Jealousy was beneath him. He’d made that determination years ago.
Apparently, his body hadn’t received the memorandum.
“How kind of you to say,” Penelope replied, her tone suggesting she found it anything but. “Though I’m certain London has managed to survive my absence.”
“Barely.” Thornton’s smile widened. “In fact, I was just thinking how fortunate His Grace is to have secured such a charming wife. One might even say suspiciously fortunate, given the circumstances?—”
Alastair’s hand moved before conscious thought directed it, settling possessively at Penelope’s waist.
“Indeed,” he said pleasantly, though his smile made Thornton’s fade. “Suspiciously fortunate describes it precisely. I cannot imagine what I did to deserve such luck. Can you?”
The implied threat hung in the air between them—subtle enough to maintain plausible deniability, clear enough that only an idiot would miss it.
Thornton’s smile became fixed. “Quite right, Your Grace. I meant no offence.”
“Of course not.” Alastair’s hand remained at Penelope’s waist, warm and claiming and utterly inappropriate for polite company. “If you’ll excuse us, I believe the next set is forming.”
He steered her away before Thornton could formulate a response, cutting through the crowd with practised ease. It wasn’t until they’d reached the relative privacy of the edge of the ballroom that he realised what he’d done.
His hand fell away as though the contact had scalded him.
“I apologise,” he said rather stiffly, his voice becoming far too formal. “That was presumptuous.”
Penelope looked up at him, her expression unreadable in the shifting candlelight. “Was it?”
“We agreed to maintain—” He paused, searching for the right words and finding only inadequate ones. “Distance. Propriety. I should not have?—”
“Defended me from an impossible man making veiled insinuations about our marriage?” She tilted her head slightly. “Ibelieve that falls well within the bounds of presenting a united front, Your Grace.”
He should have felt good about her words, he supposed. He did not.
Because defending her hadn’t been strategic. It had been instinctive, visceral, driven by something far heavier than concern for appearances.
The orchestra struck up a waltz.
“Dance with me,” he said impulsively and her eyes widened .
“Dance with you? Now?”
“Indeed.” He offered his hand and smiled. “We’re meant to be convincing, are we not?”
For a heartbeat, he thought she might refuse. Then her gloved fingers settled into his palm, and he led her onto the floor before either of them could reconsider.
He was aware of her. All too aware of her, he realised as he looked at the porcelain skin so close to him.
They began to move, and Alastair discovered that years of muscle memory could carry a man through the steps whilst his mind was entirely elsewhere.
Specifically, his mind was occupied with the precise curve of her waist beneath his palm, the faint scent of roses that clung to her hair, the way candlelight caught in her eyes and turned them gold.
“You’re very quiet,” Penelope observed.
“Am I?” He forced his usual insouciance into his tone. “Merely concentrating. It’s been some time since I’ve danced.”
“Liar.” But there was no heat in the accusation, only something that might have been amusement. “You move as though the steps are second nature.”
“Training from childhood,” he admitted. “My mother was quite insistent that a duke’s son master all the social graces. Even the ones he’d rather avoid.”
“Truly? You wanted to avoid them?”