Chapter 21 #2
The first house was… imposing. Not in the way Scarfield was, all gothic angles and ancient quarrel, but in the sense that every brick and balustrade had been imported for the sole purpose of impressing upon visitors that their own homes were shoddy and provincial by comparison.
They were met by a steward, who bowed deeply and recited the lineage of the house as if reading from a pageant of Roman emperors. Oscar seemed to appreciate the performance, though Nancy was less charmed.
Inside, everything was velvet and mahogany and a faint, clinging scent of pipe smoke.
The drawing room was the size of a small cathedral, every stick of furniture polished to a nervous gleam.
Nancy could imagine the twins here, for about five minutes, before Henry tried to scale the marble fireplace and Clara staged a coup in the billiard room.
Oscar peppered the steward with questions: What were the acoustics in the ballroom? Was there a wine cellar? How soon could the east wing be converted into a music room? Nancy tried, and failed, to picture her life here. It felt more like an inheritance than a home.
At the conclusion of the tour, Oscar turned to her. “What do you think?”
She weighed her words. “It’s… grand.”
“But?”
“But the children would likely find it stifling. And so would I.” She flashed a smile. “It’s not the house’s fault. I was simply not born to so much symmetry.”
Oscar’s lips twitched. “We will try another.”
The second house was a little better, though its charms were more subtle.
The gardens were impressive; the library even more so, stocked with volumes so old the mere act of reading them would constitute an act of vandalism.
Nancy noted the proximity to the village—a point in its favor, at least. But again, everything felt staged, preserved, as if the last family to live here had been pressed like flowers between the pages of history.
Oscar examined the study. “A bit small,” he pronounced.
Nancy eyed the window seat, large enough for two children and an errant fox, and said, “I think it would do.”
The steward, a new one with an even more prodigious mustache, asked if they cared to see the scullery. Oscar declined. Nancy agreed to the tour, if only to prolong her escape from the judgment of all those ancestral portraits glaring down from the walls.
They met up again in the foyer.
“Any favorites so far?” Oscar inquired.
Nancy shrugged. “Do you mean the houses, or the stewards? Because I have a soft spot for the last one’s mustache.”
He nearly smiled. “The next property is somewhat less traditional. I suspect you will despise it.”
“Is that why you saved it for last?”
“It is not last. There is one more after.” He offered his arm. “Come, Duchess. Let’s see how much you can endure.”
She took his arm, and they braved the cold together.
The third house was a folly, in the architectural sense. It looked as if someone had taken the blueprints for six different stately homes, mashed them together, and then given the result to a builder with a fondness for surprises.
Nancy tried to keep a straight face as they passed through a hallway painted entirely in sky blue, complete with fluffy clouds and, inexplicably, several cupids. Oscar watched her, waiting for her to break.
She did, at the sight of the dining room: a rococo nightmare with gilded chairs shaped like harps.
“It’s—” Nancy started, then faltered, at a rare loss for words.
“Hideous?” Oscar supplied.
She grinned. “If we ever require a set for an opera, I know exactly where to come.”
The steward—a wraith of a man with a lisp—tried to interest them in the ballroom. “It’s the only room not currently occupied by peacocks,” he said, with no apparent irony.
Nancy and Oscar toured it, but neither bothered to pretend.
On the way out, Nancy couldn’t resist. “Your taste in houses, Duke, is even stranger than your taste in acquaintances.”
Oscar regarded her sidelong. “You have only yourself to blame. You married me.”
Nancy’s laugh echoed in the stairwell, bright and unguarded.
The steward gave them a look, something between horror and amusement. Nancy caught it and shared it with Oscar, and for a moment, they were simply two people, bonded by mutual skepticism and a sense of cosmic irony.
By the fourth house, Nancy had lost all hope of finding anything resembling a home. She tried to lower her expectations accordingly. The carriage wound up a narrow, rutted drive, through a stand of copper beeches, and then—quite suddenly—the house appeared.
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 and bright, 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?