Oscar set his punch aside, all pretense gone. “If you have something to say, Adrian, say it.”
Adrian’s voice was a hair above a whisper. “If you are not careful, Scarfield, someone might try to steal your Duchess from you.”
Oscar’s pulse, which had been a steady metronome all night, jerked to a new rhythm. He stared at Adrian, who smiled with innocent menace.
“I’d like to see them try,” Oscar said, and surprised himself with the venom in his tone.
Adrian tipped his glass, unimpressed. “I’m sure you would. But you know how these things go. A beauty like that draws every sort of attention. Some of it… unsavory.”
Oscar kept his face blank. “What precisely are you warning me about?”
Adrian grinned. “Less scrupulous men, Scarfield. Many of our peers are not so restrained.”
Oscar eyed Adrian, dissecting every twitch, every crease at the corner of his mouth. There it was again: a note of threat, not playful but real. He did not like it. He liked even less the feeling of powerlessness it brought.
“I appreciate your concern,” Oscar said, words cold as glass. “But the Duchess is not an ornament. She can take care of herself.”
Adrian’s smile dropped for a second, then rebounded. “Of course she can. But sometimes a woman needs a man to defend her honor. Or at least, to make a show of it.”
Oscar did not look away. “If you have business with the Duchess, I suggest you conduct it with respect.”
Adrian made a show of being wounded. “Scarfield! You cut me to the quick. I am only trying to help.”
Oscar did not respond. For the first time in their acquaintance, he felt as if Adrian were a complete stranger to him. The old camaraderie was there, but overlaid with something sharp and unfamiliar. He wondered if Adrian had always been like this, or if he’d simply been too blind to see it.
Adrian finished his drink. “You know,” he said, “I always thought you’d end up alone. But I see now that you’ve found your match.” He gestured toward the crowd, where Nancy now held court, drawing all eyes. “She’s remarkable, Scarfield. Guard her well.”
Oscar inclined his head, his every muscle rigid.
Adrian winked. “I’m off to find some entertainment. Or perhaps create some. This place could use a little mischief.”
He turned, and as he walked away, Oscar saw it: a brief, dark glint in his eye that was impossible to decipher at this time.
CHAPTER 28
“Ihave eaten nothing but lemon slices for three days,” Fiona said, “and if you do not hand me that syllabub, I will bite you.”
Nancy slid the glass across. “For a woman on the brink of her second trimester, you are ferocious.”
“It’s the only way to survive.” Fiona spooned the cream into her mouth, then, after a beat, set it down and made a face. “No, not even that. The only thing that doesn’t taste like chalk is vinegar. Or maybe arsenic.”
“Perhaps you’re craving poison,” Nancy offered, surveying the arrangement of delicacies. “If you start gnawing the silver, let me know.”
Fiona gave a little whine and pressed her wrist to her forehead, but her theatrics could not quite mask the genuine misery beneath. Nancy, who had watched Fiona glide through her lastpregnancy with nothing but mild complaints about the fit of her gloves, found the drama oddly endearing.
“You are sure you won’t faint?”
“If I do, drag me into the garden and cover me with leaves. My dignity can’t stand a scene.” Fiona’s gaze cut to the far end of the ballroom, where the Duchess of Selsey had just tripped over her own train. “Unlike some people.”
Nancy snorted and reached for a stuffed oyster, savoring the brine and spice on her tongue. She felt, despite the noise and crush of the crowd, surprisingly at ease. It was almost as if she’d grown immune to the eyes that followed her, to the whispers in alcoves, to the knowledge that every word and movement was being weighed and scored by an invisible panel of judges.
Oscar had vanished shortly after their entrance. He did not like crowds; he tolerated them the way a fox might tolerate a hound’s company—only if escape remained an option. She had seen him last by the card room, standing in profile with a glass of sherry and a look that might charitably be described as “skeptical.” The memory of his expression made her smile.
She reached for a lemon tart, offering it to Fiona, who accepted with a groan of relief.
“Do you think the Duke will return before midnight?” Fiona asked, lips puckered from the lemon. “Or shall you be obliged to dance with every bachelor in the county?”
“If I am left to the mercy of bachelors, I expect you to run interference,” Nancy replied. “You and your tartlets.”
