“You are wrong,” he said softly.
“About what?”
“About everything.” He crouched down so they were eye level, making it impossible to look anywhere except directly into his eyes. “You think my compliments are rehearsed? That I’ve said these things to half of London? I have not. I’ve told you that you’re beautiful because watching you with that baby is something akin to holiness. I’ve told you that your gowns are wasted because I cannot help but wonder what you would look like if you ever allowed yourself to wear beautiful colours, garments that would make you feel as fair as you truly are.”
Her heart was attempting to beat its way free of her ribcage. “You’re being absurd.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m simply being honest.” He looked at her directly and she attempted to swallow, though her throat was far too dry to make it entirely possible. “You think me a rake. That I am performing charm… but I find myself entirely too honest in your presence.”
The confession hung between them.
“Tell me,” he said at last, his voice suddenly clearer. “What do you want?”
The answer escaped her lips. “Peace. Quiet. Just… I suppose, a simple life. One without… society.” She blushed furiously as her lips involuntarily admitted it, though she did not pay it too much mind. It was not, she thought, as though he would remember much in the morning.
Penelope’s mind scrambled for purchase, for some clever retort or cutting dismissal that would restore the safe distance they’d maintained. Nothing came. Only the thundering awareness of how close he was.
“You should go,” she managed finally. “It’s late.”
Alastair studied her for a long moment, not a word leaving his lips. Then he rose, stepped back, and executed a bow so precise it bordered on mockery.
“As you wish, duchess. Though for what it’s worth—” He paused at the doorway, glancing back with an expression she couldn’t decipher. “If I were truly trying to charm you, to seduce you, you would know it. This? This is merely honesty. And I suspect that frightens you far more than any rehearsed flattery ever could.”
He left.
Penelope remained perfectly still, listening to his footsteps retreat down the corridor, then climb the stairs to his separatechambers. The fire crackled. The clock on the mantel ticked. The embroidery lay forgotten in her lap, a hopeless tangle of silk and failed concentration.
Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.
She was not some green girl to be swept away by a rake’s pretty words. She knew better. Knew him better—or thought she did. This was Alastair Reed, the Duke of Blackmere, London’s most notorious libertine. The man whose reputation preceded him into every ballroom, whose name was synonymous with scandal and careless pleasure.
Except.
Except he’d been nothing but honourable since their marriage. Maintained every promise, kept every boundary. Had held that baby with surprising competence and argued with her in whispers so as not to wake the child. Had danced with her at the assembly not because he wanted to create a scene, but because he’d noticed she was uncomfortable and sought to ease it.
Penelope stood abruptly, abandoning the embroidery entirely. She needed sleep. Rest. Distance from this evening and the way his voice had softened when he’d called her beautiful.
She pressed her hand to her chest, willing her heart to cease its rebellion.
CHAPTER 16
“She won’t take it.”
Alastair looked up from the doorway to find Penelope cross-legged on the nursery floor—an image so far removed from the cold propriety of the drawing room the previous evening that he almost didn’t trust it. Her hair had half-escaped its pins, a loose curl falling across her temple, and she was holding a spoonful of something pale and unappetising toward Rose, who had turned her face away with the regal disdain of a tiny empress refusing tribute.
“She ate the mashed pear this morning without complaint,” Penelope continued, not looking at him. As though last night had not happened at all. As though he had not knelt before her and said things no sane man would say to a woman who’d built a fortress out of rules and good sense. “Now she won’t even open her mouth.”
Rose chose that moment to swat the spoon. Pear mush arced through the air and landed on Penelope’s sleeve with a wet, decisive splat.
Alastair pressed his lips together. Hard.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” Penelope warned, still not looking up—though the corner of her mouth twitched.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He entered the nursery and lowered himself to the floor beside her, keeping a careful distance. The rug was soft beneath him, the room warm from the fire, and Rose regarded him from her nest of blankets with those wide, dark eyes that always seemed to be cataloguing the world with far more intelligence than any infant had a right to possess.
“Hello, little tyrant.” He held out his hand and Rose wrapped her fingers around his thumb with a grip that startled him every time. “I hear you’ve been tormenting your guardian.”
“She’s been impossible all afternoon.” Penelope wiped her sleeve with a cloth, the gesture practised and entirely without vanity. “Lottie says she may be teething.”