She considered answering with a joke, but her father’s expression brooked no misdirection. “I am marrying for reasons of my own. They are not so base as to be summarized by a word.”
He studied her, green eyes so like her own that looking away felt like treason. “I do not believe you.”
“Then I regret my lack of theatricality,” Nancy said, “but I assure you, it is settled. The Duke and I have agreed on terms, and?—”
He cut her off, voice a shade above a growl. “The Duke of Scarfield’s reputation is well known. He is a cold, calculating creature. I will not allow my only child to be bartered like a prize cow. If you are under duress?—”
Nancy scoffed. “Father, I could outmaneuver Scarfield with my hands tied behind my back and whilst suffering the pains of a drink. This is not a kidnapping, nor am I a prize cow. Please do not imagine melodrama where there is only pragmatism.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it with a click, drumming his fingers on the wood. “Your mother and I married for love,” he said, after a moment. “It was not fashionable. I did it in defiance of my own parents, and to this day I have not regretted it.”
“So you remind me at least once a fortnight,” Nancy said.
He nodded. “It bears repeating. Love is rare among our kind. When it happens, one must seize it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Father, I am not seizing anything but a reasonable solution. I do not love Scarfield, but I do respect him. He is a better man than his legend suggests. And—” She stopped herself just short of revealing the whole truth, of the twins and the promise and the last desperate bargain. “—and I am not blind to my own age and prospects. If I am to be married, I would rather do it on my own terms, to a man I can endure.”
His face darkened. “That is not enough. I would wish for my daughter the same happiness I have known. I would wish for you a man who?—”
“Who what? Reads Homer in the original? Admires my stubborn streak? Father, I know my own mind.”
He sat forward, voice low. “Do you?”
She felt her cheeks grow hot. “Yes. I am not a child.”
“Then why do you sound like one?”
The words hit harder than she expected. Nancy reached for her anger, tried to let it shield her from the old, familiar fear that she would always fall short of his expectations.
Before she could reply, the butler entered, bowing at the threshold. “Your Grace. Lady Nancy. You have a caller in the drawing room.”
Edward’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”
The butler straightened. “The Duke of Scarfield, Your Grace. He requests an audience with Lady Nancy.”
Nancy’s stomach performed a backflip, but she maintained her composure. She’d not been informed of this visit, and she rather resented the lack of warning.
Edward waved the butler away. “Have him wait. Tell him we will join him shortly.”
The butler bowed and retreated.
Edward fixed Nancy with a look that could dissolve stone. “You will wait here.”
He strode to the door and, with a voice that carried through every wall, bellowed, “Moira!”
A moment later, Nancy’s mother appeared, hair still in morning disarray but green eyes ablaze. “You needn’t shout, Edward. I am not a deaf cow.”
He ignored her. “Moira, our daughter intends to throw herself into the pit of Scarfield’s arms.”
Moira arched a brow. “You are being dramatic. Nancy is perfectly capable of making her own choices.”
“Not when those choices are madness.” Edward gestured at Nancy. “She claims to be doing this on her own terms, but I am not convinced.”
Nancy found herself the center of a parental crossfire, and, oddly, the sensation was not unpleasant. She could always count on her parents to conduct their arguments as if they were preparing the minutes for the next generation.
Moira sat on the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “Let us ask her, then. Nancy, do you love him?”
“I do not,” Nancy said. “But I respect him. And I think we may suit one another, provided neither of us attempts murder in the first week.”
