The blanket felt heavier than it should. Alastair tucked it beneath his arm and left the morning room, his footsteps echoing through halls that no longer felt quite so empty.
He would find out the truth first. Then he would decide what to tell his wife.
* * *
Penelope adjusted the lace at Rose’s sleeve, smoothing fabric that required no smoothing, and tried very hard not to examine why her chest ached at the simple perfection of the baby’s sleeping face.
“She’s gained weight,” Lottie observed from her position by the nursery window. “Thriving, she is. You’ve done well by her, Your Grace.”
The title still felt borrowed, ill-fitting as a gown cut for someone else. Yet the warmth in Lottie’s voice suggested approval,perhaps even affection, and Penelope found herself absurdly grateful for it.
“We’ve done well,” she corrected quietly, though she wasn’t certain if she meant herself and the nurse, or herself and Alastair.
Probably both. Possibly neither.
Rose stirred, her tiny fist unfurling like a flower, and Penelope felt that strong instinct unfold in her heart again—the fierce, aching certainty that she would burn the world down before allowing harm to reach this child.
When had it happened? When had Rose transformed from a duty into something infinitely more precious?
Perhaps during those endless hours nursing her through fever. Or maybe earlier, during ordinary moments—morning feedings, afternoon walks through the garden, the weight of her small body tucked against Penelope’s shoulder. A thousand tiny instances that had accumulated into something she could no longer pretend to ignore.
She loved this baby. Loved her with the sort of ferocity that ought to have terrified her, except it felt too natural, too inevitable, to inspire anything but wonder.
The sound of carriage wheels on gravel drew Lottie to peer through the window. “Visitors, Your Grace. Looks like a lady’s carriage.”
Penelope’s stomach dropped. She’d grown comfortable in their isolation, in the quiet rhythm of life at the estate. The thought of facing society—of maintaining the careful performance their marriage required—made exhaustion pull at her bones.
“I’ll see who it is,” she said, smoothing her skirts and checking that her hair remained presentable. “Will you stay with Rose?”
“Of course, Your Grace. Off you go.”
The entrance hall felt cavernous after the nursery’s warmth. Penelope descended the stairs just as Hammond opened the door, and a familiar figure swept through in a flurry of travelling cloak and infectious energy.
“Finally!” Hyacinth Fairleigh pulled off her bonnet, revealing blonde curls only slightly disarranged by the journey. “I thought you’d forgotten civilization entirely. Or perhaps been kidnapped by highwaymen. I wasn’t certain which was more likely, given how thoroughly you’ve vanished.”
Despite everything—the exhaustion, the confusion, the weight of secrets she couldn’t name—Penelope felt a smile tug at her lips. “Hyacinth. What are you doing here?”
“Saving you from rural tedium, obviously.” Her friend crossed the distance between them, catching Penelope’s hands and studying her face with the sort of intensity that made dissembling impossible. “You look... different.”
“I look exhausted. Rose had a fever, and we’ve barely slept?—”
“Not exhausted.” Hyacinth’s brow furrowed. “Well, yes, exhausted. But also... I cannot quite put my finger on it. You seem...” She trailed off, concern painting her features. “Settled. Which is rather alarming, considering the circumstances of your marriage.”
Heat crept up Penelope’s neck. She withdrew her hands, busying herself with removing Hyacinth’s travelling cloak. “The circumstances haven’t changed. This is still a marriage of convenience.”
“Mm.” The sound carried profound scepticism. “Yes, I can see how convenient it is. That must be why you’re blushing.”
“I’m not?—”
“Where is the dashing Duke?” Hyacinth glanced around the hall with undisguised curiosity. “I must say, I expected more... debauchery. Aren’t notorious rakes supposed to festoon their homes with evidence of vice?”
“He’s likely in his study.” Or the stables. Or anywhere that maintained the careful distance they’d established after thatmoment in the nursery, when he’d kissed her forehead and left before either of them could acknowledge what was building between them. “Would you like tea?”
“Tea would be lovely. And gossip. I’ve brought enough scandal from London to last you a month.”
They settled in the drawing room, and for the first time since arriving at the estate, Penelope felt the weight of normalcy—of friendship unchanged by marriage or babies or the complicated tangle of her feelings.
“Sir Edmund has been quite persistent,” Hyacinth announced once the tea had been poured. Her tone suggested this was meant to sound pleased, but something in her expression fell short of the mark. “He called twice last week. Mother is beside herself with joy.”