“I’m certain you’re about to tell me regardless of whether I wish to know.”
“I think you’re wasted in such serious gowns.”
The observation landed like a stone tossed into still water. Penelope blinked, momentarily robbed of response. Of all the things she’d expected him to say—another tease about her embroidery, perhaps, or some quip about her retiring early—this was decidedly not among them.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your gowns.” He gestured vaguely at the silk dress she wore, high-necked and utterly proper. “They’re so... dutiful. As though you’ve appointed yourself guardian of respectability itself.”
Heat crept up her neck. “Some of us take our responsibilities seriously.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt of that.” His smile was lazy. “But tell me, duchess—do you ever tire of performing virtue? Of being so relentlessly proper that even your clothes are afraid of causing scandal?”
“My clothes are perfectly appropriate for?—”
“For a woman who has decided she must never be looked at too closely.” He tilted his head, his smile deepening. “Which is a terrible shame, really. Society would be far more dangerous if you ever decided to use your beauty against it.”
The words struck her in a painful manner. She gripped the arm of her chair, willing herself to remain perfectly still, perfectly calm. This was what he did—wielded compliments like daggers.
“Your compliments are rehearsed, Your Grace.” Though she did not know how, she managed to keep her voice cool. “And utterly meaningless. I suspect you’ve deployed that exact line on half the women in London.”
“Have I?” He didn’t seem remotely offended. If anything, his expression suggested he found her accusation amusing. “And here I thought I was being rather original.”
“You were not.”
“Then allow me to try again.” He rose from his chair with fluid grace, moving to the sideboard where a decanter of brandy waited. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Pity. You might find it loosens that stranglehold you have on propriety.” He poured himself a generous measure, the amber liquid catching the firelight. Penelope folded her arms. “I happen to have been raised to understand propriety and duty. And I believe that you have had enough already.”
He took another slow, languid sip. “Where was I? Ah yes—convincing you that I’m not simply deploying tired flattery.”
The liquid, she feared, had loosened his tongue somewhat, and she shifted in her discomfort at this version of him.
“A task at which you are failing spectacularly.”
“Am I?” He turned back to her, glass in hand and her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of his expression. The teasing edge remained, but underneath it lurked something sharper. “Let me be clear, then. When I tell you that you’re beautiful, it is not because I’ve rehearsed the words or because I’m attempting to seduce you for sport. It is because you are. And the tragedy—the absolute waste—is that you seem utterly determined not to notice.”
Her fingers had gone numb. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Indeed?” He took a slow sip of brandy, his gaze never leaving hers. “Tell me something, Penelope. When was the last time someone looked at you and saw past the duty? Past the self-sacrifice and the endless propriety? When last did someone look at you and truly see all that you are?”
She was not breathing. Could not breathe. Where had this come from? Was he toying with her once more? No one had ever noticed, or at the very least mentioned, her duty-bound existence. “Stop.”
“Why? Because it makes you uncomfortable? Or because some small part of you wants to believe it might be true?”
“Because it’s cruel.” The words escaped before she could stop them. “You speak of beauty and charm and as though it means something when we both know that it does not. This is what you do. This is your reputation, your entire manner of being. You charm and tease and make women feel—” She cut herself off, horrified at how close she’d come to confessing something unforgivable.
“Feel what?” His voice had gone quiet. Dangerous in an entirely different way.
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“It clearly matters a great deal.”
“What matters is that I am not one of your conquests, Your Grace. I am your wife in name only, and I will not be swayed by pretty words that you’ve perfected over years of practice.”
Silence stretched between them, taut as a violin string. Alastair set down his glass, then crossed the space between them in three measured strides. He stopped just short of improper, close enough that she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight stubble along his jaw that suggested he hadn’t bothered to shave before dinner.