It was the only way to steady herself for what waited at Scarfield.
An hour later, Nancy stood before the doors of Scarfield Manor. There was a madness to returning so soon—she knew it. But nothing in her life had ever been set right by waiting, and she was not about to start now.
She approached the entrance. The footman opened the door with the resigned air of a man braced for artillery fire. “His Grace is expecting you, my lady.”
“Is he.” Nancy swept past, not waiting for the butler’s guidance. She found her own way to the study.
Oscar stood with his back to the door, his arms crossed. The room was both warm and cold, and almost stifling.
He did not turn as she entered. “You made excellent time.”
“I walk quickly when motivated.” She dropped into the chair facing his desk, crossing her legs with military precision.
He was silent, as if waiting for her to continue.
Nancy matched his silence, then: “If you summoned me for small talk, you might have chosen a less severe font.”
He turned then, the blue of his eyes sharp as a morning blade. “I was under the impression you wished for an answer. Or is it only women who enjoy suspense?”
Nancy gripped the arms of her chair. “I prefer conclusions to games.”
“Excellent.” He moved to the other side of the desk, placing it between them like a barricade. “Then tell me, Lady Nancy. Was your offer last night sincere? Or was it desperation, or a—what do you call it—a performance of loyalty, to impress your dearly departed friend?”
Nancy’s lips curled. “You can’t conceive of someone acting from anything but self-interest, can you?”
“I am a man of the world. I have met very few people who do.”
She looked up at the ceiling, as if searching for help in the chandelier. “If you need a blunt answer, here it is: I have no interest in being anyone’s wife. Least of all yours.”
Oscar’s face did not move, but the tension in his jaw was visible. “Yet here you are, demanding marriage.”
“I do not want it. But I will endure it. For the children.”
He said nothing.
She pressed on. “I never expected to be the marrying sort. I thought I would read every book in London, then retire to a scandalous life of obscure opinions and good whisky. But then those two angels lost their mother, and if you have even an ounce of decency, you will understand what it means to lose your only harbor in a world of storms.”
Oscar stared, silent.
Nancy hated the silence. She wanted him to fight, to mock, to storm—anything but this icy absence. “Say something. Or is your only emotion contempt?”
He leaned forward, hands folded in front of him. “You think me heartless.”
“Only mostly.” She shrugged. “But not entirely. If I did, I wouldn’t be here.”
He picked up a pen, tapping it against the blotter. “And what if I accept?”
The question sat between them, raw as an open wound.
Nancy let herself look at him—really look: the shadows under his eyes, the cut of his cheekbones, the way his fingers curled with something not quite as steady as he wanted her to believe.“Then I suppose we are to be the world’s most miserable married couple.”
“Not miserable.” Oscar looked past her, toward the window again. “Efficient. The twins remain here, with every advantage. You retain your independence. My name is protected from further scandal. We both win.”
“You think so?” Nancy asked.
He met her gaze. “Don’t you?”
She laughed, a sharp bark. “I think we will drive each other mad within a week.”
