Chapter 20
Oscar was on his way to his chambers after midnight when he saw a sliver of light coming from the nursery. He paused, first annoyed, then curious.
What new nonsense had the children invented to delay sleep now?
He crossed the runner and pushed the door open, then noted at once the problem: three candles left burning on the sill, two children drooped over the blankets in a tangle of arms and legs, and between them, a third body. Nancy.
She was sprawled, red hair splayed in chaotic liberty over a pillow that did not belong to her, one stockinged foot nearly off the mattress.
He frowned. For a moment, he considered whether he ought to fetch a maid, or perhaps a bell and simply ring for order.
But the sight was, somehow, more peaceful than he could have imagined.
The children had sandwiched Nancy between them with the precision of a military maneuver: Clara had one fist knotted in the sleeve of her dress, while Henry lay with his cheek pressed into her ribs, mouth agape, the faintest snore issuing from his throat.
He stepped forward, as softly as he could, and doused the candles.
Then he stood for a time, simply watching.
The fire-haired menace to arithmetic looked curiously small when asleep, her face absent all the sharp angles and barbed retorts of the daytime.
Even her freckles were dimmed, as if the darkness had gently ironed them flat.
She also looked, he thought, thoroughly exhausted.
Oscar retreated, quiet, and summoned Mrs. Tullock to the first-floor drawing room. She arrived as though conjured, arms folded and ready for combat.
“You sent for me, Your Grace.”
He nodded, pinched the bridge of his nose. “I did.”
Mrs. Tullock stood at attention, which was her only mode of address. “Is there an emergency?”
“Not precisely.” He hesitated. “How is the Duchess adjusting to her duties?”
Mrs. Tullock regarded him with the exact level of skepticism one might reserve for a leaky roof or a recalcitrant spaniel. “She is more competent than most. Less shrill. Very stubborn. But I suppose you knew that.”
“She seems tired.”
“She is,” Mrs. Tullock replied, flat. “The children will not leave her be for a moment, and the staff have never seen the nursery so busy. The maids cannot help, because the twins will not allow it. If you ask me, they will drive her mad by Michaelmas.”
Oscar rubbed his temple. “Couldn’t you insist the nursemaids take the children in the mornings?”
“They tried,” Mrs. Tullock said. “The twins threatened to sabotage the nursery’s plumbing with sheep intestines if the Duchess was removed. Not an idle threat, as you are aware.”
Oscar grunted. “Tell the Duchess’s lady’s maid not to wake her tomorrow. She is to sleep as long as she likes. The same for the chambermaids. If anyone disturbs her before noon, they answer to me.”
Mrs. Tullock’s lips twitched upward, a nearly invisible sign of approval. “Very good, Your Grace.”
Oscar watched her go, a sense of ill-defined guilt swelling in her absence.
He had taken on a wife out of necessity, then promptly left her to fend off the domestic insanity single-handed.
He should have done more. If Nancy were to run the household, she required support—not just from the staff, but from him.
Perhaps it was time to consider Adrian’s suggestion about the governess. Or perhaps he simply needed to stop hiding in his study and behave like a proper, if reluctant, husband.
Oscar’s next action was nearly instinct: he returned to the nursery, this time more purposeful, and saw at once that the sleeping arrangement was unchanged. The twins had not moved, but Nancy’s lips twitched in her sleep as if she were arguing even in her dreams.
He moved Henry, first, lifting the child from the bed and tucking him into the trundle with the care he would have reserved for a sack of nitroglycerin.
Clara, on being freed, promptly rolled into the vacancy and latched onto Nancy’s arm, murmuring something about monsters under the bureau.
Oscar managed, after several attempts, to extricate Nancy without waking either of them.
He swept her up gingerly, and was struck at once by two things: first, how little she weighed. Second, the scent of her hair, something sharp and clean—strawberries, he realized, the same note the twins had used to describe her on the first day she arrived.
Oscar cradled her, feeling foolish and yet unwilling to let go, and made his way to the master chambers. The hallway was dark, empty, but he could not help the sense that the house itself was watching him, and perhaps finding his predicament amusing.
In the Duchess’s rooms, he lay her on the bed, careful to keep her head from striking the headboard. She stirred, mumbling. “Duke,” she muttered, “if you have come to debate calculus at this hour, you may drown in a bucket.”
He nearly laughed, but settled for tucking the blankets around her shoulders and turning to leave.
A hand shot out and caught his wrist.
He froze, looking down at her. Her eyes were open, green as fire in the low light, and there was none of the ice from their daylight sparring. She seemed, for once, entirely herself—unguarded, lost to the moment.
“Don’t go,” she said, then wrinkled her nose as if she could not believe she had spoken the words aloud. “My stays are killing me,” she continued, more petulant than pleading. “They are too tight. I’ll die if you leave them on.”
Oscar, very suddenly aware of all the ways this could end in disaster, stood perfectly still. “Do you want me to summon your maid?”
Nancy squinted at him, then at the clock. “It’s past midnight. Lynch will weep if you wake her.” She rolled onto her stomach, exposing the tangled knots and hooks at the back of her dress. “Just loosen them. I will pay you in scones.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, not trusting himself to breathe. The stays were knotted tightly, and for a moment, he could not imagine how she managed to remain upright, let alone hold her own in a debate.
He worked at the laces, slow, methodical, and tried to think of calculus or Greek or anything but the heat rising in his face. Nancy, for her part, simply sighed in relief as the bindings gave way. “All the way,” she ordered. “Undo the last hook.”
He did, and the dress slipped an inch, exposing her back to the curve of her spine. Oscar swallowed and drew his hands away. The urge to touch her—her hair, her shoulder, the smooth expanse of skin—was intense enough to be disorienting.
Nancy said, “Thank you.” Her voice was slurred with sleep, but she rolled onto her back, hair a mess, eyes half-shut. “You are very good at unlacing things. Is that a skill from Eton, or learned on the streets?”
Oscar could not think of an answer that would not incriminate him. He stood.
She caught his hand again, lighter this time. “You are too far away, Duke.” Her thumb pressed into the heel of his palm. “You are always too far away.”
He leaned closer, their faces only inches apart. For a moment, he considered it—a kiss, a reckless thing that would ruin everything or remake it. But then he pulled back, gently, and tucked her hand under the covers.
“Good night, Duchess,” he said. “Sleep as long as you wish.”
He left before she could reply, closing the door with as little sound as possible.
The hall was silent. He walked it, unhurried, letting the tension ebb from his chest. The sensation lingered, though, the warmth of her hand, the smell of strawberries, the memory of her voice telling him not to go.
He reached his own chamber and stood in the darkness, regarding his reflection in the cold glass of the window. He looked the same as always: severe, unyielding, every line in place. But inside, the ground had shifted.
He could not go on like this. The yearning was dangerous—he knew that from the way it roiled his logic, the way it made him want to do things for which he had no name.
Oscar had married Nancy for one reason alone, which was to help him with the twins. There was to be no other reason besides that. None whatsoever!
I must get a hold on myself. I am not a foolish green boy. I am a duke, and one not given to weakness.