Colour flooded her cheeks now, genuine and unmistakable. “I do not entertain rumours, Your Grace. I merely observe behaviour and draw appropriate conclusions.”
“How very scientific of you. And what conclusions have you drawn?”
She met his gaze directly, her eyes filled with a strange rage.
“That you are a rake of the very worst sort. That you treat society as your personal entertainment. That you care for nothing beyond your own pleasure and amusement. That you possess neither responsibility nor restraint nor any quality that might recommend you as suitable company for respectable persons.”
The words landed with unexpected force. Not because they were untrue—they were devastatingly, comprehensively accurate—but because she had delivered them with such cool, absolute certainty. As though she had taken his measure years ago and found him comprehensively wanting.
It should not have stung. He had cultivated this reputation deliberately, worn it like armour against expectations and obligations he had no intention of meeting. Being recognised as exactly what he presented himself to be should have felt like victory.
Instead, it felt oddly… hollow.
“How very thorough,” he said lightly, pushing aside the discomfort. “Though I must point out that you seem to have devoted considerable thought to cataloguing my failings. One might almost think you were interested.”
“One would be profoundly mistaken.” She set down her glass quickly. “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I believe I see my mother signalling. Do enjoy the remainder of your evening.”
She moved to step past him, but Alastair shifted , not blocking her path—that would be improper—but occupying just enough space to make departure require deliberate navigation around him.
“Running away, Miss Hartwell?” He kept his tone light, teasing. “And here I thought you were too principled for cowardice.”
Her eyes flashed. “I am not running anywhere. I am simply choosing to spend my time in more edifying company.”
“Than a rake of the very worst sort?” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock devastation. “You wound me. Truly. I may never recover.”
“I am certain your resilience is more than equal to the task.”
“Perhaps. Though I confess myself curious about what manner of company you consider edifying. You have spent the entire evening standing beside the refreshment table, observing rather than participating. One might almost think you found the entire spectacle as tedious as I do.”
“What I find tedious or otherwise is hardly your concern, Your Grace.”
“True enough. Though I maintain that anyone who can deliver cutting remarks with such admirable composure whilst maintaining perfect propriety is far too interesting to spend her evening being boring.”
“Boring.” She repeated the word with quiet incredulity. “You think I am boring.”
“Not remotely. I think you are pretending to be boring, which is an entirely different matter.” He studied her face, noting the way her composure had fractured just slightly, revealing something more genuine beneath. “You stand at the edge of ballrooms, making polite conversation whilst watching everything with those rather remarkable eyes of yours. You decline dances and avoid attention and generally behave as though youwould rather be anywhere else in England. It is a masterful performance, truly. But it is a performance nonetheless.”
“How very astute of you.” Her tone could have cut glass. “Though perhaps I simply have no interest in being the sort of person who treats every social gathering as an opportunity for scandal and spectacle.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “Or perhaps you are simply afraid of what might happen if you stopped performing and allowed yourself to actually feel something.”
He saw her eyes widen before her composure slammed back into place like a door closing.
“You know nothing about me, Your Grace.”
“Your sister is the wife of my best friend. I know what they think about you. I listen to the Ton. I know that I am not an ally in your mind, but I have heard of your kindness and grace.”
Silence stretched between them. Around them, the ballroom continued its elaborate dance of social performance, but in this small pocket of space, something else hummed beneath the surface. Something neither of them seemed quite willing to name.
“I believe,” Penelope said at length, “that this conversation has become entirely too personal for a ballroom exchange, Your Grace. If you will excuse me.”
This time, he let her pass. Watched her move away with that same careful composure, her spine straight, her steps measured. She did not look back.
But she did not seek out her mother either, he noticed. Instead, she positioned herself near a cluster of older ladies, inserting herself into their conversation with practiced ease, her attention apparently fixed entirely on whatever topic they were discussing.
Apparently. But not truly.
Alastair returned to his own companions—Waverly and Lord Brightmore, both looking decidedly foxed already—and accepted the glass of whisky Waverly pressed into his hand. The conversation washed over him without requiring particular attention. Something about horses, probably, or cards, or one of the other topics men discussed when they had nothing of substance to say.