“I’ll be next door,” Penelope told the wet nurse. “If you need anything during the night, please don’t hesitate.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
She straightened, forcing herself to step back. Alastair watched her struggle with it—the instinct to stay warring with the knowledge that the baby was safe and cared for.
She turned and caught him staring.
“Satisfied, Duchess?”
The nickname slipped out. He’d meant it lightly. A bit of distance. A reminder that this was a role they were playing.
Her expression shuttered. “I am not?—”
She stopped. He could see her recognizing the test.
“Perfectly satisfied, Your Grace,” she said coolly.
Smart woman. She understood the game.
His mouth curved. “Excellent. I’ll leave you to rest, then. Mrs. Keating will show you to your chambers.”
He turned towards the door, then paused. Couldn’t resist. “Welcome to Blackmere, Your Grace.”
Whisky called louder. Anything to wash away the memory of her hand in his, her finger touching that baby’s palm with such careful tenderness.
This was good. The rules were established. They understood each other. Separate lives under one roof. Simple.
Except nothing about his new wife struck him as simple.
Alastair reached his study and poured whisky with hands that were not entirely steady.
This was fine. He was fine. The marriage was exactly what they’d agreed—a practical arrangement. Nothing more.
He drank and tried not to think about the warmth of her hand.
Tried not to wonder if she was thinking about it too.
CHAPTER 8
“Iwould appreciate it if you did not clean as close to the nursery this early in the morning. I would prefer Rose not be awoken by noise.”
Penelope kept her voice gentle but firm as she addressed the upstairs maid, whose name she’d learned was Mary. The girl bobbed a curtsy, her cap slightly askew.
“Yes, Your Grace. Begging your pardon, but... that is, we usually begin in the family wing at dawn. His Grace never minded the noise.”
“I understand, but His Grace is not a mother and as such perhaps does not understand the delicate constitution of a child,” Penelope replied, softening the correction with a small smile. “Eight o’clock will suffice. You may begin in the east wing instead.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Mary hurried away, and Penelope released a slow breath. Her first morning as Duchess of Blackmere, and already she was altering routines that had likely stood unchanged for decades. The thought should have unsettled her. Instead, it felt oddly steadying—a small measure of control in circumstances that had spun entirely beyond her grasp.
She turned back to the nursery, where sunlight streamed through windows she’d ordered opened at first light. The room had been stuffy when she’d arrived last night, all heavy curtains and stale air. Now it smelled of fresh linen and the lavender sachets she’d requested from the stillroom.
Rose slept in her cradle, blissfully unaware of the chaos she’d created. Penelope moved closer, unable to resist checking once more that the baby was breathing, that her colour remained healthy, that nothing had gone wrong in the hour since she’d last looked.
All was well. Rose’s tiny chest rose and fell with perfect regularity.
“You’re going to spoil her terribly, you know.”