Moira smiled. “That is more optimism than I expected.”
Edward looked from wife to daughter and back. “I am not being unreasonable, am I?”
Moira patted his arm. “You are being a father. It’s allowed.”
He slumped, defeated by superior logic. “I want you to be happy, Nancy. That is all.”
“I know, Father.” She tried to keep her voice from breaking. “I promise I am doing what is right.”
He nodded, then stood, rolling his shoulders as if preparing to go ten rounds with the world’s most irritating house guest. “Very well. Let us see what this Duke is made of.”
They filed into the drawing room, the butler retreating with the air of a man who had survived a skirmish.
Scarfield stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, posture so precise it could have been cast from marble. He wore a dark blue coat, the same color as his mood, and his profile was cut as sharp as ever.
Nancy entered first. The moment their eyes met, her heart—traitorous, foolish organ—skipped, and she was instantly, violently annoyed.
CHAPTER 8
“What a surprise, Your Grace. Never in a millennium did I expect to have you in my drawing room.”
Nancy’s father dispensed the greeting with all the warmth of a solicitor serving a summons. Scarfield responded by inclining his head just enough to offend, just deep enough to maintain plausible deniability. The room, already bristling with expectation, seemed to lean in.
“Your hospitality precedes you,” Scarfield said. “I have heard it spoken of as a force of nature.”
Her father’s brow lifted, and Nancy watched the beginnings of a smile—dangerous, wolfish—curve his mouth. “I am gratified to discover that even the wildest rumors may hold a grain of truth.”
“If only more men could be so candid about their reputations,” Scarfield replied. He turned, as if only now discovering Nancy’s presence. “Lady Nancy. A pleasure to see you again so soon.”
Nancy stood perfectly still, determined not to blink. If Scarfield was going to haunt her life, he could at least be made to work for it. She returned his gaze with a chill of her own.
The silence pulsed, then broke as Scarfield crossed the rug, took her hand, and—because he was utterly incorrigible—pressed a kiss to her knuckles. The contact was quick, but her pulse careened into an unladylike gallop. To cover this, she said, “Is this to be our new form of greeting, Your Grace? Shall I expect a floral arrangement next, or perhaps a sonnet?”
“I am a traditionalist,” he replied. “If you prefer, I can revert to biting.”
“I am told that is frowned upon in polite company,” Nancy answered, but she felt her cheeks warm, a betrayal that made her want to throttle herself.
Her mother, hovering by the tea service, cleared her throat in the way that meant she was moments from arranging the world to her liking. “Oscar,” Moira said, using his Christian name as if she’d already adopted him into the family and was disappointed at the result, “you look thinner than last I saw you. Are you ill, or is it a fashion among the English these days to fade away entirely?”
Scarfield smiled with real appreciation. “I believe it is the result of persistent English weather and a steady diet of parliamentary debate. But I thank you for your concern, Duchess.”
Moira waved off the title, poured herself a cup, and gestured for Nancy to sit beside her. Nancy obeyed, feeling suddenly like a child at her first music recital.
Her father, refusing the offer of a chair, planted himself by the fireplace. “To business, then. The point of this gathering is not to swap pleasantries, but to clarify expectations. I have, after considerable reflection, agreed to give my daughter’s hand in marriage to the Duke of Scarfield.” He said this as if daring anyone to challenge him.
Nancy tried to keep her reaction unreadable, but she could feel Scarfield’s gaze on her, measuring, taking the pulse of her every thought.
Scarfield inclined his head, a concession to the moment. “Your Grace, I am honored by your trust. I am likewise prepared to expedite the matter—I have already written to secure a special license, and should all proceed as intended, I propose the ceremony be held before week’s end.”
This landed in the room with the subtlety of a cannonball. Her father blinked. “That is?—”
“Efficient,” Moira finished, looking at Scarfield as if reevaluating her previous low estimation of Englishmen. “I approve.”
Nancy, in a minor act of rebellion, said, “Will there be time to embroider a fresh handkerchief, or must I bring my own?”
“If you lack one, I am sure I can supply it,” Scarfield answered, and Nancy hated how the corners of his mouth threatened to smile at her.
Her father looked, for a moment, as if he might object to the rush, but Moira’s hand landed on his arm, firm and reassuring. The moment passed.
