Fiona managed a grin. “Is it odd that I am so happy for you? I know the world thinks it a scandal, but I think you and Scarfield are perfect. He is so… what is the word…”
“Grumpy,” Nancy supplied.
“Formidable,” Fiona corrected, then shrugged. “Also, grumpy. But he looks at you like—” She trailed off, words failing. “Well. You must know how he looks at you.”
Nancy tried to answer, but the words caught. “He looks at everyone the same,” she said, far too quick.
Fiona opened her mouth to object, but a sudden commotion at the entry drew both their attention. Nancy turned just as a new group swept in: Lords, ladies, the occasional baronet, all of them more interested in each other than the company at hand.
A man in a black coat broke from the throng, moving with that particular brand of effortlessness that signaled either supreme confidence or total oblivion to shame.
Nancy felt the pulse of recognition before she saw his face.
“I would know that hair anywhere,” came a voice from behind her. Nancy turned to see Adrian stopping directly before her.“Not even the darkness of the grave—or theton—could dim its radiance.”
“Your Grace,” Adrian said, taking Nancy’s hand and bowing over it with ostentatious care. “How splendid to see you tonight.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“Beautiful, and honest.” Adrian turned to Fiona, grinned, then returned his full attention back to Nancy, as if she were the only object worth observing. “How do you find the company tonight?”
Nancy arched a brow. “So far, it is lively. Though I sense it is about to become unpredictable.”
He looked wounded. “Do you imagine I court disaster? I am the very model of decorum.”
“Your reputation disagrees,” Nancy said, but she smiled despite herself.
He leaned in, lowering his voice. “I see Scarfield has left you to fend for yourself. Would you do me the honor of a dance?”
It was not a real question; they both knew she could not refuse without drawing a scene. “Lead on,” Nancy said, surrendering her hand.
He smiled, then guided her into the river of guests flowing toward the floor.
The cotillion was underway. Adrian took his place opposite Nancy, smiling with wolfish delight. Around them, other couples fell into line, the music swelling into the patterns and turns of the dance.
Nancy felt the press of eyes, the subtle nudge of speculation. Let them look, she thought. Let them all wonder.
They swept through the first set, the formal movements giving Adrian too little chance for conversation. But at the first opportunity—when hands touched and the lines crisscrossed—he said, “You are the talk of the ball, you know. More so than the Prince himself.”
“Is that a compliment, or a warning?”
He spun her to the right. “Always a compliment. I saw you as soon as you entered, but dared not approach until I was sure the Duke would not impale me with a candelabrum.”
Nancy smirked. “He is formidable, as you say.”
“I admire him,” Adrian replied, his eyes never leaving hers. “But I also pity him. It cannot be easy, having a wife so much admired.”
She met him at the center, exchanged hands. “You flatter me.”
“It is no flattery. I was with him only moments ago, in the card room. He would not admit it, but I think he was watching for you the entire time.”
Nancy’s steps faltered. “Did he say so?”
Adrian shook his head, then dipped her, quick and precise. “No, but he does not have to. His face tells all.”
She tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. “Oscar has many faces. Most of them are unsmiling.”
“Perhaps. But his eyes were set on you.” Adrian’s tone was odd, just on the line between playful and something else.
