“No.” The denial came quickly, honest. “No, I do not think that at all.”
He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the shadows. “What do you think of me, then?”
The question hung between them, waiting and intimate. Penelope’s throat went dry.
“I think,” she said at last, “that you are far more complicated than you pretend to be.”
He cocked a single brow, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And you, wife, are far more perceptive than is entirely comfortable.”
“I shall endeavour to be more obtuse in future.”
“Please do not.” His smile came slow. “Your honesty is rather refreshing. If occasionally inconvenient.”
They stood in the candlelit corridor, close enough that she could smell sandalwood and leather and something uniquely him. Close enough that she could see the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his hair fell across his forehead as though he had been running his fingers through it.
Close enough that propriety screamed at her to step away, to retreat to her chamber and lock the door between them.
Yet her feet refused to move.
“You should be asleep,” she said softly.
“As should you.” He tilted his head, studying her. “Yet here we both are, prowling the corridors like guilty conspirators.”
“I am not guilty of anything.”
“Neither am I. Merely restless.” His gaze travelled over her face with unsettling focus. “Though I suspect we are restless for different reasons.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “I cannot imagine what you mean.”
“Cannot you?” The question held some amusement. “I think you are a terrible liar, my… dear wife.”
lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed, despite the blood rushing to her cheeks. “And I think you take far too much pleasure in teasing me.”
“Guilty as charged.” He leaned against the wall, all lazy elegance despite the hour. “Though in my defence, you make it remarkably easy. You blush so beautifully.”
“I do not—” She stopped, feeling the heat intensify in her cheeks, betraying her even as she tried to deny it. “You are insufferable.”
“You have mentioned that already. This afternoon, in fact.”
“It bears repeating.”
His laugh came low and warm, intimate in the darkness. “We are arguing again.”
“You seem to enjoy it.”
“Perhaps I do.” His voice dropped, losing its teasing edge. “You are the only person who challenges me, I suppose. Who does not simply accept whatever version of myself I choose to present. It is... unsettling. And rather addictive.”
The confession stole her breath. She stared at him, searching his face for mockery, for the careful distance he usually maintained.
“I do not mean to unsettle you,” she managed.
“Do you not?” He pushed off the wall, moving closer—not inappropriately so, but enough that the space between them felt charged. “I rather think you do. Whether you admit it or not.”
“That is—” Her voice caught. “That is a rather presumptuous assertion.”
“Is it?” His hand lifted, hesitated, then fell back to his side. “Forgive me. I seem to have developed a habit of speaking too plainly in your presence.”
“Better too plain than not plain enough.” The words were out before she could stop them, echoing her criticism from earlier in the nursery.