“I have been observing. There is a difference.” His hand remained on her elbow, warm even through the fabric of her sleeve. “Now. Will you come willingly, or must I make good on my threat?”
Penelope considered her options. She could refuse. Could dig in her heels and insist upon her right to remain in the nursery, hovering over a sleeping infant like some overwrought nursemaid.
Or she could concede defeat with whatever grace she could muster.
“Fine,” she said, pulling her arm free. “But only because Rose is sleeping soundly.”
“Of course. Whatever allows you to maintain your dignity.”
She shot him a withering look, but he merely grinned and gestured for her to precede him from the room.
The dining room had been set for one—a plate of cold meats, cheese, bread still warm from the kitchen, fruit arranged with careful precision. Penelope’s stomach betrayed her with an audible rumble the moment the scents reached her.
Alastair’s expression turned insufferably smug. “How tragic that you are not at all hungry.”
“You are enjoying this far too much.”
“I am enjoying it precisely the correct amount.” He pulled out her chair with exaggerated courtesy. “Please, Your Grace. Do me the honour of not starving yourself to death in my home.”
She sat with as much dignity as she could summon, refusing to acknowledge how her body sagged with relief the moment her weight left her feet. How long had she been standing? Hours, certainly. The ache in her lower back suggested she had been on her feet since dawn.
Alastair took the seat across from her rather than at the head of the table—an unexpected intimacy that made the room feel suddenly smaller.
“Eat,” he commanded.
“You are remarkably fond of giving orders.”
“And you are remarkably fond of ignoring them. We make quite the pair.”
Despite herself, Penelope felt her lips twitch. She reached for the bread, tearing off a piece and forcing herself to chew slowly despite the ravenous hunger clawing at her insides.
Alastair watched her with undisguised satisfaction, as though her consumption of bread constituted a personal victory.
“You are staring,” she informed him after swallowing.
“I am ensuring you actually eat rather than simply moving food around your plate in a convincing pantomime.”
“I would never—” She stopped, recalling the dinner party at her sister’s house mere weeks ago, when she had done precisely that. When the weight of impending scandal had stolen her appetite entirely.
Had it truly been only weeks? It felt like years.
“You did well today,” Alastair said quietly, his tone shifting from teasing to something more serious. “With Rose. With everything.”
The compliment struck her like a physical thing, warm and unexpected. She set down the bread, studying him across the table. He met her gaze steadily, no trace of mockery in his expression.
“Thank you,” she managed, uncertain how else to respond.
“I mean it, Penelope.” He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped carelessly over the back in a manner that should have looked affected but somehow did not. “You have transformed that nursery into a proper home for her. Created routine and comfort from chaos. That takes real strength.”
Her throat tightened. “Anyone would have done the same.”
“No.” The word was firm, certain. “Anyone would have hired competent servants and delegated the burden. You chose to shoulder it yourself, despite having every reason to resent this entire situation.”
“She is innocent in all of this.” Penelope’s fingers twisted in her lap. “Whatever brought her to us, whatever secrets surround her parentage—none of it is her fault. She deserves better than to be treated as an inconvenience.”
“And so do you.”
The words hung between them, weighted with meaning she was not prepared to examine. Penelope looked away first, reaching for her teacup to give her hands something to do.