glance at his aunt. She wasn’t the sort to pry into private matters. A trait they had in common.
“Why do you ask?” he said as calmly as he could.
“You are acting strangely, and Francesca has been giving you what is known amongst us ladies as the cold shoulder.” Aunt Esther gave him a hard stare. “Don’t look so surprised, Knighton. When Brambley was alive, he received his share.”
Not knowing what to say, Severin kept his mouth shut.
“Hopefully your gift of the necklace improves the state of affairs,” Aunt Esther said reprovingly. “Time may heal wounds, but jewelry accomplishes the task faster.”
Severin wished he shared his aunt’s confidence. The ruby necklace he’d given Fancy was a stunning piece to be sure, a string of rubies and diamonds that matched her ring. But he knew Fancy wasn’t the sort of woman to be swayed by gifts. She would want an apology from him, which she undoubtedly deserved…but he didn’t know what to say. Didn’t understand why he had treated her so shabbily.
Besides, a woman who loved as wholeheartedly as Fancy deserved the same in return. Not some bauble, no matter how expensive, left on her dressing table by her cowardly fool of a husband.
“Good evening, Lady Brambley. Knighton.”
Imogen’s voice distracted him from his brooding. He turned, and she was standing there, in a pale blush gown that accentuated her fair fragility.
“You look well this evening, Lady Brambley,” Imogen said in her impeccable way.
“As do you, Lady Cardiff.” Aunt Esther waved her dark fan. “No husband this eve?”
Imogen’s smile had a taut edge. “Cardiff had other plans, alas. He is in such demand.”
“I see.” Aunt Esther aimed another hard look at Severin. “While a fashionable man does not live in his wife’s pocket, I daresay a wise man doesn’t tempt fate by leaving her to her own devices too long.”
Severin translated her unsubtle message: make amends to your own wife, you idiot.
“Knighton, might I have a word with you?” Imogen asked.
Picking up on the urgency in her voice, Severin frowned. “What about?”
“It is a…private matter. It shan’t take long.”
It wasn’t like Imogen to be desperate. Or indiscreet. The anxiety in her eyes was rare enough to elicit his concern.
He turned to Esther. “Aunt, will you excuse us?”
Aunt Esther closed her fan with a snap. “As you wish.”
As he escorted Imogen away, he heard his aunt say beneath her breath, “But it is not me you need to worry about.”
All of Fancy’s lessons, practice, and hard work had paid off. She was a success—a credit to the Knighton name, more than one of the lofty guests had commented. She had reached her goal and ought to be rejoicing.
She couldn’t wait for the nightmare to be over.
For the first time that eve, she found herself alone. It was a welcome break; she felt as if her face might crack from all the smiling. Resting on a bench in an alcove partially blocked by a silk screen, she sipped a cup of lukewarm punch and tried not to look for Knight.
After his callous treatment of her last night, her feelings had veered between anger and despair. She was losing hope that things between them would ever change. Fool that she was, she had thought their lovemaking meant something…that the physical pleasures they shared were an expression of emotional desire as
well.
Clearly, that was true only for her.
Humiliation scorched her cheeks. His reaction to her declaration of love expressed louder than words how he felt about her. He had used her, and what was worse, she’d found pleasure in it anyway because she loved him. She was forced to confront the truth: his heart might forever be beyond her reach.
And yet…she touched her fingertips to the ruby necklace. Finding it on her dressing table, she had debated whether to wear it. It had rankled her that Knight might think a piece of jewelry could substitute for an apology or explanation of why he’d treated her the way he had.
The necklace had, however, been accompanied by a note:
A small token of my regard. I know you will outshine these jewels tonight.
* * *
Your proud husband,
-K.
She knew Knight: he wasn’t good at discussing his feelings, particularly those of a private nature. The note conveyed his affection, and the fact that he found her worthy of the magnificent necklace meant something. Once, his regard and approval might have been enough.
But not now. Not after the weeks of talking, teasing, and working together, the promise of what their relationship could be. Bleakly, Fancy knew that she needed to talk to Knight—to tell him that she could no longer accept the original terms of their marriage and to ask him outright if he could ever love her.
But what if he says no? What if he says he’ll love Imogen and only Imogen forever?
“Why are you hiding back here?” an imperious voice demanded.
Fancy jumped up as Princess Adelaide glided into the alcove in a stately blue gown, her pale blue ostrich feathers adding to her vertical consequence.
With a curtsy, Fancy said, “I was, um, enjoying some punch, Your Highness.”
Princess Adelaide waved her back to the bench and sat down beside her. “Well, what do you think of my salon?”
“It’s lovely.” Fancy summoned a smile. “I enjoyed the opera singer very much.”
“I should hope so, given the cost of importing her from Venice.” The princess snorted. “I am glad you are enjoying yourself. I can see that you have made changes since we last met,”—hawkish eyes swept over her—“and they are improvements. As I suspected, you have backbone, and that should get you far in Society.”
Not long ago, Fancy would have been ecstatic to win the princess’s approval. Now she wasn’t certain it mattered. The reason she had wanted to be a lady was to win Knight’s love; the irony of winning the battle but losing the war was almost too much to bear.
Fancy managed a wan smile. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
“You have received the royal stamp of approval.” The princess’s dark brows inched toward her steel-grey hair. “One would think that should warrant some expression of happiness.”
“I am happy…” To Fancy’s horror, her voice wobbled.
“Goodness, gel. What is the matter?”
She bit her lip, trying to prevent herself from bursting into tears.
“Here, take this.” Princess Adelaide passed her a handkerchief. “If anyone asks, we shall tell them you got something in your eye.”
Fancy dabbed discreetly at her tears.
“Let me guess,” the princess said. “Husband problems?”
“H-how did you know?”
“Because men are the source of most problems, my dear. And husbands are the worst of the lot.” The princess folded her veined hands in her lap. “I may be old, but I remember being a newlywed. In those early days, my husband Franz and I fought like cats and dogs.”
“But things improved with time?” Fancy asked hopefully.
“Only because Franz had the decency to depart this earth five years into the marriage.”
“Oh. I’m, um, sorry.”
“As he was in his mistress’s bed at the time, I saw no reason to mourn him,” Princess Adelaide said bluntly. “The marriage was not without its merits, however. Franz gave me Ruprecht, my son and the heir to the throne of Hessenstein.”
“You must be very proud,” Fancy said uncertainly.
“Of Ruprecht, yes. Of my marriage…” The princess shrugged. “I tell you this because life has its peaks and valleys, and I sense that you, Your Grace, are in a valley. Because of Knighton, I presume?”
“He and I had a disagreement,” Fancy admitted.
“That is not surprising. Men are often disagreeable.”
“Knight isn’t.” Fancy nibbled on her lip, not wanting to divulge too much. “We just, um, don’t see eye to eye on a certain matter.”
“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 walked the 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 he was happy. 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.
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