The dismissal was clear, if delicately phrased. Crawford rose smoothly, bowing to the ladies, though his lips twitched ever so slightly.
“Indeed. Forgive the interruption.” His gaze lingered on Hyacinth for just a moment, his eyes lighting up ever so slightly as his eyes travelled over her. “I hope you enjoy your visit, Miss Fairleigh.”
Then he was gone, leaving behind a peculiar tension that Hyacinth attempted to dispel by immediately reaching for another biscuit she showed no signs of actually eating.
Alastair stood as well, and Penelope could not help but follow him with her eyes as he moved. “I should see to those drainage systems. Apparently they’re very impressive.” His hand touched her shoulder—brief, warm, deliberate. “I’ll see you at dinner?”
She could feel herself blushing—and feel Hyacinth’s eyes on her.
“Of course.”
He left, and Penelope found herself alone with her friend, who was staring at the closed door with a rather curious expression.
“Well,” Hyacinth said eventually. “Your estate steward is rather...”
“Unsuitable?” Penelope supplied gently.
“Precisely.” Hyacinth set down the uneaten biscuit with unnecessary force. “Completely unsuitable. I mean, he’s obviously intelligent, and that dry wit was rather... but no. Absolutely not. I have Sir Edmund. Who is perfectly suitable.”
“Of course.”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you know something I don’t.”
Penelope smiled despite herself, thinking of Alastair’s hand on her shoulder, the way he’d positioned himself at her side as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Perhaps I do.”
“Well, you can keep it to yourself.” Hyacinth lifted her teacup with renewed determination. “Now. Tell me about this baby who’s kept you so busy. And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you light up when you mention her. That’s rather alarming, Penelope. You were supposed to be miserable in your marriage of convenience, not glowing like some besotted mother.”
And there it was—the truth laid bare with Hyacinth’s characteristic bluntness.
Penelope was glowing. She was besotted. And the marriage that was supposed to remain safely convenient had become the most real thing in her life.
She opened her mouth to deny it, to deflect with the same careful distance she’d been maintaining.
Instead, she found herself smiling. “Would you like to meet her?”
“The baby?”
“Yes.”
Hyacinth’s expression softened. “I thought you’d never ask.”
They rose together, and as Penelope led her friend toward the nursery, she tried very hard not to think about what it meant that she wanted to share Rose with someone. That the baby felt less like a duty and more like a daughter.
She’d decided all too quickly to marry Alastair for the sake of this child, yet they had spoken of finding the baby’s parents, and then? Neither of them were sure. What she knew, however, was that she had begun to love this baby all too soon.
Behind them, through the drawing room windows, Mr. Crawford could be seen crossing the lawn toward the south fields. Hyacinth’s gaze followed him for just a moment too long before she caught herself and looked deliberately away.
“Completely unsuitable,” she repeated firmly.
Penelope said nothing.
But she remembered the way Alastair’s hand had felt on her shoulder, warm and claiming and terrifyingly right, and thought that perhaps suitability mattered rather less than anyone wanted to admit.
CHAPTER 14