“For as long as possible.” They turned, and he tightened his hold to steady her. The contact sang through his nerves. “I found actual combat significantly less complicated than navigating a ballroom.”
“Because the rules are clearer?”
“Because the weapons are visible.” The admission emerged before he could stop it. “In a ballroom, everyone’s armed and pretending they’re not.”
Her gaze found his, and he saw understanding there. “Yet you’ve spent years in them anyway.”
“It seemed easier than the alternative.” The music swelled around them, other couples spinning past in flashes of colour and jewels. “If you’re going to be talked about regardless, you might as well control the narrative.”
“Is that what we’re doing now?” Her voice was quiet enough that he had to lean closer to hear it. “Controlling the narrative?”
Closer. Too close. He could see the precise shade of her eyes now, the faint dusting of freckles across her nose that powder couldn’t quite conceal, the way her lips parted slightly as though she was about to say something else.
“I’m not certain,” he admitted, and knew it for the most honest thing he’d said all evening.
The waltz ended.
Around them, couples broke apart with practised ease, already turning towards new partners or retreating to the refreshment tables. The orchestra paused, preparing for the next set.
It felt as though it was over too quicky, and at the same time he was certain that it had lasted forever. At last, Alastair stepped back, bowing with mechanical precision whilst his pulse thundered in his ears.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Grace.”
Penelope curtsied, her composure flawless save for the colour high on her cheekbones. “The pleasure was mine, Your Grace.”
He offered his arm, and she accepted it with the same careful grace she’d employed all evening. They moved through the crowd as the next set formed, exchanging pleasantries with other guests, maintaining the performance of a united, unbothered couple.
CHAPTER 15
“You’re brooding.”
Penelope glanced up from her embroidery, the needle suspended mid-stitch. Alastair stood in the doorway of the drawing room, one shoulder propped against the frame. The candlelight caught the sharp planes of his face, transforming him into something between angel and devil—though she suspected he’d claim the latter with considerable pride.
“I am not brooding,” she said, returning her attention to the hopeless tangle of silk thread in her lap. “I am concentrating.”
“On what? Torturing that poor fabric into submission?” He moved into the room without invitation. “You’ve been stabbing at it for the past quarter hour as though it personally offended you.”
She had, actually. The realisation made her fingers still.
The house was almost eerily quiet. The servants had gone home. Rose had been asleep for hours—a small miracle that still felt too fragile to trust entirely. And now here she sat, alone with her husband who was not truly her husband, attempting to appear as composed as possible whilst her pulse performed acrobatics.
“I enjoy embroidery,” she lied.
“You loathe embroidery.” Alastair settled into the chair opposite hers with the fluid grace of a cat claiming territory. “You told me so yourself last week. Something about it being a pointless exercise designed to keep women’s hands busy whilst men made all the interesting decisions.”
Blast. She had said that, hadn’t she? During one of those treacherous moments when his company had felt almost... comfortable.
“Perhaps I’ve reconsidered my position.”
“Or perhaps you’re avoiding going to bed because you’re afraid of what you’ll dream about.”
The needle slipped. A bright bead of blood welled on her fingertip.
“You presume too much, Your Grace.” She set the embroidery aside with careful deliberation, refusing to let him see that he’d struck too close to truth. Every night since the assembly, since that waltz, since the carriage ride home where she’d declaredthey could not dothatagain—whateverthatwas—her dreams had been full of eyes and the phantom pressure of his hand at her waist.
She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
Alastair leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and studied her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “You know what I think?”