Chapter 2 #2
“That you are a rake of the very worst sort. That you treat society as your personal entertainment. That you care for nothing beyond your own pleasure and amusement. That you possess neither responsibility nor restraint nor any quality that might recommend you as suitable company for respectable persons.”
The words landed with unexpected force. Not because they were untrue—they were devastatingly, comprehensively accurate—but because she had delivered them with such cool, absolute certainty. As though she had taken his measure years ago and found him comprehensively wanting.
It should not have stung. He had cultivated this reputation deliberately, worn it like armour against expectations and obligations he had no intention of meeting. Being recognised as exactly what he presented himself to be should have felt like victory.
Instead, it felt oddly… hollow.
“How very thorough,” he said lightly, pushing aside the discomfort. “Though I must point out that you seem to have devoted considerable thought to cataloguing my failings. One might almost think you were interested.”
“One would be profoundly mistaken.” She set down her glass quickly. “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I believe I see my mother signalling. Do enjoy the remainder of your evening.”
She moved to step past him, but Alastair shifted , not blocking her path—that would be improper—but occupying just enough space to make departure require deliberate navigation around him.
“Running away, Miss Hartwell?” He kept his tone light, teasing. “And here I thought you were too principled for cowardice.”
Her eyes flashed. “I am not running anywhere. I am simply choosing to spend my time in more edifying company.”
“Than a rake of the very worst sort?” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock devastation. “You wound me. Truly. I may never recover.”
“I am certain your resilience is more than equal to the task.”
“Perhaps. Though I confess myself curious about what manner of company you consider edifying. You have spent the entire evening standing beside the refreshment table, observing rather than participating. One might almost think you found the entire spectacle as tedious as I do.”
“What I find tedious or otherwise is hardly your concern, Your Grace.”
“True enough. Though I maintain that anyone who can deliver cutting remarks with such admirable composure whilst maintaining perfect propriety is far too interesting to spend her evening being boring.”
“Boring.” She repeated the word with quiet incredulity. “You think I am boring.”
“Not remotely. I think you are pretending to be boring, which is an entirely different matter.” He studied her face, noting the way her composure had fractured just slightly, revealing something more genuine beneath.
“You stand at the edge of ballrooms, making polite conversation whilst watching everything with those rather remarkable eyes of yours. You decline dances and avoid attention and generally behave as though you would rather be anywhere else in England. It is a masterful performance, truly. But it is a performance nonetheless.”
“How very astute of you.” Her tone could have cut glass. “Though perhaps I simply have no interest in being the sort of person who treats every social gathering as an opportunity for scandal and spectacle.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “Or perhaps you are simply afraid of what might happen if you stopped performing and allowed yourself to actually feel something.”
He saw her eyes widen before her composure slammed back into place like a door closing.
“You know nothing about me, Your Grace.”
“Your sister is the wife of my best friend. I know what they think about you. I listen to the Ton. I know that I am not an ally in your mind, but I have heard of your kindness and grace.”
Silence stretched between them. Around them, the ballroom continued its elaborate dance of social performance, but in this small pocket of space, something else hummed beneath the surface. Something neither of them seemed quite willing to name.
“I believe,” Penelope said at length, “that this conversation has become entirely too personal for a ballroom exchange, Your Grace. If you will excuse me.”
This time, he let her pass. Watched her move away with that same careful composure, her spine straight, her steps measured. She did not look back.
But she did not seek out her mother either, he noticed. Instead, she positioned herself near a cluster of older ladies, inserting herself into their conversation with practiced ease, her attention apparently fixed entirely on whatever topic they were discussing.
Apparently. But not truly.
Alastair returned to his own companions—Waverly and Lord Brightmore, both looking decidedly foxed already—and accepted the glass of whisky Waverly pressed into his hand.
The conversation washed over him without requiring particular attention.
Something about horses, probably, or cards, or one of the other topics men discussed when they had nothing of substance to say.
He should have been bored. Should have been plotting his exit, calculating which scandal to pursue next, considering whether Lady Huntington’s obvious interest was worth the inevitable complications.
Instead, he found his attention drifting across the ballroom with troubling regularity.
To where Miss Penelope Hartwell stood among the matrons, contributing to their discussion with apparent ease whilst her hands remained clasped loosely before her, perfectly still. Too still, perhaps, for someone genuinely at ease.
He watched as she laughed at something Lady Hammond said—a polite, practiced sound that carried no genuine amusement whatsoever. Watched as she glanced toward the entrance, rather concerned.
Waiting for someone, perhaps. Or worried about someone.
That absent friend she had mentioned—the one whose whereabouts seemed to genuinely trouble her.
“Blackmere, are you even listening?”
Waverly’s voice yanked him back to the present. Alastair turned, offering his friend an apologetic smile. “Forgive me. Momentarily distracted.”
“I should say so. You have been staring at the Hartwell chit for the past quarter hour.” Waverly’s grin turned knowing. “Developing an interest in respectable young ladies? How very unlike you.”
“Hardly. Simply… observing.”
“Observing.” Brightmore snorted. “Is that what we are calling it now?”
Before Alastair could formulate a suitably cutting response, movement near the ballroom entrance caught his attention. Penelope was making her way toward the exit, moving with that same measured grace, her entire demeanour carrying nonchalance.
Leaving early, then. Retreating from the evening’s obligations with the sort of quiet determination that suggested she had endured quite enough society for one night.
He should let her go. Should return his attention to his companions, to the evening’s remaining entertainments, to the familiar comfort of scandal and spectacle.
Instead, he found himself tracking her progress through the crowd, watching as she collected her wrap from a servant, as she exchanged brief words with the hostess, as she moved toward the door with clear intent to escape.
“Blackmere?”
“Excuse me,” he murmured, already moving. “I believe I see someone requiring my attention.”
He did not pursue her—that would be improper, obvious, entirely too revealing.
But he did position himself near enough to the entrance to observe her departure, to note the slight slump of her shoulders once she thought herself unobserved, the way her careful composure fractured just slightly when she believed no one was watching.
Interesting.
Far more interesting than she wanted anyone to know.
He was still contemplating this observation—and what, if anything, he intended to do about it—when William appeared at his elbow.
“Alastair.” His friend clapped him on the shoulder with the sort of easy affection that came from years of friendship.
“I am glad I caught you before you departed. Caroline wishes me to extend an invitation for tomorrow evening. Dinner at our townhouse. Nothing elaborate, just family and a few close friends.”
Alastair’s attention sharpened. “Tomorrow evening?”
“Indeed. Caroline’s sister will be attending—Miss Hartwell, I believe you are acquainted?” William’s expression remained perfectly innocent, but something in his tone suggested he was enjoying this rather more than the situation warranted.
“Caroline thought it would be pleasant to have a small gathering. You know how she worries about Penelope spending too much time in quiet contemplation.”
Of course. Because apparently the universe had decided that one encounter with Miss Penelope Hartwell this evening was insufficient torment.
“How delightful,” Alastair said with perfect blandness. “I shall be honoured to attend.”
“Excellent. I shall inform Caroline.” William studied him with amusement that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
“Though I must warn you, Penelope has specifically requested that the seating arrangement place her as far from you as possible. Something about preferring civilised conversation, I believe.”
“How very flattering.”
“I thought you would appreciate it.” William’s grin widened. “Do try not to scandalise her too severely. Caroline grows rather protective of her youngest sister.”
Alastair offered a smile that promised absolutely nothing. “I shall be the very model of proper behaviour.”
“That,” William said with feeling, “is precisely what concerns me.”
He departed with a final clap on Alastair’s shoulder, leaving him standing near the ballroom entrance, contemplating the evening’s unexpected complications.
Tomorrow night, then. Another dinner with the perpetually disapproving Miss Hartwell, who thought him dissolute and irresponsible and entirely unsuitable company. Who saw through his performance with uncomfortable accuracy. Who appeared to want nothing whatsoever to do with him.
It should have been tedious. Should have been another obligation to endure with practiced charm and minimal engagement.
Instead, Alastair found himself rather looking forward to it.
Perhaps, he thought, that this could be rather entertaining indeed.