“He has a reputation for being a rake, but I shouldn’t worry. Lady Knighton strikes me as a lady who can take care of herself.”
Hearing the light rebuff in Imogen’s words, Severin felt his neck heat. Was his possessiveness obvious? Did he look like a fool?
“I am not worried,” he said brusquely.
“Of course not. I apologize for misspeaking.”
Hearing the quiver in Imogen’s voice, he cursed himself inwardly. He thought back to the hours she’d spent teaching him how to be a gentleman, what a good friend she had been to him when he had had no others. It wasn’t her fault that he was distracted. That he was a jealous fool who wanted to punch any man who danced with his wife.
“You said nothing wrong.” He softened his tone. “Did I mention how lovely you look tonight?”
“You think so?” Her eyes shone. “Cardiff didn’t like my gown. He prefers darker colors, but you have always liked me in the lighter shades. Remember the gown I wore to my debut? You told me I looked like an angel.”
Discomfort tread up Severin’s spine. “That was a long time ago.”
“Forever, it seems,” she said wistfully. “And yet also like yesterday…at least for me.”
Guilt constricted his chest. He felt suddenly as if a chasm had opened between the past and the present, and he had a foothold in each. He struggled to maintain his balance, to not fall into the dark abyss. All he knew was that standing here, talking with Imogen, he didn’t feel…right.
He scanned the room for Fancy. She’d left the dance floor and was standing with a circle of ladies—the hostess and the wives of Kent and Garrity. His wife was laughing, bright as a flame in her red gown, and he had the urge to warm himself by her fire.
He turned to Imogen. “I must speak with some friends. Shall I return you to your husband?”
“Cardiff isn’t here,” she said. “That is for the better.”
The look that flashed through Imogen’s eyes made him frown. Before he could ask her what she meant, she drew her shoulders back.
“I shan’t keep you from your friends, Knighton,” she said stiffly. “Good evening.”
She walked away.
Fancy laughed with her friends even though she had no idea what they were saying.
The evening had started with such triumph. She had managed to enter the ballroom with dignity and grace…at least, she hadn’t fallen on her face as she’d feared. Jonas and Cecily were behaving. Knight had partnered Fancy in a waltz, the first time they’d danced together. He was a masterful leader, and she’d floated in his arms, cherishing every moment of it.
Although she would have been content to dance the night away in her husband’s arms, she’d learned enough from Aunt Esther to know that a fashionable couple did not live in each other’s pockets. Her dance card had filled with astonishing quickness, and she’d obligingly twirled around the floor with a number of partners.
After the last dance had ended, she’d been claimed by Tessa, Gabby, and Maggie. The ladies were delightful company as usual, and while chatting and sipping champagne with them, she’d looked around the room for Knight. It had taken her awhile to find him because he’d been standing half-hidden by some potted palms…with Imogen.
Fancy’s pleasure in the evening had faded as she saw, between the fronds, her husband lean his head down to catch something Imogen was saying. With a sickening pang of jealousy, she’d had to confront what a perfect picture they made. Imogen was breathtaking in an icy blue gown that showcased her willowy figure. Knight, tall and darkly handsome in his elegant evening wear, was her natural foil.
Heart hammering, Fancy had made herself look away. She’d chided herself for being silly, a jealous fishwife. Knight had never lied about his past with Imogen; their history was complicated. And if the two were to meet up in public, of course they wouldn’t ignore one another. It made sense that they would have a chat as old friends.
“Fancy, is something the matter?”
Her gaze flew to Maggie, who was regarding her with concerned green eyes.
“N-no,” she stammered. “I was just, um, woolgathering.”
“You are a bit flushed.” Maggie’s brow pleated. “Is it too stuffy in here? I could have the windows opened.”
“No, I’m fine,” Fancy said quickly.
“I don’t think it’s the room temperature that has her blood boiling,” Tessa said.
Fancy’s face heated at the shrewd observation. Tessa wasn’t the Duchess of Covent Garden for nothing. The lady