Chapter 22
“Are you here to apologize?” Adrian drawled, tossing down his paper as Oscar approached their table at White’s. He took in the sight of his friend, who had carved out a small kingdom in the window alcove, his legs crossed and jacket rumpled in calculated defiance of the club’s code.
Oscar set his hat aside and pulled out the facing chair with enough force to make a passing footman flinch.
He regarded Adrian with a level stare, then offered a dry, “If by ‘apologize’ you mean ‘deliver you from another morning of debating the tax code with Lord Everett,’ then yes, I am here to beg forgiveness. I should never have left you unsupervised among the elderly.”
Adrian grinned. “You wound me, Scarfield. I am a patron of the aged and infirm.” He made a show of dusting imaginary lint from his lapel. “But you did, in fact, throw me from your house that night. I’m told some find that offensive.”
“I merely asked you to leave early,” Oscar said, signaling the steward for coffee. “I had business to attend to.”
Adrian’s brows rose. “Was it urgent, or simply domestic? The way you hounded me out, one might suspect you intended to commit murder. Or worse—enjoy yourself.”
Oscar accepted his cup, sipped, and waited for the opening to close. “If you must know, I prefer not to discuss private matters in front of an audience.”
Adrian folded his arms. “So this is a private matter, then. Are you here to duel or to explain?”
Oscar had planned this meeting with the grim determination of a man scheduling his own amputation.
He was not fond of confrontation—despite public opinion—but the night had gone sour, and he knew it.
The memory of Nancy dancing with Adrian, laughing at some nonsense, had left him in a state of irrational irritation that had lasted until morning.
Worse, he had no idea why. The entire marriage had been a business arrangement, a tidy solution to an untidy problem. He should not care who danced with whom, or for how long.
And yet.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I’m here about the governess.”
Adrian’s composure, for the briefest second, slipped. “The governess?”
Oscar nodded, careful to keep his expression neutral. “You mentioned last month that you knew someone suitable. A Miss… Townsend?”
Adrian’s eyes brightened, but his voice was the picture of nonchalance. “Indeed. She is eminently qualified, and more importantly, unflappable. Which, as you know, is the only trait that matters when educating children of your ilk.”
Oscar let the slight pass, more interested in the way Adrian leaned in, eager and animated. “She is still available?”
“I’ll have her at Scarfield by the end of the week,” Adrian promised, producing a fountain pen and a notecard from his coat. “You will not regret it, old man.”
Oscar watched him scribble, unease gnawing at the edges of his mind.
He did not dislike Adrian—he disliked few people, as a rule—but he’d always regarded the Viscount as something of a wild card.
Charming, certainly, but too clever by half, and never entirely predictable.
Still, Oscar had no grounds for distrust, and less for animosity.
The outburst at dinner had been a lapse in judgment, plain and simple.
Adrian finished his note and tucked it into his breast pocket. “Consider it done. Now, tell me—was that the real reason you summoned me? Or is there a more sinister plot afoot?”
Oscar offered a smile so cold it might have frozen the Thames. “That was the reason. The children are in need of proper instruction. Nancy is doing well, but she cannot be expected to run the household and manage their education alone.”
Adrian’s mouth quirked, as if he found something deliciously funny in the phrasing. “You’re worried for your wife’s health, then? I am touched, truly.”
Oscar ignored this. “If you wish, you may visit when Miss Townsend is installed. I believe she will require your personal recommendation.”
Adrian steepled his fingers. “I would enjoy that. I must say, Scarfield, I have never seen you so… invested in domestic affairs.”
Oscar bristled. “It is my duty.”
“Of course.” Adrian’s gaze lingered, a little too long. “But if I did not know better, I’d say your marriage has improved you. You’re almost human these days.”
Oscar ground his teeth, but said nothing.
Adrian laughed, light and dismissive. “Do not worry. I shan’t tell anyone.” He drained his coffee and stood, stretching like a cat. “Now, if that is all, I have an appointment with Lady Hartley and her pug. The poor creature cannot walk two steps without an army of retainers.”
Oscar rose, less gracefully. “Thank you for your help.”
Adrian tipped an imaginary hat. “Always, Scarfield. You know I live to serve.”
Oscar watched him leave, the strange taste of the meeting lingering in his mouth. He could not say what bothered him—nothing in Adrian’s manner had changed, nothing overt or actionable. And yet, he left with the distinct impression of having missed something important.
He set his hat on his head and strode out, determined to put the business from his mind.
But the question remained, a burr he could not shake:
Why was Adrian so eager to help?
He turned the thought over as he walked to his carriage, but found no satisfactory answer. By the time he arrived at home, the feeling had not abated.
He resolved to focus on more immediate matters.
There was, after all, a governess to install and a household to manage.
And, he suspected, a wife who would have something to say about both.
Dinner that evening had Oscar in the most unfortunate circumstances, for his attention was stubbornly fixed on his wife’s mouth.
Nancy, it seemed, could make a spoon into a weapon of utter destruction. She sipped her soup with an air of polite disinterest, but each movement of her lips triggered a catastrophic chain reaction in Oscar’s concentration.
He found himself staring, then looking away, then staring again, as if searching for evidence that the previous afternoon had not happened at all.
It had. He could still feel the heat of her, the maddening proximity of her skin, and the singularly infuriating way she had managed to evade him even as she leaned in.
He tried to focus on the business at hand—on the pressing need to secure the children’s education, on the ledger of obligations that filled his mind like a plague of numbers.
He reminded himself that the marriage was a contract, a solution, not a declaration of intent or desire.
And yet the desire remained, persistent and unsanctioned.
Nancy set her spoon down and regarded him coolly over the rim of her glass. “You are staring, Duke. Is there something on my face?”
Oscar summoned a bland smile. “Only the usual air of impending insurrection.”
She smiled back, slow and dangerous. “I do what I can.”
The soup course ended, and the footman cleared the bowls with military efficiency. Silence reigned for a full minute, broken only by the distant clatter of the children’s voices in the nursery.
Oscar waited until the main course appeared before speaking. “I have arranged for a governess.”
Nancy’s fork hovered, then dropped to the plate with a clatter. “A governess? For whom?”
Oscar blinked. “For the children. Clara and Henry.”
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “They are five. I have barely begun to civilize them, and already you wish to farm them out to a stranger?”
“It is not farming them out,” Oscar said, careful to keep his voice level. “It is ensuring their proper education.”
“Proper education?” She laughed, sharp and bright. “They have mastered the art of hiding all the cutlery in the upstairs linen closet. They can recite half of Ovid and most of the minor Greek gods by name. What more do you require?”
“A working knowledge of mathematics,” Oscar replied, “and perhaps the ability to eat a meal without orchestrating a siege.”
Nancy leaned in. “You did not consult me.”
“I am consulting you now.”
She sat back, arms folded. “That is not consultation. That is declaration. Or have you already hired her?”
Oscar hesitated. “She arrives tomorrow.”
Nancy’s laugh was nearly a snarl. “Splendid. Shall I prepare the nursery for her, or do you intend to have the staff do it in the dead of night?”
He braced himself. “It is for your own benefit, as well, Duchess. You are exhausted. The housekeeper reports you have not slept a full night in two weeks.”
“She is a liar,” Nancy retorted. “I sleep perfectly well, except when interrupted by Dukes or domestic emergencies.”
Oscar ignored the barb. “You are overburdened. Let the governess help.”
Nancy fixed him with a look so direct it threatened to leave scorch marks. “Did I ever declare myself burdened? Did I ever ask for help?”
He did not answer, because there was no answer.
She pressed on, voice taut. “I care for the twins because I want to. It is not work, Oscar. It is—” She stopped, catching herself. “It is the only thing that feels true in this absurd charade.”
Oscar looked at her, searching for the right words. “You are more than capable, Nancy. But you cannot do everything alone.”
She stared at him, a long and level assessment. “Neither can you. But you seem determined to try.”
A silence fell, thicker than the soup had been.
Nancy pushed her plate away; her appetite vanished. She set her napkin down with care, as if detonating a mine.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have letters to write.”
Oscar did not try to stop her. He watched as she left the room, back straight, chin high, every step a challenge to the laws of physics and common decency.
When the door closed, he sat for a long time, the only sound the soft ticking of the clock on the mantel.
He did not regret hiring the governess. It was the sensible choice, the necessary one. But he regretted, intensely, the look on Nancy’s face as she learned it was a fait accompli.
He poured himself a glass of wine and stared into its depths, searching for comfort and finding only his own reflection.
Sometimes, he thought, people needed to be forced into what was good for them. But sometimes, too, it was possible to go about it all wrong. He decided, as he drained the glass, to make it up to her.
A thought occurred to him of a way to mend the rift, or at least to salve it. A new dress, perhaps? For an upcoming ball.
Oscar smiled, imagining her in it, imagining her reaction when he presented it. He smiled wider, imagining the argument that would surely follow.