Chapter 18 #2
Nancy’s steps slowed as she took in the scene. Oscar looked… not relaxed, exactly, but at ease. His collar was unbuttoned, his shoes discarded, and for once he seemed more man than monument. Clara and Henry sat cross-legged beside him, devouring food with feral efficiency.
“Mind joining our little picnic?” Oscar asked, raising a sandwich as a sort of peace offering.
Nancy sat, smoothing her skirt over her knees. “I am still waiting for the catch. There is always a catch with you.”
Oscar grinned. “No catch. I simply thought the children might benefit from fresh air and slightly burnt sausage rolls.”
“They are not burnt,” Clara objected, taking a monstrous bite. “They are crispy.”
Henry added, “Oscar made them himself.”
Nancy stared at Oscar. “Did you?”
He shrugged. “I can read a recipe. Even a bad one.”
She took a sandwich, bit in, and chewed. “Not as bad as I expected. You might have a future as a chef.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Clara said, with a glower. “He’ll make us eat spinach.”
They worked through the food, the sun, and a rotating schedule of insults and praise.
Henry had a particular fondness for the jam biscuits, and by the time the basket was half-empty, Nancy noticed a peculiar arithmetic at work: every time she turned her back, another biscuit disappeared, and every time she checked Henry’s hands, they were stickier.
Oscar was aware. She could see it in his narrowing eyes, the wariness with which he guarded the remaining biscuits. The final one sat between them, daring them both.
Nancy said, “If you want it, you’ll have to fight for it.”
“I do not fight children,” Oscar replied.
Henry, sensing an opportunity, lunged.
Oscar moved like a cat, snatching the biscuit and holding it aloft. “You have had four already. Leave one for Clara.”
Henry pouted. “Clara hates jam.”
Oscar considered. “Then I will eat it myself.”
He raised the biscuit, but Henry was not to be denied. He leapt, caught Oscar’s sleeve, and for a moment the two wrestled—gentleman against goblin—until the biscuit popped loose and tumbled to the grass. Henry pounced, triumphant, and stuffed it in his mouth before anyone could protest.
Oscar watched this with a sort of morbid fascination. “You see?” he said to Nancy. “There is no winning.”
“You could let them win,” Nancy replied, but she was laughing.
After the meal, Oscar suggested a walk around the lake. “Digestive exercise,” he declared. “Or perhaps a futile attempt to wear them out.”
Clara and Henry scampered ahead, chasing each other in ever-expanding spirals. Nancy and Oscar walked behind, content to follow the chaos at a safer distance.
“Thank you for this,” Nancy said, surprising herself by meaning it.
He nodded. “It seemed… appropriate.”
She watched the children, who had now begun hurling clumps of grass at each other. “They are less wild than usual. Is it the sun, or your influence?”
“Perhaps yours,” Oscar said, sidelong. “You have a way of making them feel safe.”
Nancy felt a pang, then masked it with a smile. “You’re doing better than you think.”
He looked at her. “Am I?”
“Much,” she replied. “Even if you do lose all the arguments.”
He glanced ahead. The twins had reached the water’s edge, daring each other to dip their toes. “They are impossible to manage.”
“That is the joy of children,” Nancy said. “And the misery.”
He smirked. “I can handle misery.”
She almost said, “I know,” but bit it back.
After a few more paces, Nancy paused. The path dipped to the lakeshore, where a weeping willow shaded the grass. She slipped off her shoes and waded to the water’s edge, letting the cold bite at her toes. It felt reckless, almost adolescent.
Oscar watched her, arms crossed. “Careful. There may be pike.”
She grinned. “There are no pike in this lake. Only leeches. And I am not afraid of leeches.”
“I should hope not,” he replied. “You married one.”
Nancy snorted. “You flatter yourself.”
They stood in companionable silence. Henry and Clara had tired of the water and now lay sprawled in the grass, collecting small stones and debating their relative merits.
“Would you like to join them?” Nancy teased.
Oscar made a show of considering. “If I sit on that grass, I may never get up again.”
She took a few steps into the water, shivering at the chill. “I dare you.”
He shook his head. “You are incorrigible.”
“I try,” she said, then yelped as something sharp slid under her foot. She lost her balance, flailed, and pitched forward with a most unduchess-like shriek.
The world went sideways. Water closed over her head, cold and heavy, and she came up spluttering, hair pasted to her face.
On the bank, Henry and Clara were frozen with horror.
Oscar moved instantly. He was in the water before she had caught her breath, dragging her upright with strong arms.
“Nancy. Are you hurt?” He checked her for blood, for broken bones, for any sign that his reputation would be further stained by accidental homicide.
She coughed, wiped the hair from her eyes, and tried to muster dignity. “I’m fine. Only wet. And possibly wounded in pride.”
Oscar stared at her, a crease between his brows. “You are certain?”
She looked down. The water was only up to her waist. “I am certain.”
He turned to the children, who still hovered at the shore.
“Clara. Henry. She’s perfectly fine.”
Clara burst into tears anyway, and Henry started picking flowers with what Nancy guessed was an attempt at a funeral bouquet.
Oscar’s attention returned to her. “Can you walk?”
“Of course.” She took a step, and her shoe immediately suctioned off her foot and disappeared into the mud.
Oscar snorted. “Elegant.”
“Thank you,” Nancy said, and, embarrassed, let him steady her back to the grass.
They collapsed together onto the blanket. Clara and Henry rushed in, both babbling questions and apologies.
Oscar said, “There. The Duchess has survived her first swim. All is well.”
Henry tugged at Nancy’s sleeve. “Are you sure you’re not a ghost?”
“Quite sure,” she said. “Unless ghosts shiver.”
She realized, then, that she was indeed shivering. The sun was warm, but her clothes clung, the wet fabric outlining every awkward curve. She tried to cross her arms, but it only made her more conscious of herself.
Oscar noticed, and one of his brows made a slow ascent. “We should go. You’re cold.”
Nancy could not help observing the manner in which his own wet shirt clung to his body. Her throat felt dry, and she swallowed against it, begging for something to distract her. Just then, her teeth chattered.
He rose, swept up the children with an efficiency that was almost military, and then turned to her.
“Come on,” he said, offering his hand.
She took it, and he pulled her up so close that for a moment she thought he might kiss her. But he only stared, his blue eyes scanning her face as if searching for cracks in the porcelain.
Nancy’s heart thudded. She looked away.
Oscar dropped her hand and gathered the blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders. His coat, still on the grass, followed, draped across her back like a cape.
He stood behind her, large and warm and so close that the air itself seemed to tighten.
She dared not move.
A long silence hung between them, broken only by the children, now laughing as they chased each other toward the carriage.
Nancy swallowed. “That will do.”
Oscar did not step away. He hovered, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the tension vibrating in the scant space between their bodies. His gaze moved over her once more, as if admiring how the wet garments clung to her form.
Nancy was tempted to ask him to look away, but a part of her—a very treacherous one—basked in the attention.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
She blinked, nodded, and when she spoke, her voice was small. “Yes. Thank you.”
He leaned down, his lips near her ear. “That is not the proper way to thank your rescuer, Duchess.”
She turned to glare at him, cheeks burning. “If you expect a reward for pulling a sodden woman from a pond, you have mistaken the nature of gallantry.”
Oscar grinned, all wolfish delight. “I never mistake anything. Especially not you.”
She bristled. “You are insufferable.”
“And you,” he replied, “are impossible.”
She squared her shoulders, prepared to defend her honor, but he was already moving away, shepherding the children into the carriage. Nancy pulled the coat tighter around herself and followed, unsteady but determined not to show it.
As she climbed into the carriage, Oscar offered his hand once more. She ignored it, choosing instead to focus on the twins, who were now dry and arguing over who had the best “near-death story.”
Nancy sat, damp and humiliated, and stared out the window.
The carriage jolted forward.
She expected silence. Instead, Oscar said, “I suspect you fell on purpose.”
She snapped her head around. “Excuse me?”
“You did not wish to be upstaged by Henry’s biscuit victory. So you staged a spectacle.”
She gaped. “You, arrogant, delusional man. Not everything in the world is about you, or about getting your attention!”
Oscar smiled. “If you say so.”
Nancy sputtered. “It was an accident. Purely an accident.”
He folded his arms. “Of course.”
She could feel the heat rise in her chest, up her neck, into her ears. “I assure you, the last thing I would ever want is for you to rescue me. Or to owe you anything. Ever.”
Oscar watched her, eyes bright. “You can call it whatever you like, Duchess. But I know what I saw.”
Henry and Clara giggled, delighted by the grown-ups’ quarrel.
Nancy pressed her lips together, refusing to dignify the accusation. But she could not stop herself from glancing at Oscar, nor from seeing—just for an instant—the warmth in his smile.
The rest of the ride passed in awkward, buzzing silence.
But as they arrived at the manor, Oscar paused, stepped out, and turned back to offer her his hand one last time.
She took it because her dignity demanded it. And because, despite everything, it felt right.
They walked to the door together, the children bounding ahead.
As they reached the steps, Oscar looked down at her, and his mouth curved.
Nancy tried to glare, but it came out as a smile.
He laughed, open and unrestrained, and the sound was like nothing she had ever heard from him before. This man was quickly weakening her.