Nancy’s breath caught. “What are you doing?”
He took her hand, pulled her gently to her feet. Oscar traced a finger down her cheek to her jaw before he brushed a stray curl back behind her ear.
“Nancy,” he said, her name an entire plea.
She looked up at him and saw everything he’d tried to hide, everything he was trying now to offer.
He bent his head, drew her close. She realized, in a rush, that he meant to kiss her.
I should let him.
CHAPTER 32
It was supposed to be nothing. Only a kiss, a moment, and one minor rebellion in the grand scheme of her life. Nancy had endured far more significant things: court presentations, family shame, the impossible contortions of being a woman both too much and not enough for the world she was born into. A kiss should have been trivial.
But as Oscar closed the distance between them, she felt her whole body brace for impact, as if every prior moment had been preparation for this one. There was a warmth at her cheek, the ghost of his fingers, the unhurried certainty with which he bent his head.
She was so sure he would hesitate, perhaps even abort the mission entirely—Oscar, who never acted on impulse, who weighed every move like a general with a finite supply of troops. But he did not. His lips found hers, and the world promptly vanished.
She had never been kissed before. She had imagined it, perhaps—soft, ceremonial things, brushed in candlelight, the sort of gesture that signaled affection or polite desire.
Oscar's kiss was nothing like that. There was no decorum, no prelude. It was all possession, all voltage. She felt her knees fold, her arms snap up to his shoulders for ballast, her spine curl forward as if she could burrow through him and emerge somewhere unrecognizable.
He drew back, barely, just enough for her to catch the reflection of herself in his eyes—hair wild, mouth open, a flush at her throat that must have been visible from space.
"Ah," said Oscar, sounding profoundly satisfied. "There it is."
"There what is?" Her voice came out lower, rougher than she intended.
He ran a thumb under her jaw, still anchoring her. "The blush. I didn't think it was possible."
Nancy, who had always prided herself on her composure, realized to her horror that he was right. Her cheeks burned.
"It is the cold," she lied, pushing at his chest. "The fire is inadequate, as is the company."
He did not let her go.
Instead, he leaned in again, slower this time, as if savoring the novelty. She met him halfway, this time prepared—or so she thought. He kissed her again, and the second time was somehow worse. Or better. Her mind could not process the distinction.
She wanted to retreat, to claim her old identity, to box up the sensation and file it under "Interesting Mistakes." But he made retreat impossible, holding her with that paradoxical gentleness that was somehow more coercive than brute force.
When he pulled back at last, she managed to drag in a breath. "You are very sure of yourself, aren't you?"
"No," he replied. "I am never sure. Not with you."
She tried to regroup, to shore up the lines of her defense, but the room would not allow it. Every detail seemed sharper now—the way the dying afternoon made the dust spin above the hearth, the way Oscar's jacket was still rumpled from her grip, the way his own chest rose and fell like he'd run a mile to get here.
She pressed her hand to her lips, testing them for damage.
"I will not be distracted," she announced, though her voice trembled. "There are a dozen things to do before supper. The children?—"
"—are with Miss Mercer," Oscar said. "They are constructing a siege machine out of jam jars and old string, unless Clara has already mutinied."
Nancy barked a laugh, unable to help herself.
"Come here," said Oscar. It was not a question.
She had barely stepped forward when the knock sounded at the open door. Both of them jumped apart, almost tripping over the battered carpet runner. Nancy fumbled for her desk, pretending to rearrange ledgers; Oscar composed his face into its usual mask, as if nothing had happened at all.
