Chapter 32
It was supposed to be nothing. Only a kiss, a moment, and one minor rebellion in the grand scheme of her life.
Nancy had endured far more significant things: court presentations, family shame, the impossible contortions of being a woman both too much and not enough for the world she was born into. A kiss should have been trivial.
But as Oscar closed the distance between them, she felt her whole body brace for impact, as if every prior moment had been preparation for this one. There was a warmth at her cheek, the ghost of his fingers, the unhurried certainty with which he bent his head.
She was so sure he would hesitate, perhaps even abort the mission entirely—Oscar, who never acted on impulse, who weighed every move like a general with a finite supply of troops. But he did not. His lips found hers, and the world promptly vanished.
She had never been kissed before. She had imagined it, perhaps—soft, ceremonial things, brushed in candlelight, the sort of gesture that signaled affection or polite desire.
Oscar's kiss was nothing like that. There was no decorum, no prelude. It was all possession, all voltage. She felt her knees fold, her arms snap up to his shoulders for ballast, her spine curl forward as if she could burrow through him and emerge somewhere unrecognizable.
He drew back, barely, just enough for her to catch the reflection of herself in his eyes—hair wild, mouth open, a flush at her throat that must have been visible from space.
"Ah," said Oscar, sounding profoundly satisfied. "There it is."
"There what is?" Her voice came out lower, rougher than she intended.
He ran a thumb under her jaw, still anchoring her. "The blush. I didn't think it was possible."
Nancy, who had always prided herself on her composure, realized to her horror that he was right. Her cheeks burned.
"It is the cold," she lied, pushing at his chest. "The fire is inadequate, as is the company."
He did not let her go.
Instead, he leaned in again, slower this time, as if savoring the novelty. She met him halfway, this time prepared—or so she thought. He kissed her again, and the second time was somehow worse. Or better. Her mind could not process the distinction.
She wanted to retreat, to claim her old identity, to box up the sensation and file it under "Interesting Mistakes." But he made retreat impossible, holding her with that paradoxical gentleness that was somehow more coercive than brute force.
When he pulled back at last, she managed to drag in a breath. "You are very sure of yourself, aren't you?"
"No," he replied. "I am never sure. Not with you."
She tried to regroup, to shore up the lines of her defense, but the room would not allow it.
Every detail seemed sharper now—the way the dying afternoon made the dust spin above the hearth, the way Oscar's jacket was still rumpled from her grip, the way his own chest rose and fell like he'd run a mile to get here.
She pressed her hand to her lips, testing them for damage.
"I will not be distracted," she announced, though her voice trembled. "There are a dozen things to do before supper. The children—"
"—are with Miss Mercer," Oscar said. "They are constructing a siege machine out of jam jars and old string, unless Clara has already mutinied."
Nancy barked a laugh, unable to help herself.
"Come here," said Oscar. It was not a question.
She had barely stepped forward when the knock sounded at the open door. Both of them jumped apart, almost tripping over the battered carpet runner. Nancy fumbled for her desk, pretending to rearrange ledgers; Oscar composed his face into its usual mask, as if nothing had happened at all.
"Yes?" Nancy called, more sharply than intended.
Edith Mercer entered, a pale blue note in hand. She curtsied, eyes serene, as if she had not just interrupted a tableau fit for the private prints of Soho.
"Forgive me, Your Grace," said Edith. "This arrived just now. Wilks was not at hand, so I thought—"
She offered the envelope, perfectly balanced on her gloved palm.
Nancy accepted it, eyeing the governess. "Thank you, Miss Mercer. Is there something else?"
Edith shook her head, that maddeningly bland smile unshaken. "No, Your Grace. Only—Clara is asking for you."
Oscar made a choked sound, muffled as a cough.
"Very well," said Nancy. "I will see to her in a moment."
"Thank you, Your Grace." Edith retreated, shutting the door behind her.
Nancy stared at the envelope. No wax, no crest, only her name in a hand she did not recognize.
Oscar, standing at her shoulder, said, "Is it from your mother?"
She turned it over, searching for a clue, but the paper was perfectly ordinary. "I doubt it," she said. "My mother never writes without including at least three self-portraits and a recipe for scones." She peeled back the flap and pulled out the letter, careful not to tear the paper.
But she did not open it. Not yet.
Oscar watched her, eyebrows raised. "Are you going to read it, or will you stare it into submission?"
She smiled, then set the letter on the desk. "Later. I have other priorities at the moment."
He glanced at her, a question unasked.
Nancy shook her head, resisting the urge to lean back into him. If I let myself become that woman, I’ll never recover. I will be the sort of wife who moons about in the hope of a kind word or a soft look. Absolutely not.
She cleared her throat and pointed at the stack of papers between them. "You have just ruined my focus for the next two hours."
He gave a small, satisfied nod. "That was the intention."
She tried to look annoyed. It did not work.
He stepped closer and bent over her shoulder. "I meant what I said, you know," he murmured, voice so low it seemed to vibrate through her. "You are remarkable, Nancy. I do not know how I survived before you."
She felt her pulse spike. "You survived perfectly well. By all accounts, you were the most unflappable Duke in the kingdom."
He shrugged. "Perhaps. But it was very dull."
She could not reply to that, so she turned away, pretending to be absorbed in the balance sheet. Oscar, undeterred, stood behind her, arms braced on the desk, trapping her in place. She could feel the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"Are you going to kiss me again?" she said, without looking up.
"I have not decided," he said, but his hands were already at her shoulders, sliding down her arms with the sort of care that felt both clinical and utterly improper.
She twisted in the chair to face him. "You are impossible," she said.
"And you are—"
"—magnificent, yes, I heard you the first time," she snapped, but she was grinning.
He bent and kissed her temple, then her jaw, then the corner of her mouth. Each time he stopped, as if giving her the chance to protest. She never did. On the third attempt, she gave up and kissed him back, catching him off guard.
They broke apart at the sound of a loud, deliberate cough from the hall. Oscar straightened, smoothing his lapel; Nancy did her best to look as if she had been reading a lengthy treatise on household management.
Wilks appeared in the doorway, perfectly composed. "Pardon, Your Graces. The solicitor is here to see the Duke."
Oscar sighed. "Of course he is. Thank you, Wilks."
Nancy, still dizzy, managed a nod. Wilks lingered a moment, then withdrew.
Oscar looked at her, regret written all over his face.
"I should go," he said, touching her cheek.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
When the door shut behind him, Nancy sagged back into the chair, feeling as if she had just survived a storm. She pressed her fingertips to her mouth, trying to decipher what had just happened.
She was not sure if she wanted to laugh, or cry, or run straight to the music room and scream into the battered pianoforte until the world made sense again. Nancy opted for none of those things.
Instead, she leaned back, closed her eyes, and tried to steady herself.
The strange, unmarked letter that had arrived earlier lay on the desk like an omen. She considered leaving it unread. Then considered burning it.
But curiosity was a disease, and Nancy had never been immune. She broke the plain seal and scanned the page.
Duchess—
When your husband grows tired of you,
and you find yourself alone—
think of me.
I have watched you from afar, longing
to be more than a shadow.
When your husband no longer wishes to be with you,
allow me the honor of loving you as you deserve.
I can make you happy, Nancy.
Say the word, and I will come.
Nancy blinked at the page.
Then she laughed—a single, wild burst that sounded more animal than human. She reread the letter, searching for a signature, for any clue to the author. There was nothing.
Well, that is…appalling, she thought.
She balled the letter in her fist, then, with uncharacteristic force, hurled it at the fireplace.
It missed, smacking into the carpet and rolling under the grate.
Nancy stared at it, dumbstruck.
Then, slowly, she started to smile.
She thought of Oscar, the impossible Duke who had just left the room.
She thought of Clara and Henry, who were probably even now devising new methods of destruction for the unsuspecting Miss Mercer.
She thought of herself, a duchess who was never meant to exist. Rising and smoothing her skirts, she went in search of the children.
Later in the day, Nancy set out to find Mrs. Tullock in the kitchen, mostly to ask why the nursery supplies had been replaced with lye-scented soap and a strange new brand of porridge.
She did not expect to find the kitchen at full attention, every surface polished, the air brimming with the bright, metallic hush that follows a dropped pan.
She stepped through the door, and at once the sound died. The maids—three of them, all elbows and bonnets—stared at the floor as if expecting it to explain their presence. The cook, an ox of a woman with flour up her sleeves, bobbed a curtsy that threatened to suffocate her under her own bosom.
"Good morning," Nancy announced, pretending not to notice the hush. "Has anyone seen Mrs. Tullock?"
No one met her eye. The second scullery maid, a slip of a thing with mouse-brown braids, stammered, "She’s… in the cellars, Your Grace."
"Thank you." Nancy smiled, baring her teeth. "Carry on, then."
She withdrew, closing the door with a purposeful click, and lingered in the hallway to see if the conversation resumed. It did, but softer this time, each word tiptoeing like a thief down the stairs.
They’re talking about me, Nancy realized, and for once, the knowledge did not gall her. It was almost comforting. Let them speculate. She would not last three months in this house if she cared about the opinions of every woman who’d ever run a duster over her banisters.
She made her way upstairs, intent on reviewing the nursery, when the thud of small feet and a hiccupping sob drew her up short.
Clara rounded the corner, red-faced and bawling, her hair tangled as if she’d just done battle with a comb and lost. "Aunt Nancy!" she wailed, arms outstretched.
Nancy kneeled, catching the child and drawing her in, careful not to let the girl’s tears soak her good shawl. "What’s happened? Who’s hurt you?"
"Miss Mercer," Clara blubbered, but already the volume was subsiding as she pressed her face into Nancy’s shoulder.
"Did she scold you?" Nancy smoothed the child’s hair.
Clara nodded. "She says we have to read and read and read, and we can’t go outside, not even once. My eyes hurt. I want to see the sun again."
Nancy sighed, pulling the girl tighter. "That is a very grave injustice, indeed."
Henry came around the corner at a dead run, eyes huge and wild. "She said,"—he paused, catching his breath—"she said she decides what happens to us now, not you."
"Who said that?" Nancy kept her tone light, but a coldness crept along her spine.
"Miss Mercer," Henry said, as if the name were a curse.
Nancy stood, keeping a hand on each child. "Very well. Let’s all go upstairs and have a proper chat with Miss Mercer."
She led them up, Henry clinging to her skirt, Clara sniffling but already beginning to plot revenge.
The nursery was a study in order, every toy lined up along the wall, every book stacked in neat towers by the window. Edith Mercer sat at the table with a slate and a sheaf of writing paper, calmly writing something in her perfect, looping script.
"Miss Mercer," Nancy said, allowing only a hint of frost into her tone. "A word?"
Edith stood at once, smoothing her skirt. "Your Grace?"
"The children are distressed," Nancy said, blunt as always. "They believe they are being kept indoors against their will, and that you have declared yourself the sole arbiter of their time."
Edith’s brows went up, just a fraction. "I fear they have misunderstood me," she said. "I merely suggested that, as their governess, it is my duty to maintain a schedule. Miss Clara and Master Henry are intelligent, but perhaps they found my words…overly strict."
Henry muttered, "She said she’s in charge now."
Edith smiled at him. "I did say that, Master Henry, but only to impress upon you the importance of routine."
Clara opened her mouth to object, but Edith forestalled her with a glance. "It is not appropriate to speak over adults, Miss Clara. Especially not a lady."
Clara shut her mouth, lip trembling.
Nancy watched this exchange with increasing unease. "Miss Mercer, I appreciate the need for discipline. But the children are accustomed to some measure of liberty. They are not prisoners."
"Of course not, Your Grace." Edith’s voice remained even, pleasant, untroubled. "I only wish to do my duty."
Nancy fought the urge to rub her temples. She had dealt with governesses before—her own had been a master of the guilt-trip and the silent stare—but there was something about Edith’s composure that set her teeth on edge.
"Today," Nancy said, "the children will take a walk in the gardens with me. After that, you may resume your schedule. Does that suit?"
Edith blinked once. "As you wish, Your Grace. But if I may say, the children have not finished their reading for the day."
Nancy kept her smile sharp. "They will complete it later. Come, Clara. Henry. Let’s find our coats."
She shepherded the twins out, only looking back at the door when she was sure Edith could no longer see her face.
Something about Miss Mercer was wrong. Not wrong in the obvious, criminal sense—there was no trace of menace in her, not a thread of threat—but wrong in the way a portrait looks wrong when the artist has painted the eyes too close together.
She was too still, too careful. And the children sensed it, as children always did.