“I am managing perfectly well,” she said, though the words lacked conviction.
“You are running yourself into the ground.” No teasing now. Only quiet concern that somehow felt more dangerous than all his charm. “Promise me you will allow Lottie to take the night feedings. At least some of them.”
“Alastair—”
“Promise me, Penelope.” He leaned forward, his eyes searching hers. “You cannot care for Rose if you collapse from exhaustion. And despite what you seem to believe, accepting help does not make you weak. It makes you sensible.”
She wanted to argue. Wanted to insist she was perfectly capable of managing on her own, that she needed no assistance, that self-sufficiency was a virtue to be maintained at all costs.
But the weight of exhaustion pressed down upon her shoulders, and the concern in his eyes felt genuine enough to strip away her defences.
“I will consider it,” she conceded.
“I shall take that as a victory.” His smile returned, warm and handsome enough to make her knees go slightly weak. “Now eat your luncheon before Mrs. Keating stages a rebellion.”
She nodded, then continued eating—unable to hide that she was somewhat amused.
The house had settled into silence by the time Penelope finally convinced herself to seek her bed. The longcase clock in the hall had chimed half eleven, and still she had found herself pacing her chamber, her mind too active for sleep.
Rose had woken twice since dinner. Lottie had handled both instances with calm efficiency, yet Penelope had found herself standing in the corridor outside the nursery regardless, listening for cries that never came.
She was being absurd. She knew it. Yet the compulsion to check, to ensure, toknowthat Rose was well cared for, proved impossible to resist.
One more look. Just one, and then she would retire.
The corridor was dark save for a single candle burning in its wall sconce, casting shadows that danced across the papered walls. Penelope tightened her wrapper around herself, acutely aware that she wore only her nightgown beneath the silk.
Entirely improper. But the household slept, and surely?—
She very nearly collided with him.
One moment the corridor stood empty. The next, Alastair emerged from the shadows near the library door, and only his quick reflexes prevented them from crashing into one another.
His hands caught her shoulders, steadying her even as her own hands flew up to brace against his chest.
“Good heavens,” she gasped, her heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with the near-collision.
“Apologies.” His voice was low, intimate in the darkness. “I did not expect to encounter anyone prowling the corridors at this hour.”
“I was not prowling. I was—” She stopped, aware of how her explanation would sound. “Checking on Rose.”
“Again?”
His voice held no judgement. Only understanding that somehow felt worse.
Penelope stepped back, putting proper distance between them, though her hands seemed reluctant to leave his chest. She forced them down to her sides, painfully aware of how little she wore. Of how littlehewore—his coat and waistcoat abandoned, his shirt open at the throat where his cravat should have been, the sleeves rolled to his elbows in a manner that revealed far too much of his forearms.
She should not notice such things.
“Lottie has matters well in hand,” he said, his eyes glinting as they caught the candlelight. “Rose is sleeping soundly. I checked not ten minutes ago.”
“You checked?” The surprise in her voice was evident before she could temper it.
His lips quirked. “I am capable of concern for the child, my lady. Despite what you may think of my character.”
“I did not mean—” She broke off, flustered in a way she could not quite name. “I simply did not expect you to?—”
“Care?” The word held an edge now. “Is that truly the opinion you hold of me? That I am so thoroughly dissolute as to be incapable of basic human decency?”