He nearly missed the approach of a waiter. He approached the table with a tray, set down a cup and saucer, and presented it with a bow of flawless geometry.
“Your coffee, Your Grace,” he said.
The coffee steamed in its cup. Oscar allowed himself a brief, savage pleasure at the thought of pouring it down Adrian’s neck.
“May I?” came a voice from his left.
Oscar looked up, startled. The Duke of Neads—Nancy’s father—stood beside the table, his features arranged in a mask of polite interest. He wore his years well, the silver at his temples only making his eyes more severe.
“Please,” said Oscar, gesturing to the empty seat.
The Duke sat, arranged his gloves with military precision, and regarded Oscar for a long moment. “You seem agitated, Scarfield.”
“I am waiting for a friend.”
The Duke’s mouth twitched. “Is it Eastmere?”
Oscar’s jaw flexed. “It is.”
“Then I shall not detain you long.” The Duke leaned forward, all business. “My daughter visited us yesterday. She seemed well, if a little… strained.”
Oscar found himself bristling. “She manages the household capably. There are always adjustments, but she is—unmatched.”
The Duke nodded, as if he had expected nothing less. “You understand, Scarfield, that Nancy is not like other women. She does not thrive on order or routine. She needs chaos to feel alive.”
Oscar allowed himself a smile. “You raised her well, Duke.”
“I tried. Her mother did most of the work. Nancy is stubborn, but her heart is—” He broke off, searching for a word. “It is not easily healed, once hurt.”
Oscar looked away, the sting of truth sharp. “I know.”
The Duke reached across the table, surprising him. “You are doing well by her, Scarfield. I did not expect it, and I am not ashamed to say I was wrong about you.”
Oscar could not look at him. “I am not sure I deserve her.”
The Duke’s hand withdrew. “No man ever deserves a woman like Nancy. He can only hope to keep pace with her long enough that she does not notice.”
Oscar let out a breath he did not know he’d been holding. “She is extraordinary.”
“She isyours,” the Duke said, voice low. “Guard her well.”
The words caught Oscar off guard. He had always imagined Nancy as a force of nature, untamable, answerable to no one. The idea that he might be the one responsible for her—her joy, her pain, her future—was at once terrifying and intoxicating.
“I will,” he promised.
The Duke nodded, stood, and left without another word.
Oscar sat for a moment, staring at the coffee until it cooled.
He thought of Nancy, the way she loved the twins, the way she had begun to trust him, the way she laughed with her whole body and argued like a lawyer with nothing left to lose. He thought of her heart—not as a thing to be guarded, but as a thing to be cherished.
He drank the coffee in three quick gulps, savoring the bitterness.
You are hers,he thought.For better or for worse.
He rose, settled his coat, and went to find Adrian. But when he left the club, it was not vengeance that drove him, but the sudden and exhilarating need to see Nancy again. To tell her—somehow, in whatever clumsy way he could—that she was the beginning and end of every hope he had ever dared entertain.
He did not run. But he very nearly did.
