“Oh, do not take offense.” She crossed to him, pressing a kiss to his cheek with practiced affection before settling into the chair opposite. “You must admit, given your reputation, I half expected to find the place in shambles. Empty bottles scattered about, perhaps a scandalous painting or two adorning the walls.”
“I keep those in my private chambers.”
Her laugh rang out, bright and genuine. “There is the daring duke I know. I was beginning to worry marriage had completely reformed you.”
Marriage. He shifted at the use of the word.
“I assure you, I remain thoroughly unreformed.” He leaned back, affecting his usual careless posture despite the tension gathering between his shoulder blades. “Though I suspect Penelope would argue I could benefit from significantly more reformation than I am willing to entertain.”
“Where is my sister?” Caroline glanced toward the doorway, as though Penelope might materialise on cue. “I do hope she is not hiding from me. I promise I came with only moderately invasive questions about her new situation.”
“She is upstairs with Rose. The baby was fussy this morning.”
“Rose.” Caroline’s expression softened in that strange way women seemed to adopt when discussing infants. “What a lovely name. May I see her?”
“Of course. Though I should warn you, she has developed rather strong opinions about strangers. And nap schedules. And most things, really, for someone who cannot yet speak.”
Caroline studied him with unsettling focus. “You sound almost fond.”
“Fond is a strong word. I merely observe facts.”
“Hmm.” The laughter was evident in his tone. “And here I thought the notorious Duke of Blackmere had no patience for children.”
He had thought the same thing himself, once. Before midnight vigils in the nursery, before the weight of a tiny body against his chest, before Penelope’s voice soft in the darkness as she sang Rose back to sleep.
Before everything had become so damnably complicated.
“The Duke of Blackmere,” he said lightly, “contains multitudes.”
“Clearly.” Caroline rose, smoothing her skirts. “Well then, shall we go find my sister and this opinionated infant? William is meeting with your steward about those boundary concerns, so I find myself with time to thoroughly interrogate Penelope about married life.”
“How fortunate for her.”
They climbed the stairs together, Caroline maintaining a steady stream of commentary about London gossip—who was courting whom, which scandals had replaced his own in the public consciousness, the general state of society’s collectiveconscience. Alastair responded with appropriate noises of interest whilst his mind wandered to far more dangerous territory.
The nursery door stood ajar. Through it, he could hear Penelope’s voice, low and soothing as she spoke to Rose. Something about the quality of that sound—intimate, unguarded—made him pause.
Caroline, naturally, noticed nothing and sailed straight through.
“Penelope! There you are. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
Alastair followed more slowly, watching as his wife turned from the cradle with Rose bundled in her arms. The afternoon light streaming through the windows caught in her hair, turning it warm and golden. She wore a simple day dress in soft blue, her expression shifting from surprise to genuine pleasure as she registered her sister’s presence.
“Caroline.” Penelope crossed to embrace her sister as best she could whilst managing the baby. “I did not realise you were coming today.”
“William had business with Alastair’s steward, so I insisted on accompanying him. I simply had to see how you were settling in.” Caroline’s gaze dropped to Rose, her entire face transforming. “Oh, she is beautiful. May I?”
Penelope transferred the baby with practiced ease, and Alastair found himself cataloguing the movement—the gentle support of Rose’s head, the careful positioning, the complete comfort with which she managed the exchange. When had she become so competent at this? When had any of them?
“She looks well-cared for,” Caroline observed, bouncing Rose gently. “Happy, even. You have done well, sister.”
“We both have.” Penelope’s gaze flickered to him, brief and uncertain. “His Grace has been... surprisingly helpful.”
“Helpful.” He lifted a brow. “Such effusive praise. I may swoon from the flattery.”
“Do not fish for compliments, husband. It is unbecoming.”
Caroline’s eyes widened at the exchange—the easy banter, the casual use of ‘husband,’ the hint of warmth beneath Penelope’s teasing reproof. Alastair recognised that look. His sister-in-law was drawing conclusions, constructing narratives, preparing to meddle.