It was not imposing, nor grand, nor a folly. It was simply… right. Built of warm gray stone, it sat atop a low rise, its roof pitched sharply against the wind. Ivy clung to the walls, and where the sun hit, the leaves had gone a deep, astonishing red. It looked as if the house itself was blushing.
Oscar was first out of the carriage. He paused, then offered Nancy his hand, and this time she took it without reservation.
The air was different here. Brisk, but not sharp. There was a feeling of anticipation, as if the house knew it was about to be loved.
The steward—a woman, this time, efficient and entirely unruffled by their titles—led them through a narrow entry. There was a library, not grand but inviting; a small, sunlit music room; a kitchen with flagstones and a larder already scented with dried rosemary. Upstairs, the bedrooms were simple andbright, with sloped ceilings and deep-set windows that framed the fields beyond.
Nancy wandered from room to room, her heart growing lighter with each step. She imagined Henry here, chasing Clara up the stairs. She pictured Clara curled in the window seat, reading by the afternoon light.
Oscar stood in the center of the upstairs hall, watching her.
“This is it,” Nancy said, voice soft. “This is the one.”
He looked around, as if seeing the house for the first time. “You are certain?”
“Yes.” She turned, arms spread. “It’s perfect. For the children, for me. It even has a kitchen garden. You can grow every herb in England.”
Oscar nodded, and for the first time that day, she saw the tension leave his shoulders.
“Good. Because it’s yours.”
Nancy blinked. “Pardon?”
“This house. It belongs to Scarfield, but it is not entailed. If you wish it, it is yours, free and clear.”
She laughed, delighted and a bit dizzy. “You have a talent for making a girl feel at home, Duke.”
He stepped closer, the hallway suddenly smaller. “I am glad you approve.”
They stood there, a little too close for mere acquaintances, a little too far for anything else.
Nancy tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Oscar reached out and, before she could stop him, tucked it back again, his fingers lingering just a second at the nape of her neck.
She inhaled, aware of everything—his hand, the heat of his body, the wild staccato of her own heart.
Oscar looked down at her, and for a moment she thought he might kiss her. He wanted to—she could see it in the dilation of his pupils, the way his mouth parted, the way he leaned in just so?—
He stopped, as if struck by a sudden, brutal clarity. He pulled his hand away, then turned, the spell broken.
“It’s late,” he said, almost roughly. “We should return to the manor. The children will be waiting.”
Nancy swallowed her disappointment, tried to laugh it off, but the ache was real.
“Of course,” she said. “We don’t want to be late for dinner.”
Oscar offered his arm. She took it, and the warmth of his earlier touch lingered, pulsing beneath her skin.
As they walked, she stole a glance at him, at the strong line of his profile, and wondered:What if we had a real marriage? What if we could?
CHAPTER 22
“Are you here to apologize?” Adrian drawled, tossing down his paper as Oscar approached their table at White’s. He took in the sight of his friend, who had carved out a small kingdom in the window alcove, his legs crossed and jacket rumpled in calculated defiance of the club’s code.
Oscar set his hat aside and pulled out the facing chair with enough force to make a passing footman flinch. He regarded Adrian with a level stare, then offered a dry, “If by ‘apologize’ you mean ‘deliver you from another morning of debating the tax code with Lord Everett,’ then yes, I am here to beg forgiveness. I should never have left you unsupervised among the elderly.”
Adrian grinned. “You wound me, Scarfield. I am a patron of the aged and infirm.” He made a show of dusting imaginary lint from his lapel. “But you did, in fact, throw me from your house that night. I’m told some find that offensive.”
“I merely asked you to leave early,” Oscar said, signaling the steward for coffee. “I had business to attend to.”
