Nancy said, “Perhaps you should use your ears, not your arms.”
“My ears are of no use,” Oscar said. “You move like foxes.”
She approached, whisper-quiet. “We’ll try to be less foxlike.”
He turned too quickly, and his hand grazed her shoulder. She felt the jolt of it—a surprising warmth, alive with the possibility of something she couldn’t name. She pulled away before he could notice, cheeks flushed.
Clara circled back, crowing, “He’s going to lose! The Duke is going to lose!”
Oscar bared his teeth in a brief, feral smile. “You are all in collusion.”
“Of course we are,” Nancy said, “that is the point.”
He turned again, slower this time, letting the sound guide him. Clara giggled, Henry squeaked, and Oscar lunged—catching Henry around the waist and lifting him from the floor.
Henry squealed, half terror and half delight.
“Who is it?” Nancy prompted.
“Henry,” Oscar said, certain.
Henry grinned, triumphant and squirming.
Oscar released the boy and reached for the blindfold, but Nancy’s hand was already there, untying it before he could.
Oscar blinked at the sudden light, hair mussed, cravat askew.
“There,” Nancy said, “you have survived.”
Oscar looked at Henry, who stood a little taller for having been caught, and at Clara, who sulked but not seriously. Then he looked at Nancy, and for a moment something like pride glimmered in his eyes.
“You see,” she said, “they are not so terrible, once you meet them on their own ground.”
Oscar cleared his throat, straightened his collar, and shot her a look that lingered longer than was strictly proper.
“Again!” Henry shouted.
Oscar raised a brow at Nancy, as if awaiting orders. She shrugged, and the game resumed.
The second round was messier. Clara, emboldened, tried to tie Oscar’s coattails together as he fumbled blindly. Henry, at one point, hid behind Nancy’s skirts, forcing Oscar to lunge in her direction and nearly knocking them both over. For a heartbeat, Nancy found herself pressed against Oscar’s chest, her face only inches from his, the smell of citrus and starch and some ineffable maleness making her knees go weak.
She stepped back, but not before she saw the trace of surprise—maybe pleasure—in Oscar’s expression.
He caught Clara next, hoisting her up in a victory lap around the room. The children shrieked, delighted. Oscar looked at Nancy as if to say, See? I am not a total loss.
She said, “Perhaps you will make a decent uncle after all.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed.
The game ended with both children collapsing in a heap, breathless and glowing. Nancy sat beside them, smoothing Henry’s hair while Clara burrowed under her arm.
Oscar stood over them, looming but not unkind. He looked different—less like the Duke of Scarfield, and more like a man trying to remember how to live.
Nancy caught herself staring, then looked away, mortified to find her heart racing.
Oscar said, “Thank you,” so softly she nearly missed it.
She looked up. “For what?”
