Chapter 12
Oscar regarded Clara for a long, astonished beat, as if the notion that a person under four feet tall might thwart his will was news to him.
He then shifted his attention to Henry, who had not relinquished his grip on Nancy’s skirts, and finally to Nancy herself, searching her face for any sign of complicity.
Nancy offered him the blandest of smiles.
Oscar composed himself. “I wouldn’t dream of taking her away from you, Clara,” he said.
“Good.” Clara released her hold, satisfied, and took a step back with the air of a victorious general. Henry’s hand lingered, his grip slackening by degrees, as if he needed confirmation that Nancy would not disappear in the instant he looked away.
Nancy crouched, putting herself on level with the twins. “I will only be a moment. I am in no danger,” she said, giving Henry’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
Henry regarded Oscar for a moment, wary, but then nodded. Clara, intent on supervising the proceedings, stationed herself at the nearest settee with a view of both Nancy and Oscar, as if she’d appointed herself chaperone.
Oscar inclined his head toward the hallway, and Nancy followed him through a set of double doors into the study.
The room was unchanged from her last visit; every book, every decanter, every scrap of paper precisely where it belonged.
Yet the air felt different, charged with the knowledge that nothing about either of them would ever be the same again.
He closed the door behind them with a click, then leaned back against it, his arms folded, as if blocking her escape was a matter of simple physics.
Nancy raised an eyebrow. “Is this an interrogation or an abduction?”
He smiled, slow and deliberate. “Neither. I simply wished to speak to you without an audience.” He scanned her, starting with the pearls at her throat and ending at the tips of her shoes.
His gaze paused on the minute, painstakingly arranged flowers woven through her hair.
A corner of his mouth ticked up. “You appear to have survived the ordeal.”
Nancy matched his scrutiny, tilting her head to study him in return. “So far. I cannot say the same for you.”
He uncrossed his arms and came closer. “You sound remarkably calm for a woman whose fate has just been sealed.”
“I have had days to prepare. Surely you, of all people, appreciate the power of forethought.”
Oscar’s gaze met hers, dark blue and searching. He circled around the desk—his natural fortress, Nancy noted—and waited for her to take the guest chair.
She remained standing. “If you are going to interrogate me, I would prefer to remain on my feet.”
He acquiesced, leaning against the corner of the desk, arms still crossed, feet planted. “Very well. Shall we commence the formal exchange of terms?”
“If you like,” Nancy said, “though I was under the impression we agreed on those already.”
Oscar considered her, then said, “I am a creature of habit. Humor me.”
Nancy folded her hands behind her back and met him stare for stare.
Oscar began, “This is an arrangement. I trust that remains your understanding?”
“Crystal clear,” Nancy replied. “You wish to avoid being a true uncle; I wish to avoid infanticide by neglect. We are in perfect accord.”
He continued, “For the sake of appearances, we will share a household for two months, or until the twins have acclimated. After that, we may live separately, provided we fulfill public duties as required.”
Nancy’s pulse quickened, not because the terms surprised her, but because Oscar had a way of making even the word “acclimated” sound indecent.
He pressed on. “After the stipulated period, I shall make arrangements for a house for you and the twins. I will provide adequately for you all, and Clara will have a handsome dowry when she comes of age.”
Nancy nodded. “So far, this is entirely as advertised.”
Oscar shifted, uncrossing his arms and placing his palms flat on the desk behind him. “I have only one additional requirement.”
She waited, steeling herself.
He said, “You are a duchess now. I expect you to perform the role flawlessly.”
Nancy felt heat creep up her neck. “If you are implying I require training in etiquette—”
He cut her off. “Not at all. You possess more poise than half the peerage combined. I simply mean to say that I have no patience for half-measures. If you commit to this, I expect nothing less than perfection.”
Nancy felt a flare of indignation, quickly doused by the realization that he meant it as a compliment, sort of. “You ask for perfection, but offer me only efficiency. That hardly seems equitable.”
He smiled, slow and wicked. “If you wish for more, you are welcome to negotiate.”
She shot back, “I am not accustomed to negotiating before breakfast.”
His mouth curved further. “Then let this be your first lesson in marital diplomacy.”
She fought to maintain composure, but he was watching her with such intensity that it was impossible not to feel the energy crackling between them. Her heart banged against her ribs. Do compose yourself, Nancy! He is only a man. And a deeply annoying one, at that.
He seemed to sense her discomfort, and it pleased him. He pushed off the desk and advanced a step, closing the space between them.
“Was there anything else?” he asked.
She set her jaw, unwilling to give an inch. “Do you expect me to fulfill all duties?”
He raised a brow while one corner of his mouth slanted. “All duties?”
The cad knows! Nancy’s cheeks burned, but she kept her voice steady. “You know precisely what I mean.”
“Do I?” He took another step, until they were nearly touching. “Elucidate, if you please.”
She could have boxed his ears. Instead, she folded her arms, mimicking his earlier posture. “Is an heir required?”
For a moment, Oscar said nothing. Then, in a movement so fast she barely registered it, he circled behind her and leaned down, his mouth near her ear. “I am in no hurry to repeat the mistakes of my parents, Nancy. You need not concern yourself with producing an army of little heirs.”
The scent of him—citrus and something dark, something almost dangerous—washed over her.
She turned, but he was already there, inches away, eyes locked on hers. Her back bumped the edge of his desk. He placed one hand beside her on the polished wood, caging her in.
Oscar looked at her, really looked, and in that second, all the bravado in her chest melted into something far more perilous.
His voice, when it came, was velvet and gravel. “That is a lovely dress you have on. It makes the green in your eyes… very hard to ignore.”
Nancy’s breath caught, and she cursed herself for the betrayal. “You should not be speaking to me like that, Duke.”
He smiled, slow and devastating. “Why not? You are my Duchess.”
She swallowed. Her tongue felt thick, her pulse tripping all over itself. “You have a talent for unbalancing people.”
He tipped his head, considering. “Only the ones worth the effort.”
She glared at him, but it was a half-hearted thing, and he knew it.
“Is that all?” he asked, the words a hair above a whisper.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
He leaned in, so close she could feel his breath, warm against her cheek.
“I already have an heir,” he murmured. “Henry.”
With that, he stepped away, the sudden absence of him as shocking as his presence.
Nancy let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
Oscar moved to the door and opened it, the gesture precise, final.
“Good day, Duchess,” he said, and vanished into the hallway.
Nancy stood a moment, her hands pressed to the edge of the desk, trying to slow her pulse.
She squared her shoulders, smoothed her hair, and followed him out.
The hallway was cold and empty, except for a compact figure standing at the end of it. The housekeeper, she guessed. The woman approached, hands tucked into her apron, eyes sharp and assessing.
She curtsied with the stiffness of a soldier reporting for duty. “Mrs. Tullock, Your Grace.”
Nancy smiled. “We shall get on fine, I’m sure.”
Mrs. Tullock’s gaze lingered, measuring, then she nodded once and slipped away, her boots silent on the stone.
Nancy watched her go, then turned and surveyed the empty hallway, steeling herself for the battles to come.
You are a duchess now. See if you can survive it.
“I do not want to wear that!” Clara’s voice was a thrown gauntlet, ringing down the nursery hallway and bouncing off the door as Nancy approached.
She found the children mid-rebellion: Clara clutching a battered white nightdress to her chest with both arms, Henry rooting through a trunk as if he might unearth a portal to a better universe.
The undermaid hovered nearby, the new nightdress—pale blue, stiff with ruffles—dangling from her hand like a shroud.
The girl turned to Nancy with something like relief. “Your Grace, Miss Clara does not wish to wear her new bedclothes. She insists on the old one.”
Nancy swept into the room, collecting the scene with a glance. “Thank you, Molly,” she said. “I’ll manage from here.”
Molly bobbed a curtsy and fled, mouth set in a line of solidarity.
Clara eyed Nancy, defensive and wary. “He bought it,” she said, brandishing the blue nightdress as evidence. “I do not like it. I want to wear my old one.”
Henry paused in his excavation, looking up at Nancy with eyes as wide and uncertain as a fawn’s. “I like the old one, too,” he added.
Nancy kneeled to their level, smoothing the skirt of her dress as she did. “There’s nothing wrong with old things,” she said, voice low. “Sometimes, they are the best things. But sometimes new things are just as good. You can wear your old nightdress tonight, if you prefer.”
Clara’s jaw relaxed. “Thank you, Nancy.”
Nancy smiled, though it ached a little to do so. “You’re welcome. And tomorrow, if you wish, we can decorate the new one. Add lace, or—” she lowered her voice conspiratorially “—ruin it with ink. Entirely your decision.”