“Does she?” William swirled his brandy, his expression too knowing by half. “I must say, she seemed quite convinced that you and theDuchess—are getting along remarkably well.”
“We maintain a civil arrangement. Nothing more.”
“Civil.” Edward snorted. “Is that what we are calling it now?”
“What exactly are you implying?”
“Only that marriage seems to suit you.” William’s tone remained light, but his eyes held genuine curiosity. “You look different, Blackmere. More... I do not know. Present, perhaps?”
“Present.” Alastair tasted the word, found it bitter. “What an extraordinary observation.”
“Come now, you must admit the transformation is remarkable.” William gestured expansively. “The notorious rake, settled in the country with a wife and child. Playing house like some respectable gentleman.”
“I am not playing house.” The words came out sharply.
Both men went silent. Alastair felt their attention sharpen, felt the weight of their speculation pressing against the careful facade he maintained.
“No one is suggesting there is anything wrong with it,” William said, raising his hands. “If you have found some measure of contentment?—”
“I have not found anything. This is a practical arrangement made necessary by scandal. Nothing has changed.”
“Has it not?” William tilted his head. “Because Caroline said?—”
“Caroline said what she wanted to see.” Alastair drained his brandy in one burning swallow. “I am managing an inconvenient situation with as much grace as circumstances allow. That is all.”
“If you say so.” Edward did not sound convinced.
“I do say so.”
The conversation moved to safer topics—racing, politics, the general failures of their peers. But Alastair felt the lie settle into his bones, heavy and undeniable.
Because the truth was worse than whatever Caroline had observed or William had implied.
The truth was that he had watched Penelope with Rose this afternoon and felt something fracture in his neatly constructed defences. Had seen the gentle competence of her movements, the soft affection in her voice, the way the light turned her profile luminous.
Perhaps she was not merely the frustrating woman he had thought her to be. Perhaps it wouldn’t be entirely unbearable to live with her.
He found her in the nursery again that evening. Of course she was. Where else would she be?
Alastair paused in the doorway, unnoticed, watching as she settled Rose into the cradle with practiced tenderness. The baby fussed briefly, and Penelope hummed something low and wordless until Rose quieted, her tiny fist curling around Penelope’s finger.
“Sleep, darling,” Penelope whispered. “You are safe. I promise.”
He watched her silently, as she smiled down at Rose.Penelope straightened, turning toward the door, and froze when she saw him standing there.
“I did not hear you,” she said softly, as though afraid of waking Rose despite the baby’s obvious comfort.
“I did not mean to intrude.”
“You are not intruding. This is your home.”
Is it?he wanted to ask. Because it felt less like his home and more like something they were building together. And it was fragile and terrifying and impossibly real.
“She settled easily tonight,” he observed instead, moving into the room with careful quiet.
“She did. I think she is finally growing accustomed to the routine.” Penelope brushed her fingers across Rose’s forehead, tender and protective. “Or perhaps she is simply learning to trust that we will be here.”
“Penelope—”