Chapter 8
“What a surprise, Your Grace. Never in a millennium did I expect to have you in my drawing room.”
Nancy’s father dispensed the greeting with all the warmth of a solicitor serving a summons. Scarfield responded by inclining his head just enough to offend, just deep enough to maintain plausible deniability. The room, already bristling with expectation, seemed to lean in.
“Your hospitality precedes you,” Scarfield said. “I have heard it spoken of as a force of nature.”
Her father’s brow lifted, and Nancy watched the beginnings of a smile—dangerous, wolfish—curve his mouth. “I am gratified to discover that even the wildest rumors may hold a grain of truth.”
“If only more men could be so candid about their reputations,” Scarfield replied. He turned, as if only now discovering Nancy’s presence. “Lady Nancy. A pleasure to see you again so soon.”
Nancy stood perfectly still, determined not to blink. If Scarfield was going to haunt her life, he could at least be made to work for it. She returned his gaze with a chill of her own.
The silence pulsed, then broke as Scarfield crossed the rug, took her hand, and—because he was utterly incorrigible—pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
The contact was quick, but her pulse careened into an unladylike gallop.
To cover this, she said, “Is this to be our new form of greeting, Your Grace? Shall I expect a floral arrangement next, or perhaps a sonnet?”
“I am a traditionalist,” he replied. “If you prefer, I can revert to biting.”
“I am told that is frowned upon in polite company,” Nancy answered, but she felt her cheeks warm, a betrayal that made her want to throttle herself.
Her mother, hovering by the tea service, cleared her throat in the way that meant she was moments from arranging the world to her liking.
“Oscar,” Moira said, using his Christian name as if she’d already adopted him into the family and was disappointed at the result, “you look thinner than last I saw you. Are you ill, or is it a fashion among the English these days to fade away entirely?”
Scarfield smiled with real appreciation. “I believe it is the result of persistent English weather and a steady diet of parliamentary debate. But I thank you for your concern, Duchess.”
Moira waved off the title, poured herself a cup, and gestured for Nancy to sit beside her. Nancy obeyed, feeling suddenly like a child at her first music recital.
Her father, refusing the offer of a chair, planted himself by the fireplace.
“To business, then. The point of this gathering is not to swap pleasantries, but to clarify expectations. I have, after considerable reflection, agreed to give my daughter’s hand in marriage to the Duke of Scarfield.
” He said this as if daring anyone to challenge him.
Nancy tried to keep her reaction unreadable, but she could feel Scarfield’s gaze on her, measuring, taking the pulse of her every thought.
Scarfield inclined his head, a concession to the moment. “Your Grace, I am honored by your trust. I am likewise prepared to expedite the matter—I have already written to secure a special license, and should all proceed as intended, I propose the ceremony be held before week’s end.”
This landed in the room with the subtlety of a cannonball. Her father blinked. “That is—”
“Efficient,” Moira finished, looking at Scarfield as if reevaluating her previous low estimation of Englishmen. “I approve.”
Nancy, in a minor act of rebellion, said, “Will there be time to embroider a fresh handkerchief, or must I bring my own?”
“If you lack one, I am sure I can supply it,” Scarfield answered, and Nancy hated how the corners of his mouth threatened to smile at her.
Her father looked, for a moment, as if he might object to the rush, but Moira’s hand landed on his arm, firm and reassuring. The moment passed.
“Very well,” Edward said. “If you wish to speak with my daughter, you may do so. In here, with the door open. There will be no scandal under this roof, if it can be avoided.”
He signaled to the butler, who stationed himself in the hall as a sentry, and led Moira out with him.
The drawing room felt twice as large in their absence. Scarfield waited until the footsteps retreated, then, with the careful movements of a predator, crossed to the chair opposite Nancy. He sat, long legs splayed, posture relaxed but not indolent.
“So,” he said, “this is what passes for romance in your household?”
Nancy tried to match his ease, folding her hands in her lap. “If you’d wanted poetry and roses, you should have courted Lady Bessington. I hear she will rhyme for a shilling.”
Scarfield’s eyes tracked her, patient and inscrutable. “You think me superficial.”
“I think you have cultivated the appearance of a rake in order to hide the fact that you are a sentimentalist at heart.” She allowed herself a tiny, surgical smile. “It is transparent.”
He looked away, as if collecting thoughts from the perimeter of the room. “And what have you cultivated, Lady Nancy? I gather you prefer the sword to the rose.”
“I have never found the rose particularly useful. Nor the sword, come to it. But I do value knowing the difference.”
He looked at her. Really looked—none of the games, none of the cold reserve. “Why did you offer?” he asked, voice so quiet it threatened to slip past her altogether. “You could have abandoned them to my care. You could have washed your hands of the whole family. Why not?”
The question caught her off guard. “Because I do not believe in abandoning people,” she said. “It is the one thing in the world I will not do.”
He considered this, then nodded. “A noble cause.”
“Not noble. Simply practical. The world is full of orphans already; we do not need to manufacture more.”
He smiled, but it was a small, private thing. “And you imagine you can save them as my wife.”
“I can do more for them than you can,” she said, “which is not a criticism—just a fact.”
He laughed then, and she was struck by the fact that it was not cruel or derisive, but genuinely delighted. “You are the most maddening woman I have ever met.”
She uncrossed her arms, heart drumming hard. “I strive for excellence in all things.”
They were quiet, then, and Nancy realized they had come to a sort of truce. Or at least a cease-fire.
Scarfield stood, stretching the moment, then offered her his hand. She took it—because to refuse would be to cede the high ground—and let him pull her to her feet. She was suddenly aware of how close he stood. She could smell him—citrus and wool and something else, dark and familiar.
He leaned in, voice barely audible. “I will see you down the aisle, dearest Nancy.”
She felt a flush climb her neck, and hated that he could do that to her, even now.
He released her hand and walked away, not bothering to look back. He left her standing in the center of the room, cheeks blazing, hands trembling.
Nancy watched the door close behind him, and for a long moment, she stared at the crack where it met the jamb, as if by force of will she could keep him from ever returning.
But she knew he would. And next time, she promised herself, she would not let him win the last word.