Her brows lifted slightly. “You flatter yourself, Your Grace. I’m not certain my appearance reflects on you at all.”
“On the contrary.” He moved forward, offering his arm with the sort of proprietary gesture he’d never actually made before. Strange, how natural it felt. “Society will take one look at you and wonder what on earth you’re doing with me. I shall spend the entire evening defending my improbable good fortune.”
She placed her hand on his arm, the contact light but undeniably present. “I suspect,” she said dryly, “that the questions will run rather differently.”
She wasn’t wrong. But as they stepped out into the evening air and he handed her into the carriage, Alastair found himself hoping—quite irrationally—that she might be surprised.
The carriage was silent on their way to the ball—each of them, Alastair supposed, too consumed by their own thoughts to speak. They arrived far too soon, he thought, and their eyes met as he helped her from the carriage.
“Easy now,” he muttered, recognizing the wild look in her eyes—as though she were keen to flee. “Do not mind them.”
She nodded, her lips pursed. “Why would I mind them?”
He smiled rather proudly at the courageous edge in her voice, though he felt Penelope’s hand tighten on his arm as they approached the entrance.
“Steady,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. “Remember—we’re unbothered.”
“Easy for you to say,” she returned, just as quietly. “You’ve been performing for society your entire life.”
The observation was uncomfortably accurate. He covered it with a smile as they crossed the threshold.
The reaction was immediate.
Conversations didn’t precisely stop—that would have been too obvious—but they stuttered, shifted, acquired new undertones. Heads turned with practised subtlety. Fans snapped open to conceal whispering lips. The orchestra played on, but even the music seemed to acquire a watchful quality.
Alastair had spent years courting this sort of attention. Usually, he rather enjoyed it.
Tonight, with Penelope’s composure held together by sheer will beside him, he discovered he wanted to set the entire assembly on fire.
“Your Grace. Your Grace.” Mrs. Haversham materialised before them, her smile tight with the strain of a hostess determined to navigate scandal without acknowledging it. “How delightful that you could attend.”
“Mrs. Haversham.” Alastair executed a bow calibrated to convey both respect and supreme unconcern. “Your hospitality is, as always, impeccable.”
Penelope curtsied with perfect grace. “Thank you for including us, ma’am. The assembly rooms look lovely.”
The older woman’s expression softened —though whether from genuine warmth or simple relief that they weren’t going to make a scene, Alastair couldn’t determine.
“You must allow me to introduce you to Colonel Jameson and his wife,” Mrs. Haversham continued, already gesturing towards a cluster of guests near the refreshment table. “They’ve recently returned from India and have the most fascinating stories?—”
The introductions followed in rapid succession. Colonel Jameson proved to be a jovial man with an impressive moustache and a tendency to begin every sentence with “In my experience.” His wife possessed the sort of sharp intelligence that manifested as carefully phrased observations. Both treated Penelope with polite interest and Alastair with the cautious respect due a duke whose reputation preceded him.
More guests drifted into their orbit as the evening progressed. Some were genuinely friendly. Others offered courtesy thatbarely concealed curiosity. A few—primarily the marriage-minded mamas whose daughters Alastair had spent years avoiding—radiated disapproval so potent he could practically taste it.
Through it all, he remained at Penelope’s side. Closer than strictly necessary. His hand found the small of her back when they moved through the crowd. His body angled towards hers in conversation, a subtle claim of connection that he told himself was purely strategic.
They were presenting a united front. That was all.
“Lady Blackmere.” A new voice, smooth and entirely too pleased with itself. “What a pleasure to see you again.”
Alastair turned to find Geoffrey Thornton offering Penelope a bow that lingered just a fraction too long. The man was handsome in that aggressively symmetrical way some women found appealing—all golden hair and practised charm, with the comfortable fortune of a younger son who’d never actually had to work for anything.
Alastair had met dozens like him. Usually, he barely registered their existence.
“Mr. Thornton.” Penelope’s smile held polite recognition but nothing more. “I trust you’re well?”
“Exceedingly.” Thornton’s attention remained fixed on her face with the sort of focused interest that made a muscle jump in Alastair’s jaw. “Though I confess I’ve been quite bereft since you left London so suddenly. The season has been decidedly dull without your presence to enliven it.”
Alastair held his breath and balled his fists.