Nancy pressed her lips together, refusing to dignify the accusation. But she could not stop herself from glancing at Oscar, nor from seeing—just for an instant—the warmth in his smile.
The rest of the ride passed in awkward, buzzing silence.
But as they arrived at the manor, Oscar paused, stepped out, and turned back to offer her his hand one last time.
She took it because her dignity demanded it. And because, despite everything, it felt right.
They walked to the door together, the children bounding ahead.
As they reached the steps, Oscar looked down at her, and his mouth curved.
Nancy tried to glare, but it came out as a smile.
He laughed, open and unrestrained, and the sound was like nothing she had ever heard from him before. This man was quickly weakening her.
CHAPTER 19
“Athing most unheard of has occurred!” Fiona read, her eyes alight with wicked delight. “Lady Nancy Gallagher, the fire-haired spinster who has terrorized gentlemen from Mayfair to St. James, is now the Duchess of Scarfield. However did the lady manage to snare the Rake Duke of Scarfield in matrimony? Was there a scandal where she demanded marriage? Or was he desperate for a mother for his orphaned niece and nephew?”
Nancy’s jaw dropped. “You cannot be reading that aloud.”
“Oh, but I can,” Fiona chirped, passing the sheet to Hester. “It’s this week’s finest. The columnist claims you must have blackmailed him, Nancy, or perhaps bewitched him with Scottish witchcraft. Shall I read on?”
“Only if you want me to launch myself across this table and snatch your tongue out,” Nancy threatened, but she was smiling as she poured herself a bracing measure of tea.
Hester clapped her hands together, delighted. “I told you thetonwas obsessed, Fi. All week I’ve had people at the door, begging for details. The rumors are better than fiction.” She leaned across the tea service, her eyes bright. “Do they know the true story?”
Nancy took a healthy gulp of tea. “If by ‘true story’ you mean the one where Scarfield trapped me in a web of cold logic and uttered precisely four words before marrying me, then yes, the public is fully informed.”
“Only four words?” Lavinia Pembroke piped up, arranging herself neatly on the settee. “Was ‘I require a wife’ the opening volley?”
Hester snorted. “No, no. Scarfield is a master of the brooding gaze. He likely just stared, and the force of it bent Nancy’s will.”
“I’d have bent it back,” Nancy said, but her mouth twitched. She was keenly aware that in this company, all attempts at dignity were doomed to collapse.
Fiona, ignoring the byplay, buttered a scone and arched her brows. “Do you think they actually believe it, though? That you staged a grand seduction and then forced the Duke’s hand with threats of exposure?”
“They can believe what they like,” Nancy replied, but the words were followed instantly by a yawn so extravagant it threatened to unhinge her jaw.
Hester pointed with the tip of her knife. “You look like you haven’t slept in a month, Nancy. Is the Duke so demanding already?”
Nancy nearly spewed her tea. “He is the opposite of demanding. I hardly see him except at breakfast and the occasional midnight strategic meeting about the children’s welfare.”
“You see him at midnight?” Fiona’s eyes widened, and she exchanged a conspiratorial grin with Hester.
Nancy’s cheeks went hot. “It’s not what you’re thinking. We had a debate last night about the merits of ancient versus modern arithmetic.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Hester muttered into her scone.
Lavinia, ever the gentle observer, said, “I think you simply don’t want to admit you’re happy, Nancy.”
“That’s nonsense.” Another yawn threatened. “I am precisely as happy as I’ve ever been.”
Hester gestured at her with a pastry. “You know, if you keep up with this chronic fatigue, people will start talking. They’ll think you’ve taken up with one of those opium dens on the West End.”
“I’d rather be a laudanum addict than admit defeat by arithmetic,” Nancy grumbled, rubbing at her forehead.
Lavinia watched her with a mild frown. “You really haven’t been sleeping, have you?”
