“That.” He gestured toward the cradle with one hand. “The constant fussing. The hovering. Rose has been asleep for the better part of an hour, yet here you remain, adjusting blankets that need no adjustment.”
Heat crept up her neck. “I am ensuring she is comfortable.”
“You are exhausting yourself needlessly.” He pushed off the doorframe and moved into the room, his boots silent on the carpet she had personally selected three days prior. “When did you last eat?”
The question caught her off-guard. “I—this morning. I had a pastry.”
“Liar.”
Her head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” He stopped a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest in a manner that suggested he had no intention of retreating. “Mrs. Keating informed me you declined breakfast. Again. Just as you declined to join me for dinner last evening.”
Penelope rose to her feet, smoothing her skirts with more force than strictly necessary. “Mrs. Keating had no business?—”
“Mrs. Keating is concerned. As am I.” His eyes held hers, brooking no argument. “You cannot care for an infant if you collapse from hunger.”
“I am not going to collapse.”
“You swayed on your feet not five minutes ago.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. “I was merely?—”
“Come with me.”
It was not a request. Before she could protest, he had taken her elbow and was steering her toward the door with a firm grip that somehow managed to be both commanding and strangely gentle.
“Your Grace?—”
“Alastair.”
“I hardly think?—”
“I insist you call me by my given name, Penelope. We are married, after all. Formality seems rather absurd at this juncture.”
She dug her heels into the carpet. “I am not leaving Rose.”
He stopped, turning to face her with an expression of exaggerated patience. “Rose is asleep. Lottie is in the adjoining room, perfectly capable of hearing should the child wake. And you, my stubborn wife, are coming downstairs to eat something before I am forced to carry you there myself.”
The threat—delivered with that maddeningly charming smile—sent a peculiar flutter through her stomach. “You would not dare.”
His smile widened. “Would I not? Shall we test the theory?”
They stared at one another, locked in silent battle. Penelope’s lips pursed determinedly. Alastair’s eyes gleamed with barely suppressed amusement.
“I am capable of managing my own welfare,” she said tightly.
“Evidence suggests otherwise.”
“You are insufferable.”
“So I have been told. Repeatedly.” He tilted his head, studying her with that unnerving intensity that made her feel exposed. “You have been awake since before dawn. I heard you in the corridor at half past four.”
She blinked. “You were awake at such an hour?”
“I am often awake at such hours.” He avoided her eyes, then looked up at last—his expression guarded. “The point, dear wife, is that you have spent the entire morning caring for Rose without pause. It is now nearly two o’clock, and you have consumed nothing save, if Mrs. Keating is to be believed, half a cup of tea that went cold whilst you changed linens.”
The accuracy of his accounting unsettled her. “You have been keeping track of my movements?”