“Yes.” He looked at her directly then. Something in his eyes made her heart stutter. “An accident. Of course.”
But the way he said it suggested he was not entirely certain what he meant.
The carriage rolled onward through the rain, carrying them toward whatever future awaited.
And between them, the air grew heavier with each passing mile.
CHAPTER 7
“We should discuss the practical arrangements.”
The words came out more abrupt than Alastair intended. But sitting here with the phantom warmth of her hand still burning through his palm was doing things to his concentration. Things he could not afford.
She turned from the window. “Yes. That would be sensible.”
Sensible. He scoffed. As though any of this bore the faintest resemblance to sense.
He cleared his throat and forced his hands to remain clasped. Neutral territory. No more accidents. “This marriage is for the child. And for preserving what remains of our reputations. Nothing more.”
Her shoulders relaxed . Good. They understood each other, then.
“I understand.”
“We shall remain in separate wings of the mansion.” He kept his voice businesslike, the same tone he used when discussing crop rotations with his steward. “The estate is large enough that we need not cross paths unless absolutely necessary. You’ll have complete autonomy over household management. Menus, staff, whatever needs managing. I’ve no interest in any of it.”
He shifted, made uncomfortable by the blank expression on her face.
“And of course you will have complete freedom to pursue your own interests,” she replied, each word careful. “I will not question your activities or demand accounts of your time.”
A laugh escaped before he could stop it. “How remarkably understanding of you.”
“I am being practical, Your Grace.” Her hazel eyes met his squarely. “We are bound by law and scandal, not by affection. It would be foolish to pretend otherwise or manufacture expectations that neither of us can meet.”
The certainty in her voice surprised him. He’d expected protests, perhaps tears. The sort of feminine manipulation his mother had perfected. But Penelope sat across from him with her spine straight and her hands folded, discussing their marriage like a business contract.
It should have been a relief.
It was a relief.
“Then we’re agreed,” he said. “A marriage in name only. You manage household matters and the child. I manage the estate and my... affairs. We maintain appearances when necessary. Otherwise, separate lives.”
“Precisely.”
Alastair found himself studying her face, searching for cracks in the composure. But she simply turned back to the window, her profile outlined against the rain-dark glass.
“There will be social obligations,” he continued, because apparently he could not leave well enough alone. “Dinners. Possibly balls, if we’re foolish enough to invite that sort of scrutiny. I’ll expect you to play the role when required.”
“And you’ll play the devoted husband?”
The edge in her voice was subtle, but it was there. He smiled despite himself. “I’m an excellent actor. You needn’t worry on that account.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. “What about correspondence? Will our families expect letters?”
“My mother lives in Bath. We barely speak.” The admission came easier than expected. “Write to her if you wish. She won’t expect it from me.”
“I promised Hyacinth I would write.” Her voice softened on her friend’s name. “I intend to keep that promise.”
Of course she would. She struck him as someone who kept promises even when they cost her dearly. The thought lodged somewhere uncomfortable in his chest.