“Mrs. Keating.” He addressed his housekeeper. “Show Her Grace to her chambers. Everything’s been prepared?”
“Of course, Your Grace. The Duchess’s apartments are ready. The nursery has been established in the adjacent room, as you instructed.”
“Adjacent to my rooms?” Penelope’s head turned sharply.
“I assumed you’d want the child nearby.” Alastair kept his tone neutral. “Was I wrong?”
A small smile appeared on her face. “No. You were quite correct. Thank you.”
He’d guessed right, then. Though it hadn’t required much guessing. She’d married a stranger for that baby. Of course she’d want her close.
“If you’ll follow me, Your Grace.” Mrs. Keating stepped forward. “I’m certain you’re exhausted from your journey.”
“I—” Penelope’s voice cut clear through the entrance hall. “I should like to see the baby first. Rose. Before I retire.”
Mrs. Keating’s eyebrows climbed. “The wet nurse has only just settled her, Your Grace. Perhaps in the morning?—”
“Now, please.” Still pleasant. Still composed. But utterly immovable. “I won’t disturb her if she’s sleeping. But I need to see that she’s comfortable.”
Mrs. Keating glanced at him. Alastair nearly laughed. His housekeeper of twenty years, seeking his permission to refuse his wife’s request.
This would be interesting.
“Whatever Her Grace wishes,” he said mildly.
Mrs. Keating’s brows shot up to her hair. “This way, then.”
Alastair followed without being asked. He couldn’t have said why. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the sudden need to see how Penelope would react to the baby now that the crisis had passed and reality settled in.
She opened the door slowly—careful not to make a sound. The wet nurse looked up, startled, as they entered.
“Your Graces.” She started to rise.
“Please, don’t disturb her,” Penelope said quickly.
And there she was. Rose. Tiny and impossibly fragile in the wet nurse’s arms, fast asleep with one small fist curled against her cheek.
Marianne’s daughter. It had to be.
Alastair’s chest constricted painfully.
“She’s beautiful.” Penelope’s voice had gone soft. Reverent, almost.
“Sleeps like an angel,” the wet nurse said. “Barely a peep all evening.”
He moved closer despite himself. The baby was... well. A baby. Red-faced and wrinkled and utterly dependent. He knew nothing about infants. Had never wanted to.
“She seems healthy,” he heard himself say.
“Very healthy, Your Grace. Good appetite. Strong lungs when she wants them.” The wet nurse smiled. “A proper little fighter.”
“Good.” The word came out rougher than intended. “She’ll need to be.”
Because this child would grow up with questions. Whispers. The permanent shadow of scandal hanging over her like smoke.
Penelope reached out. Her finger touched Rose’s tiny hand with a silent gentleness, a fierce protection in her gaze, that was almost motherly.
This was why she’d done it. Not for duty. Not for propriety. For this.