Nancy felt a pang of guilt on Adrian’s behalf and of embarrassment for herself. She was about to protest, or at least soften the abruptness, but Adrian, as ever, rescued the situation.
He turned on his heel and said, “Thank you for the hospitality, Scarfield. And for the music. I cannot wait to see what you two concoct next.”
Oscar only nodded.
Adrian shot Nancy a final wink, then departed, whistling the waltz they had just danced.
The door closed, and the room seemed to shrink around them.
Nancy drew a slow breath, trying to find her equilibrium. “That was unnecessarily harsh,” she said, not quite facing Oscar. “He was our guest.”
Oscar’s voice was clipped. “He is always our guest, everywhere he goes.”
She stared at him. “That doesn’t explain why you chose tonight, of all nights, to be rude.”
He looked at her, and this time she saw it: the tension at the edge of his mouth, the restless energy in his hands. “You were enjoying yourself,” he said.
“Of course I was. That’s the entire purpose of dinner parties.”
He stepped closer, the muscle in his jaw working. “You enjoyed him.”
She bristled. “Why should that concern you? You said yourself this is a marriage of convenience. If you wish to keep me locked in an attic, say so, and I will pack a bag.”
Oscar made a sound—something between a growl and a laugh. “You are insufferable.”
She set her hands on her hips. “So are you.”
They stood, breathing the same air, the battle lines newly drawn.
Oscar said, softer this time, “He is not what he appears.”
Nancy was tired of riddles. “Neither are you,” she said. “But at least I prefer your brand of mystery.”
He looked at her, then looked away. “You should go to bed. We have an early morning.”
She refused to yield the last word. “You have a talent for ending things before they’re finished.”
Oscar’s lips twisted, as if he was about to say something devastating, but he only nodded. “Good night, Your Grace.”
She marched past him, out of the room, the echo of his disapproval still in her ears.
CHAPTER 18
What a fool I have been.
Oscar sat in his study, hands tented, and replayed the events of the previous evening with the precision of a vivisectionist. Every word, every muscle twitch, every minute humiliation—catalogued, annotated, and preserved for future torment. The argument with Nancy, her face rigid with disgust, the open contempt in her stare as she swept past him—retribution had rarely felt so exquisite. He had earned it, of course, but that did not make it easier to endure.
He attempted, once more, to read the letter on his desk. It might have been written in Sanskrit for all the sense it made. He let his gaze drift to the window, where the winter sun glared in as if to audit his many failings.
It was Adrian’s fault, in part. The man was an irritant by design—oily, irrepressible, always seeing more than was welcome. But the rest was Oscar’s, and he accepted it as such. He had, after all, gone into the marriage with open eyes and a full appreciation ofhis own defects. Nancy deserved better. The children deserved better. Even the staff—silent and long-suffering—deserved better.
He set the letter aside and stood, pacing a neat perimeter around the study. He wondered, not for the first time, how other men bore the burden of family. Or, more precisely, how they bore the risk of failing those who depended upon them. His own father had managed by being absent in all ways but the material. Perhaps that was the trick: deny affection, deny pain.
Oscar stopped at the drinks cabinet, regarded the decanter with suspicion, and then poured himself a glass of water instead. There was work to be done, and no sense compounding disaster with inebriation.
At the appointed hour, his solicitor arrived. Harvey was a man of sixty, dry as old bread, with the bearing of a bishop and the wit of a second-rate fence. He had overseen Rowson business since before Oscar’s majority, and they had long since dispensed with the pretense of warmth.
“Your Grace,” Harvey intoned, bowing just enough to satisfy the law.
