Nancy said, “Thank you.” Her voice was slurred with sleep, but she rolled onto her back, hair a mess, eyes half-shut. “You are very good at unlacing things. Is that a skill from Eton, or learned on the streets?”
Oscar could not think of an answer that would not incriminate him. He stood.
She caught his hand again, lighter this time. “You are too far away, Duke.” Her thumb pressed into the heel of his palm. “You are always too far away.”
He leaned closer, their faces only inches apart. For a moment, he considered it—a kiss, a reckless thing that would ruin everything or remake it. But then he pulled back, gently, and tucked her hand under the covers.
“Good night, Duchess,” he said. “Sleep as long as you wish.”
He left before she could reply, closing the door with as little sound as possible.
The hall was silent. He walked it, unhurried, letting the tension ebb from his chest. The sensation lingered, though, the warmth of her hand, the smell of strawberries, the memory of her voice telling him not to go.
He reached his own chamber and stood in the darkness, regarding his reflection in the cold glass of the window. He looked the same as always: severe, unyielding, every line in place. But inside, the ground had shifted.
He could not go on like this. The yearning was dangerous—he knew that from the way it roiled his logic, the way it made him want to do things for which he had no name.
Oscar had married Nancy for one reason alone, which was to help him with the twins. There was to be no other reason besides that. None whatsoever!
I must get a hold on myself. I am not a foolish green boy. I am a duke, and one not given to weakness.
CHAPTER 21
Nancy woke with the singular sensation of having misplaced a day. Her first thought was:I am late.Her second:I am not dead. Therefore, I have survived something, but what?She sat upright, squinting at the unfamiliar slant of sunlight in her bedchamber.
She groped for the bell pull and missed. Instead, she knocked over a stack of books from the bedside table—Livy, Ovid, a battered volume of Addison, and one daringly misfiled treatise on animal husbandry. The books tumbled, the crash a small but sufficient clarion.
Within moments, Miss Lynch materialized, arms folded and face composed in the way of someone prepared to endure both ridicule and tragedy before the first tea service.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she said. “How do you feel?”
Nancy’s tongue felt twice its size. “Like I’ve been trampled by a cavalry charge. What time is it?”
Miss Lynch checked the slim watch at her wrist. “Ten past ten.”
Nancy winced. “You let me sleep past eight? Have you all gone mad?”
Miss Lynch’s lips barely moved. “The Duke’s orders, Your Grace. He said you were not to be disturbed under threat of—I believe the phrase was ‘capital consequences.’”
Nancy’s mind snagged on the memory of last night: reading to the twins, then—oh, good God—falling asleep between them. Had she really? She remembered something about a corset, and then—her face burned.
“Was anyone else in the nursery after I fell asleep?”
Miss Lynch’s eyes went wide. “I—I wouldn’t know, Your Grace. I was not permitted upstairs after the candles were out. Perhaps Mrs. Tullock…?”
“Never mind.” Nancy flapped her hand as if to erase the question from the air. “What am I wearing?”
“Your dress from yesterday,” said Miss Lynch. “Your stays are fully loosened, per your instruction.” She paused, faintly scandalized. “Did you…?”
“Undo them myself?” Nancy fished for the nearest plausible lie. “Naturally. I am not a complete invalid.”
Miss Lynch appeared unconvinced, but her face betrayed nothing. “Shall I bring your breakfast up, or will you take it in the morning room?”
Nancy’s stomach growled, a small and traitorous sound. “The morning room, please. I should like to see the children.”
“Of course.” Miss Lynch turned to the wardrobe. “Do you have a preference for dress?”
“Anything that won’t suffocate me before noon.”
