Wonderful.
“The household appears very well-managed,” Caroline said now, her attention ostensibly on Rose but her awareness clearly fixed on them both. “Everything so proper and organised. One would almost think you had been married for years rather than mere weeks.”
“Penelope has a talent for creating order from chaos.” He said before thinking further. “I merely try not to undo her efforts too thoroughly.”
Penelope’s cheeks coloured. “You exaggerate my influence.”
“I rarely exaggerate. Embellish, perhaps. But not exaggerate.”
Caroline made that noise again—the knowing hum that meant she was storing information for future use. “You seem to suit one another well. Better than I dared hope, given the... circumstances.”
The circumstances. A polite euphemism for scandal, forced marriage, and a foundling baby that had upended all their lives.
“We manage,” Penelope said quietly, her gaze fixed on Rose rather than either of them.
“You do more than manage.” Caroline’s voice gentled. “You look good, Pen. Both of you. Different than I expected.”
The observation landed with uncomfortable accuracy. Alastair felt the weight of it settle into his chest, pressing against truths he had no intention of examining.
“Marriage agrees with us,” he said smoothly, deploying charm like armour. “Though I suspect that surprises you as much as it surprises... well… everyone.”
“It does rather.” Caroline handed Rose back to Penelope with visible reluctance. “I shall leave you both to your domestic bliss. William will be wondering where I have gone.”
She embraced Penelope again, whispered something Alastair could not hear, then swept toward the door. She paused beside him, her expression turning serious.
“Take care of her,” she said quietly. “She deserves that much.”
“I am aware.”
Caroline studied him for a long moment. “I rather think you are. Which is more than I expected from London’s most notorious rake.”
She left before he could formulate a response, her footsteps echoing down the corridor. Alastair remained frozen, painfully aware of Penelope standing mere feet away with Rose cradled against her shoulder.
“Your sister,” he said eventually, “is alarmingly perceptive.”
“She always has been.” Penelope’s voice sounded different, as though she was trying without success to hide what she felt. “It is rather inconvenient.”
“Quite.”
* * *
By the time Alastair reached his club that evening, he had convinced himself that Caroline’s observations meant nothing. That the comfortable domesticity she had witnessed was merely the natural result of two reasonable people making the best of an impossible situation.
That he felt nothing beyond basic decency toward the woman he had married.
He almost believed it, too. Right up until William and Edward cornered him with matching expressions of unholy amusement.
“There he is,” Edward announced loudly enough to draw attention from half the room. “The Duke of Blackmere himself. Returned from his country estate and hiswife.”
Alastair accepted the brandy William pressed into his hand, ignoring the emphasis Edward placed on the last word. “Good evening to you as well.”
“How do you find domestic life?” William settled into the chair beside him, his grin positively wicked. “Caroline returned with the most fascinating observations about your household.”
“Did she now?”
“Very organised, apparently. Respectable even.” Edward leaned forward conspiratorially. “She claims you looked almost... settled.”
“Your wife,” Alastair told William coolly, “has a vivid imagination.”