Chapter 27
Heavens, she looks divine.
Oscar had seen beauty—statues, paintings, even the moonlit gardens of his own estate—but none of them prepared him for Nancy as she entered the drawing room on the evening of the ball.
The green dress fit her like a secret, the silver embroidery catching the light in a manner that suggested sorcery more than tailoring. Her red hair, swept up with only a few deliberate escapes, glowed against the high white of her skin and the unapologetic cut of her collarbone.
She paused at the threshold, letting the full power of her presence settle over the room. Oscar felt himself go, for the briefest moment, entirely useless.
Nancy caught him gaping. She arched one brow, a dare and a reprimand in equal measure. “Is there something on my dress, Duke?”
Oscar recovered enough to draw a breath. “Only you, Duchess. And that is more than sufficient.”
She stalked closer, skirts rustling like a scandal. “If you persist in staring, I’ll have to charge you admission.”
“I would pay it, and handsomely.” He circled her once, slowly, as if she were an object at auction. “The color is—” he broke off, searching for the word, and failing. “It is the most perfect green I have ever seen. No painter would dare it. They’d never capture the truth.”
Nancy did not drop her gaze. “I assume you mean the dress and not my eyes.”
He felt himself smile, which was rare enough to startle him. “Both. But I have never seen your eyes so….” He searched again. “Alive.”
Nancy blushed. She never blushed. It was an event so rare that he catalogued it instantly, filed it beside sightings of comets and other portents.
He pressed the advantage. “The hair is a perfect contrast. I had a suspicion it would be so. I am, for once, delighted to be right.”
She shot him a sidelong look. “You should not say such things to a woman, Oscar. Especially not to one you are only obliged to admire by contract.”
He ignored the deflection and took her gloved hand. The silk was cool, but beneath it, her fingers were not steady. “You are magnificent, Nancy. If the rest of the city is not already writing sonnets, it is because they have all fainted dead away.”
She tried to yank her hand free, but he held it fast. “You’re making fun of me.”
He shook his head. “I am not. I am trying to memorize the exact color of your dress for when the vision inevitably fades and I am left to doubt it ever existed.”
She swatted at him with her reticule—he’d half-expected a fan, but this was more in character—and he caught it with his other hand, holding both in a parody of a dance position. “Let me go or I will be forced to tell the children you are a brute.”
He did not let go. “Let them know. I will sign any confession you write.” The room seemed suddenly too small for both of them. He noticed, with some pride, that Nancy was breathing only a little more evenly than he.
She dropped her head, then looked up, daring him again. “It is only a dress, Oscar.”
He inclined his head. “And yet it has utterly ruined me.”
She stared at him, and in the quiet that followed, he could hear the slow shift of her lungs, the soft unfurling of whatever armor she had brought into the room.
He raised her hand to his lips, kissed the knuckles through the silk. It was a court gesture, but for once he meant it absolutely. “Thank you for wearing it, Duchess.”
She made a face. “You are ridiculous.”
He grinned. “Perhaps. But I suspect you rather like me this way.”
A beat, and then she nodded. “Only a little.”
He let her hands drop, then offered his arm. “Shall we go stun the rest of society?”
She hooked her arm through his. “Lead on, Duke.”
As they made their way toward the waiting carriage, Oscar felt the world balance itself around them. He’d been anxious, but now he was—if not calm, then at least sure. Tonight, he was the luckiest man in London.
He risked a glance at Nancy, and found her watching him, green eyes bright as emeralds. For once, she did not look away.
He wondered, as they stepped into the night, if there would ever be another color in the world for him.
The carriages disgorged them into a queue of finery so concentrated it could have blinded a lesser man. Oscar, unaccustomed to making an entrance, braced for impact.
The ball at Edingham House was less a social event than a battlefield; every alliance, every rivalry, every fleeting impression might be catalogued and weaponized by dawn. Still, he had fought in worse arenas. He offered Nancy his arm, and together they advanced into the onslaught.
The ballroom was already thick with conversation. Gaslight set the crystal and silver ablaze; the air vibrated with the clash of perfumes and the low drone of gossip. Oscar felt the burn of a hundred eyes upon them, some hostile, some appraising, all desperately interested.
He would have liked to think they were staring at him, the infamous Scarfield, but he knew better.
Every head turned to Nancy, radiant in green, with a smile so lethal it ought to have been regulated by Parliament.
Even the women stared, their envy barely concealed behind painted fans.
The men looked longer, and with less shame.
The Marquess and Marchioness of Edingham descended from their dais and swept forward to greet them.
The Marquess—a red-faced monument of a man—bellowed, “Scarfield! At last! We were beginning to think you’d been felled by a mathematical paradox.
” He clasped Oscar’s hand and, with a force that threatened to dislocate several bones, shook it.
“Not yet,” Oscar replied. “Though there’s still hope.”
The Marchioness, plumed and sequined beyond all reason, sized up Nancy with a sort of proprietary awe. “Duchess, you are a vision. There will be a riot at the supper table if you do not promise to save me a seat.”
Nancy bowed her head in mock solemnity. “I would rather face a riot than the Edingham kitchens unaided.”
The Marchioness cackled, then leaned in. “There’s talk, you know.”
“There’s always talk,” Nancy returned, eyes sharp. “But so rarely the truth.”
Oscar watched the exchange with equal parts pride and admiration. He’d chosen Nancy for her wit and fire, but sometimes he was shocked by just how much of both she possessed. He felt a stirring in his chest—not quite joy, not quite fear. Something new.
They paid the social tax of small talk and then were released into the general crush.
Nancy slipped away, seized by a vortex of friends, well-wishers, and the occasional curious adversary.
Oscar watched her go, the green dress cutting through the crowd like a blade.
He had never liked crowds. He liked them even less when they made him feel so entirely alone.
He made his way to the perimeter, accepting a glass of punch from a liveried servant.
He sipped, watched, catalogued. Nancy was with her parents now, her mother glowing with maternal triumph, her father doing his best impression of a disapproving owl.
Oscar wondered if he’d ever be able to impress the man.
Probably not. He was resigned to being, at best, a necessary evil.
He saw her laughing with Fiona and Hester, both radiant in their own right but eclipsed by Nancy’s wild energy. He saw the way men gathered at the periphery of their circle, orbiting like doomed satellites.
He felt it—an odd, animal urge to stride over, scoop her up, and declare her untouchable. The thought annoyed him. He was not, and would never be, the sort of man who needed to stake claims. He trusted her. He just didn’t trust anyone else.
A familiar voice interrupted his audit of the room. “Scarfield, you look like you’re about to duel half the peerage. Has the punch failed to meet your rigorous standards?”
Oscar turned. Adrian Fairleigh. Dressed in sober black, with only a silver pin at his collar for ornament. His hair was arranged to just the proper degree of disorder, and his smile was the usual: wide, bright, and entirely without substance.
Oscar nodded. “Fairleigh. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Where else would I be?” Adrian’s eyes darted to Nancy, then back. “Half the city is dying to witness your new Duchess in action. The other half is betting on how long it takes before you kill someone on her behalf.”
Oscar sipped his punch. “Disappointing them will be my chief occupation tonight.”
Adrian laughed, but Oscar detected a brittle edge. “You’ve changed, Scarfield. I remember when you’d have sneered at all this. Now you’re practically… domesticated.”
Oscar let the remark hang. “I manage as I must.”
Adrian cocked his head. “You’ve done well for yourself. The Duchess is… formidable.” His gaze tracked Nancy for a beat too long. “I’m told she can out-debate any man in three counties.”
Oscar shrugged. “I enjoy a challenge.”
Adrian’s smile sharpened. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
Oscar could not put his finger on it, but there was something in the cadence of Adrian’s words tonight.
A misstep in the usual dance, a subtle shift.
Oscar scanned the room; Nancy was still with her friends, but now Lord Ellsworth and Lord Corrington had joined the group, posturing for attention.
Lord Corrington was gesturing extravagantly, his gaze openly hungry.
Oscar felt his jaw tighten. “Is there a reason you sought me out, Adrian? Or is this nostalgia for old times?”
Adrian smiled wider. “Both, perhaps. But also—” he leaned in, voice lower, “to warn you. Society is a hungry beast. It will chew up your Duchess and spit her out if you’re not vigilant.”
Oscar’s patience thinned. “I am always vigilant.”
Adrian’s eyes sparkled. “I know. That’s what makes you so much fun to poke.” He tapped his glass to Oscar’s. “But even you have blind spots, old friend.”
Oscar set his punch aside, all pretense gone. “If you have something to say, Adrian, say it.”
Adrian’s voice was a hair above a whisper. “If you are not careful, Scarfield, someone might try to steal your Duchess from you.”
Oscar’s pulse, which had been a steady metronome all night, jerked to a new rhythm. He stared at Adrian, who smiled with innocent menace.
“I’d like to see them try,” Oscar said, and surprised himself with the venom in his tone.
Adrian tipped his glass, unimpressed. “I’m sure you would. But you know how these things go. A beauty like that draws every sort of attention. Some of it… unsavory.”
Oscar kept his face blank. “What precisely are you warning me about?”
Adrian grinned. “Less scrupulous men, Scarfield. Many of our peers are not so restrained.”
Oscar eyed Adrian, dissecting every twitch, every crease at the corner of his mouth. There it was again: a note of threat, not playful but real. He did not like it. He liked even less the feeling of powerlessness it brought.
“I appreciate your concern,” Oscar said, words cold as glass. “But the Duchess is not an ornament. She can take care of herself.”
Adrian’s smile dropped for a second, then rebounded. “Of course she can. But sometimes a woman needs a man to defend her honor. Or at least, to make a show of it.”
Oscar did not look away. “If you have business with the Duchess, I suggest you conduct it with respect.”
Adrian made a show of being wounded. “Scarfield! You cut me to the quick. I am only trying to help.”
Oscar did not respond. For the first time in their acquaintance, he felt as if Adrian were a complete stranger to him. The old camaraderie was there, but overlaid with something sharp and unfamiliar. He wondered if Adrian had always been like this, or if he’d simply been too blind to see it.
Adrian finished his drink. “You know,” he said, “I always thought you’d end up alone. But I see now that you’ve found your match.” He gestured toward the crowd, where Nancy now held court, drawing all eyes. “She’s remarkable, Scarfield. Guard her well.”
Oscar inclined his head, his every muscle rigid.
Adrian winked. “I’m off to find some entertainment. Or perhaps create some. This place could use a little mischief.”
He turned, and as he walked away, Oscar saw it: a brief, dark glint in his eye that was impossible to decipher at this time.