“Very well,” Edward said. “If you wish to speak with my daughter, you may do so. In here, with the door open. There will be no scandal under this roof, if it can be avoided.”
He signaled to the butler, who stationed himself in the hall as a sentry, and led Moira out with him.
The drawing room felt twice as large in their absence. Scarfield waited until the footsteps retreated, then, with the careful movements of a predator, crossed to the chair opposite Nancy. He sat, long legs splayed, posture relaxed but not indolent.
“So,” he said, “this is what passes for romance in your household?”
Nancy tried to match his ease, folding her hands in her lap. “If you’d wanted poetry and roses, you should have courted Lady Bessington. I hear she will rhyme for a shilling.”
Scarfield’s eyes tracked her, patient and inscrutable. “You think me superficial.”
“I think you have cultivated the appearance of a rake in order to hide the fact that you are a sentimentalist at heart.” She allowed herself a tiny, surgical smile. “It is transparent.”
He looked away, as if collecting thoughts from the perimeter of the room. “And what have you cultivated, Lady Nancy? I gather you prefer the sword to the rose.”
“I have never found the rose particularly useful. Nor the sword, come to it. But I do value knowing the difference.”
He looked at her. Really looked—none of the games, none of the cold reserve. “Why did you offer?” he asked, voice so quiet it threatened to slip past her altogether. “You could have abandoned them to my care. You could have washed your hands of the whole family. Why not?”
The question caught her off guard. “Because I do not believe in abandoning people,” she said. “It is the one thing in the world I will not do.”
He considered this, then nodded. “A noble cause.”
“Not noble. Simply practical. The world is full of orphans already; we do not need to manufacture more.”
He smiled, but it was a small, private thing. “And you imagine you can save them as my wife.”
“I can do more for them than you can,” she said, “which is not a criticism—just a fact.”
He laughed then, and she was struck by the fact that it was not cruel or derisive, but genuinely delighted. “You are the most maddening woman I have ever met.”
She uncrossed her arms, heart drumming hard. “I strive for excellence in all things.”
They were quiet, then, and Nancy realized they had come to a sort of truce. Or at least a cease-fire.
Scarfield stood, stretching the moment, then offered her his hand. She took it—because to refuse would be to cede the high ground—and let him pull her to her feet. She was suddenly aware of how close he stood. She could smell him—citrus and wool and something else, dark and familiar.
He leaned in, voice barely audible. “I will see you down the aisle, dearest Nancy.”
She felt a flush climb her neck, and hated that he could do that to her, even now.
He released her hand and walked away, not bothering to look back. He left her standing in the center of the room, cheeks blazing, hands trembling.
Nancy watched the door close behind him, and for a long moment, she stared at the crack where it met the jamb, as if by force of will she could keep him from ever returning.
But she knew he would. And next time, she promised herself, she would not let him win the last word.
CHAPTER 9
“The Rake Duke of Scarfield drinks alone. What a pity.”
Oscar looked up to see Adrian Fairleigh, Viscount of Eastmere, invading his private space at White’s.
“I do hope you are prepared to entertain,” Adrian said, plucking a glass from the sideboard and sloshing gin into it before Oscar could offer—or, more accurately, refuse.
“I was enjoying a brief interlude of silence,” Oscar replied, “but you have always excelled at spoiling good things.”
Adrian took the jibe as a compliment, flopping into the armchair nearest the fire. He was a study in contrasts: coat perfectly tailored, shirt open at the throat, boots gleaming and an aura of mischief clinging to him like the faintest whiff of imported cloves. He raised his glass in mock salute.
