Chapter 26
Nancy summoned Wilks with a single, imperious bell, the sort of ring that carried all the way to the servants’ quarters and probably a little farther. She felt no guilt. What was the use of being a duchess if one could not employ the bell with impunity? Besides, she needed the distraction.
She had made it a point, these past two days, to avoid Oscar.
She orchestrated her schedule with a zeal bordering on military genius: breakfast before he rose, then straight to the schoolroom with the twins, then to the gardens, then to any room not on his circuit.
If he lingered in the library, she haunted the drawing room; if he prowled the study, she made a great show of managing the kitchen.
If forced into proximity, she feigned deep involvement in Henry’s latest bug collection, or else contrived a sudden and urgent interest in household receipts.
It was, she admitted, a little ridiculous, but after the business in the music room—the letters, the breathless not-quite-kiss—she was unsure what would happen if she let herself be alone with him again.
Wilks appeared. “Your Grace?”
“Send for Miss Mercer,” Nancy said. “I wish to confer with her about the children’s studies. And bring up the accounts ledgers from last quarter, if you please.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” He retreated with a speed that was, frankly, impressive in a man of his years.
Nancy spent the next five minutes rearranging papers on her desk, though there was nothing to rearrange.
She tried to read the latest missive from her mother, but the words swam.
She did not want to think about her mother’s advice, or her own performance as a wife, or the sinking suspicion that the servants were all placing bets on how long the union would last.
It is only for a little while, she reminded herself. You have two months, and then you move into the small house and raise the twins in peace, and he will go back to being the coldest man in England. This is not your life. It is borrowed, at best.
The thought did not comfort her.
A knock at the door. Edith Mercer entered, trim and dignified, her hair in a dark coil so tight it looked as if it might repel bullets.
“You sent for me, Your Grace?”
“Yes, thank you, Miss Mercer. Sit down.”
Edith sat, posture perfect. Nancy watched her for a moment, hunting for the flaw. There must be one—no one could be this composed, this… sanitized.
“I wished to discuss the new timetable,” Nancy said, sliding the paper across the desk. “Have you found it to your satisfaction?”
Miss Mercer glanced at the schedule, then back at Nancy. “It is quite suitable, Your Grace. The twins have responded well to the structure. Clara enjoys the Latin hour; Henry is partial to natural history.”
“I see that you’ve left a gap after luncheon for ‘rest and reflection.’”
“Yes,” Edith said. “The children require time to process what they learn. It is—” she paused, searching for the right word, “—vital to their development.”
Nancy’s mouth curved. “So says every educator since Socrates.”
Edith permitted herself the faintest smile. “Indeed.”
Nancy tapped the page. “I think we might shift the arithmetic lesson to before luncheon. Clara has more energy then, and she’s apt to whine less if she can finish the sums before the midday meal.”
Edith nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Nancy made the change in the margin, but the satisfaction was lacking. She had rather hoped for a debate. Something to test the boundaries of Miss Mercer’s infamous poise.
“Is there anything you wish to bring to my attention?” Nancy asked.
“No, Your Grace. The children are well. They have adapted to the house and the staff. If there are any behavioral difficulties, they are mild and easily corrected.” Edith’s hands folded in her lap, unmoving.
“None at all?”
“Well,” said Edith, “Clara has a habit of reciting Greek mythology at the dinner table, and Henry sometimes buries live insects in the flowerbeds. But these are minor eccentricities.”
Nancy grinned. “They take after their parents, then.”
Miss Mercer inclined her head.
Nancy leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “You are not troubled by any of this?”
Edith blinked. “Should I be, Your Grace?”
How does she do that? Nancy wondered. How does she never once betray anything like a real human reaction? Even now, Edith’s face radiated gentle approval and precisely nothing else.
Before Nancy could try another angle, Wilks reappeared, this time bearing a rectangular parcel.
“A delivery for you, Your Grace. From Madame Sylvestre’s, in Bond Street.”
Nancy stared at the package, a faint line of concern creasing her brow. “I did not order anything from Bond Street.”
Wilks said, “The runner confirmed it was for you.”
“Set it down, then,” Nancy said, as if this sort of thing happened every day.
Wilks set the box on her desk, then backed away. He was, she noticed, very careful to keep his expression neutral.
Nancy eyed the package. Madame Sylvestre was not the sort of modiste who sent gifts to customers, even wealthy ones. Nor did Nancy make a habit of buying from her—her dresses were infamous for being too expensive, too fashionable, and a little too French for Nancy’s taste.
She slid the box open. The tissue paper inside was immaculate, folded as if by a surgeon.
Within, a dress—a deep green brocade, with silver embroidery curling up the bodice and along the sleeves.
Nancy ran her fingers over the fabric, feeling the weight of it, the subtle shiver of something exquisite and, frankly, unnecessary.
Edith, watching from the chair, let out a very small sound—a sound that might almost be described as admiration.
“It is lovely,” said Miss Mercer.
Nancy glanced up. “It is also a complete mystery. I did not order it.”
“Perhaps the Duke wished to surprise you?” Edith suggested.
Nancy snorted. “The Duke? He has less interest in fashion than in the price of pigs’ trotters at Smithfield.”
Edith did not dispute this. Instead, she rose from her chair and came around to the desk, peering at the dress.
“It would suit you, Your Grace. The color is very fine.”
Nancy shook her head, still smiling. “I cannot imagine what occasion would require such a dress.”
“Perhaps a ball,” Edith said, almost wistfully. “There is a winter ball at Lord Hamton’s house.”
Nancy had forgotten. “I doubt the Duke will wish to attend.”
“I am sure he would be delighted,” Edith said.
Nancy looked at her, searching for irony. She found none.
“You may go,” she said, “but send in the Duke if you see him. I should like a word.”
Edith curtsied. As she turned to leave, Nancy caught a glimmer—no, not that word—a moment where Edith’s eyes darted back to the dress, lingered, then snapped forward. It was nothing, but it sent a pulse of cold along Nancy’s spine.
When the door closed, she draped the dress over the back of a chair and sat staring at it. It is just a dress. Even if he did order it, it is only a gift. It does not mean anything.
Still, her hands shook a little.
She was about to call for tea when a shadow darkened the doorway. Oscar, arms crossed, leaned against the frame. His eyes moved from Nancy to the dress, then back again.
“Is it to your liking?” he asked.
Nancy kept her features smooth. “If you mean the dress, it is splendid. If you mean the interruption, you could have simply sent a note.”
Oscar smiled, slow and deliberate. “I thought you would prefer a surprise.”
“I was not aware you had so much interest in fashion,” Nancy said, rising to her feet. The dress fell into her arms, heavy and deliciously cool.
“I don’t,” Oscar replied. “But I am told that green is the only color that can stand up to you.”
Nancy could not help it—she laughed, then immediately composed herself. “You have become a poet, Duke. Shall I be flattered?”
“It would be a start,” he said.
She held up the dress. “What is this for, really?”
Oscar stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “You will need something to wear to the ball next Thursday.”
“I was not aware we were attending,” Nancy replied, arching her brow. “You dislike balls. You told me so.”
He shrugged. “We have been invited, and the children wish to go. Clara has been planning her outfit for days.”
Nancy did not know what to say to this. Instead, she held the dress up to herself, examining the effect in the mirror. It was, she had to admit, astonishing. The green brought out her eyes, the silver gleamed against her skin.
Oscar was watching her in the mirror, and for once, there was something warm in his expression—not soft, never that, but warmer than she was used to.
“I do not need a new dress,” Nancy said, quieter. “You did not have to—”
He interrupted. “I wanted to.”
She looked at him directly, not through the glass. “Since when do you want anything, Oscar? You are not a man of wants. Only obligations.”
His smile was quick, almost self-mocking. “You know me so well.”
She set the dress on the desk, then leaned back against it, arms crossed to match his. “This is very unlike you, Duke. I begin to suspect you have an ulterior motive.”
“Only that you look your best,” Oscar replied. “It is, after all, a matter of family reputation.”
Nancy groaned. “You are insufferable.”
“And you are impossible,” Oscar said.
They stood like that, the air taut between them. Then, abruptly, Oscar changed the subject. “Did Miss Mercer seem—different to you, this morning?”
Nancy frowned. “No. She is perfect, as always.”
Oscar considered. “She reminds me of a chess master.”
“Because she is precise and never wrong?”
“Because you never see the endgame until it is already in motion.”
Nancy studied him. “Are you worried about her?”
He shrugged. “I worry about everything.”
She almost said, You never worry about me, but stopped herself. Instead, she picked up the dress, holding it out like a shield. “Thank you. It is beautiful. I will wear it, and not disgrace you.”
Oscar’s mouth curved, just slightly. “You could never disgrace me, Duchess.”
She looked away. The compliment was unexpected, and it set her nerves jangling.
He opened the door to leave, then turned back, one hand braced against the jamb. “I look forward to seeing you in it, Nancy.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
He left, and the room felt emptier for it.
Nancy sat down again, staring at the dress. She tried to read the ledger, but the numbers swam.
It is only a dress, she told herself.
But she kept touching the fabric, unable to resist.
And, for the first time in weeks, she found herself looking forward to the next ball—not for the gossip, or the spectacle, or the chance to prove herself.
But because, for three hours, she would have Oscar’s arm at her side, and she would wear the dress he chose, and maybe, just maybe, she would stop feeling like a visitor in her own life.