the proceeds, she would purchase another estate nearby so that her tenants could continue to sustain their livelihoods. Bea and Mr. Murray had also shared the best news of all: in a little over a week, they would be getting married by special license.
“You’ll be my maid of honor, won’t you, Fancy?” Bea had said.
In the excitement of catching up on Bea and Mr. Murray’s news, Fancy and Knight hadn’t yet shared their own. She’d glanced over at her husband, who’d maintained his usual stoicism. He’d lifted his eyebrows as if to say, You might as well tell them.
Drawing a breath, she’d said to her bosom chum, “I can’t be your maid o’ honor.”
Bea had furrowed her brow. “Why not?”
“Because I’d be…your matron o’ honor.”
“Matron? But you’re not—oh my goodness!” In a heartbeat, Bea had put two and two together. “You and Knighton?”
“Fancy did me the honor of becoming my wife,” Knight said. “We were married a week ago in Gretna Green.”
“You sly devil.” Grinning, Mr. Murray had gone over to shake Knight’s hand. “Always the competitive fellow, eh? You had to get to the altar first.”
“I was not aware that matrimony was a race.” Knight’s tone had been wry, his eyes amused. “In either case, I believe we are both winners.”
“Very gallant, Your Grace,” Bea said approvingly.
“He’s just showing off,” Mr. Murray muttered, but there was a good-natured twinkle in his hazel eyes. “This calls for champagne.”
The celebratory beverage had been brought in, and the four had toasted to the happiness of both couples. Then Bea had suggested rather pointedly that Mr. Murray should offer Knight a cigar in his study.
“We’re being dismissed, Knighton.” Mr. Murray’s teasing tones had carried as he led his guest out. “Is this what married life will be like, I wonder? We useless husbands being ordered about by our wives?”
“Speak for yourself.” Knight had cast a look back at Fancy. “I intend to have my uses. I would not give my wife any cause to wonder why she married me.”
Surprised by the warmth in his eyes, Fancy had blushed.
Now Knight was gone, and she was facing an inquisitive Bea.
“It’s a long story,” Fancy began.
“How long could it possibly be?” Bea arched her fair brows. “You met Knighton less than a month ago. Now you’re married to him. Stop prevaricating, dearest, and tell me all.”
So Fancy did. Starting from her encounter with Knighton at the stream to the camping at the farmhouse to her sleepwalking in the storm. She told her best friend about how good, kind, and noble Knight had been toward her. And she revealed the terms of their marriage: that the one thing Knight wasn’t offering was love.
“Hold up,” Bea said with a frown. “You, Fancy Sheridan, life-long believer in faerie tales, married a man who wants nothing to do with love?”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds.” Seeing her friend’s skepticism, Fancy added quickly, “Knight is a kind and generous ’usband. Why, this afternoon I’m to go shopping with ’is Aunt Esther, and ’e’s given me,”—she tried to recall the phrase—“carte blanche. It means I can buy whate’er I want.”
“I know what it means.” A line formed between Bea brows. “And I also know that you don’t give a whit about gowns and gewgaws. Haven’t you always told me that nothing is more important than love? What you want—what you’ve always wanted—is a husband you love and who loves you in return.”
It was true. That had been her dream, always.
It still is, her heart whispered.
“I ’aven’t given up on my dream. I think…I think I’m falling in love with ’im, Bea.” She swallowed against rising despair. “But ’is ’eart belongs to another, and I met ’er this morning. She looks like an angel.”
To her horror, her voice broke, heat pushing behind her eyes. The tears fell before she could stop them, and once they started, they wouldn’t stop.
Bea put an arm around her shoulders, murmuring, “There, there, dear. Let it all out.”
Fancy did, and when she was done, Bea handed her a handkerchief. “Feel better?”
“Yes.” Sniffling, she wiped her eyes. “I ’aven’t ’ad anyone to talk to about this.”
“That’s what bosom chums are for,” Bea said. “Now tell me about this ‘angel’ you met.”
Not wanting to betray Knight’s confidence, Fancy kept the details to a minimum, enough so that her friend could understand the situation.
“’Er name is Imogen, and ’e’s loved ’er since ’e saved ’er from a runaway carriage when ’e was fifteen. But she’s a lady, and ’e wasn’t