“You might have told me,” she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. “Before you left.”
“I might have,” he agreed. “I should have. I assumed—” He broke off, uncertain how to finish that sentence without revealing more than he intended.
“You assumed I would not care,” she supplied. “That I would be relieved to see you go.”
“I assumed,” he corrected, “that you would prefer not to endure my company any longer than absolutely necessary. Our wedding made it rather clear where we stand with one another.”
She flinched, just slightly, and he hated himself for noticing. For caring.
“I see,” she said. “Well. Your assumptions were noted, Your Grace. As was your absence.”
Before he could respond—before he could explain that his assumptions had been based on the careful distance she’d maintained throughout the rushed ceremony, the way she’d frozen when he’d leaned in for the expected kiss—a cry pierced the air.
Penelope moved immediately, crossing to the cradle swiftly. She lifted Rose carefully, checking for obvious distress even as the infant’s cries escalated.
“Hush, sweetheart,” she murmured, swaying gently. “You are quite all right. Simply hungry, I expect, or?—”
The baby’s screams intensified, her tiny face scrunched and red with fury.
“Perhaps her nappy needs changing,” Alastair suggested, moving closer despite himself.
“I changed her not twenty minutes ago.” Penelope’s calm was fracturing, he could see it in the tightness around her mouth, the slight tremor in her hands. “And she fed less than an hour past. I do not understand what?—”
“May I?”
The question surprised them both. Penelope’s eyes flew to his, wide with shock and a fraction of suspicion.
“You?”
“I have some small experience with infants,” he said, which was both true and completely inadequate to explain the certainty settling in his mind. “My cousin’s children, years ago. Before I became entirely useless.”
She hesitated, clearly torn between pride and desperation. The baby’s cries made the decision for her. She transferred Rose to his arms with visible reluctance, her fingers brushing his in a way that sent unexpected heat racing up his forearm.
He pushed the sensation aside and focused on the screaming infant.
Rose was tiny in his hands, impossibly fragile, and for a moment, panic threatened. He’d held his cousin’s children, yes, but that had been years ago, and he’d been half-drunk at the time, and surely he would drop her or injure her or?—
The baby hiccupped, her cries faltering as she registered the change.
Muscle memory took over. He shifted her higher against his shoulder, one hand supporting her head whilst the other patted her back in a gentle, rhythmic motion. He began to sway—not the tentative, uncertain movement Penelope had been using, but a steady, confident rock that spoke of practice rather than theory.
“There now,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “That is quite enough dramatics for one afternoon. You are perfectly safe, and perfectly fed, and perfectly dry. This is simply a test to see if your new caretakers possess adequate nerves, which I assure you we do not.”
Rose’s cries softened to whimpers. Then to silence.
Then, impossibly, to a tiny, hiccupping sigh as she settled against his shoulder.
Alastair glanced up to find Penelope staring at him as though he’d performed some manner of sorcery.
“How did you—” She broke off, apparently unable to finish the question.
“I have no idea,” he admitted. “Pure chance, most likely. She was ready to calm, and I happened to be holding her when?—”
“You knew exactly what to do.” She sounded rather angry—as though he had betrayed her trust. “That was not chance. That was experience.”
“Minimal experience at best?—”
“You lied to me.”