Oscar crossed the room, his steps measured and deliberate. He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could see the exact shade of blue in his irises. He took her hand—her right one, the one she had unconsciously curled against her side—and pressed his lips to her knuckles.
The contact was electric. Warmth shot up her arm, then spiraled up her neck in a blush so severe she thought it might never retreat.
She yanked her hand back. “You shouldn’t do that.”
He arched a brow. “Do what?”
“Kiss me. Like that. It gives people the wrong idea.”
He watched her, a predator indulging a mouse. “We are expecting a guest. We must appear as though we truly find each other tolerable.”
Nancy caught her breath. “But you don’t find me tolerable.”
He leaned in, so close she could have counted the individual hairs of his eyebrow. “I find you intolerably distracting.”
Her heart stopped, stuttered, then doubled its pace. “You’re only saying that because you enjoy making me uncomfortable.”
Oscar’s smile was slow and devastating. “Not only.”
She managed to keep her voice steady. “I am here to greet our guest, not to be toyed with.”
“Then let us greet him together, Duchess.”
She wondered if he knew how easily he could rattle her, or if it was simply a matter of habit by now.
Before she could reply, the butler announced, “Lord Eastmere, Your Graces.”
Adrian Fairleigh swept in with the breezy confidence of a man who knew he was at least two-thirds of the entertainment for any evening. He wore a coat cut so close to his form it seemedstitched directly to his bones, and his hair was a study in studied disorder.
“Nancy, radiant as ever!” He swept a bow. “Scarfield, you look…as you always do.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched, but he said, “Lord Eastmere. Welcome.”
“Let’s drop the Lord, please,” Adrian replied, dropping himself onto the settee. “You must call me Adrian, or I shall take my custom elsewhere.”
Oscar glanced at Nancy. “Nancy, do you find the rules of peerage so malleable?”
She shrugged. “I find most rules improve with a little bending.”
Adrian beamed at her. “A woman after my own heart. I knew we would get on famously, Your Grace.”
Oscar grumbled, “I am surrounded by anarchists.”
Adrian clapped his hands. “Splendid! Shall we drink to it?”
Before anyone could answer, a footman arrived with sherry. Adrian claimed the first glass and slouched, completely at home.
Nancy took the second glass, ignoring Oscar’s warning look.
They adjourned to the dining room, which Oscar had set with enough formality to satisfy the Dowager Queen. Nancy took her seat at the far end; Oscar, naturally, at the head; Adrian between them, as the living conduit of all conversation.
Adrian immediately set about his mission: to unsettle, amuse, and generally dominate the proceedings.
“So, Nancy,” he began, “I hear from all the best sources that you have already reformed Scarfield’s household. What is your secret?”
“Repetition, mostly,” she replied, tearing a roll in half. “And the threat of violence.”
Adrian hooted. “Scarfield, you married a woman of action! How do you bear it?”
