Oscar set his fork down with a clink. “She is sitting right here, Adrian.”
“That’s why I’m asking!” Adrian protested. “Nancy, you may speak freely. I am your champion.”
Nancy fixed Adrian with a look. “It was like being hired to captain a ship just as it struck the iceberg. There is panic, and flailing, and eventually everyone drowns. But before that, there are the best parties.”
Adrian roared. “Scarfield, you are doomed! She’s funnier than you, too.”
Oscar only stared at her, as if seeing something he hadn’t expected.
Nancy looked down at her plate and smiled to herself.
Adrian drained the last of his wine and stood, a little unsteady. “We must do this again. Next time, at my house. I will show you how to really enjoy yourself, Scarfield. Maybe you’ll even smile.”
“I doubt it,” Oscar replied, but he did, in fact, almost smile.
Adrian bowed, then swept out with the grace of a man who had practiced making exits his entire life.
Nancy and Oscar were left alone at the table, a brief and unfamiliar quiet stretching between them.
She cleared her throat. “He is a menace.”
Oscar said, “He is your friend now, apparently.”
Nancy looked up, startled by the note in his voice. Was that jealousy? She dismissed it; surely she imagined it.
“He is entertaining,” she said. “But you are… more interesting.”
Oscar arched a brow. “Is that so?”
She met his gaze. “Yes.”
They sat in silence, the sounds of the house settling around them.
Nancy felt her heart thud, strong and sure. Whatever the arrangement, whatever the contract or performance, there was something here. Something neither of them could ignore.
She wondered how long they could pretend otherwise.
After dinner, they all moved to the drawing room, and it was a different country altogether—warmer, slightly unmoored, and ringed with the faint scent of citrus. Adrian immediately made himself comfortable on a sofa, one arm flung over the back as ifhe owned not just the furniture but the very concept of leisure itself.
Nancy perched at the piano bench, her skirts arranged just so, watching Oscar pour a measure of brandy for himself and for Adrian.
“So, Scarfield,” Adrian said, swirling the amber liquid. “What is the latest opus? I’ve heard you are composing again.”
Oscar’s hand stilled. “I don’t know who told you that.”
Adrian grinned. “A little hedgehog. Or perhaps it was the Duchess?”
Nancy blinked. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
Oscar shot Adrian a look, then admitted, “It is nothing. I dabble, sometimes.”
“‘Dabble,’” Adrian repeated, savoring the word. “He says ‘dabble’ as if he isn’t the only peer in the House of Lords to have written a symphony by the age of fifteen.”
Nancy felt her mouth drop open. “You never mentioned you played.”
Oscar shrugged. “It is not of interest to most people.”
Adrian snorted. “Not true. Most people are fascinated. They just don’t believe it when they hear it. Scarfield is a prodigy. Absolute fiend at the keys.”
