There was, after all, a governess to install and a household to manage.
And, he suspected, a wife who would have something to say about both.
Dinner that evening had Oscar in the most unfortunate circumstances, for his attention was stubbornly fixed on his wife’s mouth.
Nancy, it seemed, could make a spoon into a weapon of utter destruction. She sipped her soup with an air of polite disinterest, but each movement of her lips triggered a catastrophic chain reaction in Oscar’s concentration.
He found himself staring, then looking away, then staring again, as if searching for evidence that the previous afternoon had not happened at all. It had. He could still feel the heat of her, the maddening proximity of her skin, and the singularly infuriating way she had managed to evade him even as she leaned in.
He tried to focus on the business at hand—on the pressing need to secure the children’s education, on the ledger of obligations that filled his mind like a plague of numbers. He reminded himself that the marriage was a contract, a solution, not a declaration of intent or desire. And yet the desire remained, persistent and unsanctioned.
Nancy set her spoon down and regarded him coolly over the rim of her glass. “You are staring, Duke. Is there something on my face?”
Oscar summoned a bland smile. “Only the usual air of impending insurrection.”
She smiled back, slow and dangerous. “I do what I can.”
The soup course ended, and the footman cleared the bowls with military efficiency. Silence reigned for a full minute, broken only by the distant clatter of the children’s voices in the nursery.
Oscar waited until the main course appeared before speaking. “I have arranged for a governess.”
Nancy’s fork hovered, then dropped to the plate with a clatter. “A governess? For whom?”
Oscar blinked. “For the children. Clara and Henry.”
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “They are five. I have barely begun to civilize them, and already you wish to farm them out to a stranger?”
“It is not farming them out,” Oscar said, careful to keep his voice level. “It is ensuring their proper education.”
“Proper education?” She laughed, sharp and bright. “They have mastered the art of hiding all the cutlery in the upstairs linen closet. They can recite half of Ovid and most of the minor Greek gods by name. What more do you require?”
“A working knowledge of mathematics,” Oscar replied, “and perhaps the ability to eat a meal without orchestrating a siege.”
Nancy leaned in. “You did not consult me.”
“I am consulting you now.”
She sat back, arms folded. “That is not consultation. That is declaration. Or have you already hired her?”
Oscar hesitated. “She arrives tomorrow.”
Nancy’s laugh was nearly a snarl. “Splendid. Shall I prepare the nursery for her, or do you intend to have the staff do it in the dead of night?”
He braced himself. “It is for your own benefit, as well, Duchess. You are exhausted. The housekeeper reports you have not slept a full night in two weeks.”
“She is a liar,” Nancy retorted. “I sleep perfectly well, except when interrupted by Dukes or domestic emergencies.”
Oscar ignored the barb. “You are overburdened. Let the governess help.”
Nancy fixed him with a look so direct it threatened to leave scorch marks. “Did I ever declare myself burdened? Did I ever ask for help?”
He did not answer, because there was no answer.
She pressed on, voice taut. “I care for the twins because I want to. It is not work, Oscar. It is—” She stopped, catching herself. “It is the only thing that feels true in this absurd charade.”
Oscar looked at her, searching for the right words. “You are more than capable, Nancy. But you cannot do everything alone.”
She stared at him, a long and level assessment. “Neither can you. But you seem determined to try.”
