Chapter 7
“We should discuss the practical arrangements.”
The words came out more abrupt than Alastair intended. But sitting here with the phantom warmth of her hand still burning through his palm was doing things to his concentration. Things he could not afford.
She turned from the window. “Yes. That would be sensible.”
Sensible. He scoffed. As though any of this bore the faintest resemblance to sense.
He cleared his throat and forced his hands to remain clasped. Neutral territory. No more accidents. “This marriage is for the child. And for preserving what remains of our reputations. Nothing more.”
Her shoulders relaxed . Good. They understood each other, then.
“I understand.”
“We shall remain in separate wings of the mansion.” He kept his voice businesslike, the same tone he used when discussing crop rotations with his steward.
“The estate is large enough that we need not cross paths unless absolutely necessary. You’ll have complete autonomy over household management.
Menus, staff, whatever needs managing. I’ve no interest in any of it. ”
He shifted, made uncomfortable by the blank expression on her face.
“And of course you will have complete freedom to pursue your own interests,” she replied, each word careful. “I will not question your activities or demand accounts of your time.”
A laugh escaped before he could stop it. “How remarkably understanding of you.”
“I am being practical, Your Grace.” Her hazel eyes met his squarely. “We are bound by law and scandal, not by affection. It would be foolish to pretend otherwise or manufacture expectations that neither of us can meet.”
The certainty in her voice surprised him. He’d expected protests, perhaps tears. The sort of feminine manipulation his mother had perfected. But Penelope sat across from him with her spine straight and her hands folded, discussing their marriage like a business contract.
It should have been a relief.
It was a relief.
“Then we’re agreed,” he said. “A marriage in name only. You manage household matters and the child. I manage the estate and my... affairs. We maintain appearances when necessary. Otherwise, separate lives.”
“Precisely.”
Alastair found himself studying her face, searching for cracks in the composure. But she simply turned back to the window, her profile outlined against the rain-dark glass.
“There will be social obligations,” he continued, because apparently he could not leave well enough alone. “Dinners. Possibly balls, if we’re foolish enough to invite that sort of scrutiny. I’ll expect you to play the role when required.”
“And you’ll play the devoted husband?”
The edge in her voice was subtle, but it was there. He smiled despite himself. “I’m an excellent actor. You needn’t worry on that account.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. “What about correspondence? Will our families expect letters?”
“My mother lives in Bath. We barely speak.” The admission came easier than expected. “Write to her if you wish. She won’t expect it from me.”
“I promised Hyacinth I would write.” Her voice softened on her friend’s name. “I intend to keep that promise.”
Of course she would. She struck him as someone who kept promises even when they cost her dearly. The thought lodged somewhere uncomfortable in his chest.
“You seem the type,” he said.
She glanced at him sharply, as though searching for mockery. He kept his expression neutral.
“And financial matters?” The question clearly cost her. Pink touched her cheeks. “Am I to have an allowance? Access to household accounts?”
“You’re the Duchess of Blackmere.” His hands tightened against each other. “Access to whatever funds you require. Spend what you like. I won’t monitor it.”
“I’m not extravagant.”
“I didn’t suggest you were.” Though he knew women who would have already been calculating what a duke’s fortune could buy them. “I’m merely establishing that there will be no restrictions. You sacrificed your freedom for this. The least I can do is ensure you want for nothing material.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Don’t.” He looked away. “I’m being reasonable. Nothing more.”
The rain hammered harder. Through the window, he could see nothing but darkness and the skeletal shapes of trees bending to the wind. They’d be at Blackmere soon. Then this interminable journey would end, and he could retreat to his study and stop pretending this proximity didn’t unsettle him.
“One more thing.” The words escaped before he’d properly thought them through. “The child. We need to decide on a name.”
Penelope’s breath caught audibly. “Has someone already chosen one?”
“The wet nurse calls her ‘the little one.’ Rather impersonal, I thought.” He shifted. The carriage suddenly felt too small. “I assumed you might have a preference.”
“I don’t know.” Her voice went thin. “It feels presumptuous. She has a mother who should—”
She stopped. They both knew Marianne wasn’t coming back. Not soon. Possibly never.
“Then we give her something that can be changed later if need be,” Alastair said. “Something simple. Rose, perhaps? Or Elizabeth?”
“Rose.” Penelope’s eyes had gone soft. “Yes. Rose is lovely.”
“Rose it is.”
Their first decision. Made together in a rain-dark carriage while pretending they were nothing to each other.
The carriage slowed. Alastair sat forward, grateful for the distraction. The iron gates swung open. Gravel crunched. And there it was—Blackmere, looming against the storm like every other cheerless evening he’d spent within its walls.
Home. The word sat hollow in his mind. Technically accurate. His house, his estate, his inheritance. But it had never been more than that—never warm, never welcoming. Just stone and duty and the ghost of his father’s disappointment haunting every corridor.
Now he was bringing a wife to it.
A wife who wasn’t really a wife at all.
Hammond appeared before the carriage fully stopped, immaculate despite the weather. “Your Grace. Welcome home. And may I offer congratulations on your marriage.”
“Thank you, Hammond.” Alastair stepped down into the rain, then turned. Penelope stood in the carriage doorway, her face pale in the lamplight.
He offered his hand.
She took it.
Her fingers were cold and small and they fit against his palm with unnerving precision. For a heartbeat, they stood like that—hand in hand in the pouring rain while servants pretended not to stare. Then he released her and gestured towards the house.
“Shall we?”
He led her inside to where the servants stood, their faces impassive. Save for their eyes—eyes watching his new wife with barely disguised curiosity.
Penelope’s spine went rigid, but her expression remained calm. Impressive, that. Most women would have faltered under such scrutiny.
“Mrs. Keating.” He addressed his housekeeper. “Show Her Grace to her chambers. Everything’s been prepared?”
“Of course, Your Grace. The Duchess’s apartments are ready. The nursery has been established in the adjacent room, as you instructed.”
“Adjacent to my rooms?” Penelope’s head turned sharply.
“I assumed you’d want the child nearby.” Alastair kept his tone neutral. “Was I wrong?”
A small smile appeared on her face. “No. You were quite correct. Thank you.”
He’d guessed right, then. Though it hadn’t required much guessing. She’d married a stranger for that baby. Of course she’d want her close.
“If you’ll follow me, Your Grace.” Mrs. Keating stepped forward. “I’m certain you’re exhausted from your journey.”
“I—” Penelope’s voice cut clear through the entrance hall. “I should like to see the baby first. Rose. Before I retire.”
Mrs. Keating’s eyebrows climbed. “The wet nurse has only just settled her, Your Grace. Perhaps in the morning—”
“Now, please.” Still pleasant. Still composed. But utterly immovable. “I won’t disturb her if she’s sleeping. But I need to see that she’s comfortable.”
Mrs. Keating glanced at him. Alastair nearly laughed. His housekeeper of twenty years, seeking his permission to refuse his wife’s request.
This would be interesting.
“Whatever Her Grace wishes,” he said mildly.
Mrs. Keating’s brows shot up to her hair. “This way, then.”
Alastair followed without being asked. He couldn’t have said why. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the sudden need to see how Penelope would react to the baby now that the crisis had passed and reality settled in.
She opened the door slowly—careful not to make a sound. The wet nurse looked up, startled, as they entered.
“Your Graces.” She started to rise.
“Please, don’t disturb her,” Penelope said quickly.
And there she was. Rose. Tiny and impossibly fragile in the wet nurse’s arms, fast asleep with one small fist curled against her cheek.
Marianne’s daughter. It had to be.
Alastair’s chest constricted painfully.
“She’s beautiful.” Penelope’s voice had gone soft. Reverent, almost.
“Sleeps like an angel,” the wet nurse said. “Barely a peep all evening.”
He moved closer despite himself. The baby was... well. A baby. Red-faced and wrinkled and utterly dependent. He knew nothing about infants. Had never wanted to.
“She seems healthy,” he heard himself say.
“Very healthy, Your Grace. Good appetite. Strong lungs when she wants them.” The wet nurse smiled. “A proper little fighter.”
“Good.” The word came out rougher than intended. “She’ll need to be.”
Because this child would grow up with questions. Whispers. The permanent shadow of scandal hanging over her like smoke.
Penelope reached out. Her finger touched Rose’s tiny hand with a silent gentleness, a fierce protection in her gaze, that was almost motherly.
This was why she’d done it. Not for duty. Not for propriety. For this.
“I’ll be next door,” Penelope told the wet nurse. “If you need anything during the night, please don’t hesitate.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
She straightened, forcing herself to step back. Alastair watched her struggle with it—the instinct to stay warring with the knowledge that the baby was safe and cared for.
She turned and caught him staring.
“Satisfied, Duchess?”
The nickname slipped out. He’d meant it lightly. A bit of distance. A reminder that this was a role they were playing.
Her expression shuttered. “I am not—”
She stopped. He could see her recognizing the test.
“Perfectly satisfied, Your Grace,” she said coolly.
Smart woman. She understood the game.
His mouth curved. “Excellent. I’ll leave you to rest, then. Mrs. Keating will show you to your chambers.”
He turned towards the door, then paused. Couldn’t resist. “Welcome to Blackmere, Your Grace.”
Whisky called louder. Anything to wash away the memory of her hand in his, her finger touching that baby’s palm with such careful tenderness.
This was good. The rules were established. They understood each other. Separate lives under one roof. Simple.
Except nothing about his new wife struck him as simple.
Alastair reached his study and poured whisky with hands that were not entirely steady.
This was fine. He was fine. The marriage was exactly what they’d agreed—a practical arrangement. Nothing more.
He drank and tried not to think about the warmth of her hand.
Tried not to wonder if she was thinking about it too.