Nancy snorted. “You flatter yourself.”
They stood in companionable silence. Henry and Clara had tired of the water and now lay sprawled in the grass, collecting small stones and debating their relative merits.
“Would you like to join them?” Nancy teased.
Oscar made a show of considering. “If I sit on that grass, I may never get up again.”
She took a few steps into the water, shivering at the chill. “I dare you.”
He shook his head. “You are incorrigible.”
“I try,” she said, then yelped as something sharp slid under her foot. She lost her balance, flailed, and pitched forward with a most unduchess-like shriek.
The world went sideways. Water closed over her head, cold and heavy, and she came up spluttering, hair pasted to her face.
On the bank, Henry and Clara were frozen with horror.
Oscar moved instantly. He was in the water before she had caught her breath, dragging her upright with strong arms.
“Nancy. Are you hurt?” He checked her for blood, for broken bones, for any sign that his reputation would be further stained by accidental homicide.
She coughed, wiped the hair from her eyes, and tried to muster dignity. “I’m fine. Only wet. And possibly wounded in pride.”
Oscar stared at her, a crease between his brows. “You are certain?”
She looked down. The water was only up to her waist. “I am certain.”
He turned to the children, who still hovered at the shore.
“Clara. Henry. She’s perfectly fine.”
Clara burst into tears anyway, and Henry started picking flowers with what Nancy guessed was an attempt at a funeral bouquet.
Oscar’s attention returned to her. “Can you walk?”
“Of course.” She took a step, and her shoe immediately suctioned off her foot and disappeared into the mud.
Oscar snorted. “Elegant.”
“Thank you,” Nancy said, and, embarrassed, let him steady her back to the grass.
They collapsed together onto the blanket. Clara and Henry rushed in, both babbling questions and apologies.
Oscar said, “There. The Duchess has survived her first swim. All is well.”
Henry tugged at Nancy’s sleeve. “Are you sure you’re not a ghost?”
“Quite sure,” she said. “Unless ghosts shiver.”
She realized, then, that she was indeed shivering. The sun was warm, but her clothes clung, the wet fabric outlining every awkward curve. She tried to cross her arms, but it only made her more conscious of herself.
Oscar noticed, and one of his brows made a slow ascent. “We should go. You’re cold.”
Nancy could not help observing the manner in which his own wet shirt clung to his body. Her throat felt dry, and she swallowed against it, begging for something to distract her. Just then, her teeth chattered.
He rose, swept up the children with an efficiency that was almost military, and then turned to her.
“Come on,” he said, offering his hand.
