Chapter 10
“You cannot possibly mean to tell me that is enough.”
Penelope glanced up from where she knelt beside Rose’s cradle, adjusting the blanket for what must have been the fifth time in as many minutes.
Alastair stood in the nursery doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame with that infuriating ease he seemed to possess even when delivering criticism.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, though she had heard him perfectly well.
“That.” He gestured toward the cradle with one hand. “The constant fussing. The hovering. Rose has been asleep for the better part of an hour, yet here you remain, adjusting blankets that need no adjustment.”
Heat crept up her neck. “I am ensuring she is comfortable.”
“You are exhausting yourself needlessly.” He pushed off the doorframe and moved into the room, his boots silent on the carpet she had personally selected three days prior. “When did you last eat?”
The question caught her off-guard. “I—this morning. I had a pastry.”
“Liar.”
Her head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” He stopped a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest in a manner that suggested he had no intention of retreating. “Mrs. Keating informed me you declined breakfast. Again. Just as you declined to join me for dinner last evening.”
Penelope rose to her feet, smoothing her skirts with more force than strictly necessary. “Mrs. Keating had no business—”
“Mrs. Keating is concerned. As am I.” His eyes held hers, brooking no argument. “You cannot care for an infant if you collapse from hunger.”
“I am not going to collapse.”
“You swayed on your feet not five minutes ago.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. “I was merely—”
“Come with me.”
It was not a request. Before she could protest, he had taken her elbow and was steering her toward the door with a firm grip that somehow managed to be both commanding and strangely gentle.
“Your Grace—”
“Alastair.”
“I hardly think—”
“I insist you call me by my given name, Penelope. We are married, after all. Formality seems rather absurd at this juncture.”
She dug her heels into the carpet. “I am not leaving Rose.”
He stopped, turning to face her with an expression of exaggerated patience. “Rose is asleep. Lottie is in the adjoining room, perfectly capable of hearing should the child wake. And you, my stubborn wife, are coming downstairs to eat something before I am forced to carry you there myself.”
The threat—delivered with that maddeningly charming smile—sent a peculiar flutter through her stomach. “You would not dare.”
His smile widened. “Would I not? Shall we test the theory?”
They stared at one another, locked in silent battle. Penelope’s lips pursed determinedly. Alastair’s eyes gleamed with barely suppressed amusement.
“I am capable of managing my own welfare,” she said tightly.
“Evidence suggests otherwise.”
“You are insufferable.”
“So I have been told. Repeatedly.” He tilted his head, studying her with that unnerving intensity that made her feel exposed. “You have been awake since before dawn. I heard you in the corridor at half past four.”
She blinked. “You were awake at such an hour?”
“I am often awake at such hours.” He avoided her eyes, then looked up at last—his expression guarded.
“The point, dear wife, is that you have spent the entire morning caring for Rose without pause. It is now nearly two o’clock, and you have consumed nothing save, if Mrs. Keating is to be believed, half a cup of tea that went cold whilst you changed linens. ”
The accuracy of his accounting unsettled her. “You have been keeping track of my movements?”
“I have been observing. There is a difference.” His hand remained on her elbow, warm even through the fabric of her sleeve. “Now. Will you come willingly, or must I make good on my threat?”
Penelope considered her options. She could refuse. Could dig in her heels and insist upon her right to remain in the nursery, hovering over a sleeping infant like some overwrought nursemaid.
Or she could concede defeat with whatever grace she could muster.
“Fine,” she said, pulling her arm free. “But only because Rose is sleeping soundly.”
“Of course. Whatever allows you to maintain your dignity.”
She shot him a withering look, but he merely grinned and gestured for her to precede him from the room.
The dining room had been set for one—a plate of cold meats, cheese, bread still warm from the kitchen, fruit arranged with careful precision. Penelope’s stomach betrayed her with an audible rumble the moment the scents reached her.
Alastair’s expression turned insufferably smug. “How tragic that you are not at all hungry.”
“You are enjoying this far too much.”
“I am enjoying it precisely the correct amount.” He pulled out her chair with exaggerated courtesy. “Please, Your Grace. Do me the honour of not starving yourself to death in my home.”
She sat with as much dignity as she could summon, refusing to acknowledge how her body sagged with relief the moment her weight left her feet. How long had she been standing? Hours, certainly. The ache in her lower back suggested she had been on her feet since dawn.
Alastair took the seat across from her rather than at the head of the table—an unexpected intimacy that made the room feel suddenly smaller.
“Eat,” he commanded.
“You are remarkably fond of giving orders.”
“And you are remarkably fond of ignoring them. We make quite the pair.”
Despite herself, Penelope felt her lips twitch. She reached for the bread, tearing off a piece and forcing herself to chew slowly despite the ravenous hunger clawing at her insides.
Alastair watched her with undisguised satisfaction, as though her consumption of bread constituted a personal victory.
“You are staring,” she informed him after swallowing.
“I am ensuring you actually eat rather than simply moving food around your plate in a convincing pantomime.”
“I would never—” She stopped, recalling the dinner party at her sister’s house mere weeks ago, when she had done precisely that. When the weight of impending scandal had stolen her appetite entirely.
Had it truly been only weeks? It felt like years.
“You did well today,” Alastair said quietly, his tone shifting from teasing to something more serious. “With Rose. With everything.”
The compliment struck her like a physical thing, warm and unexpected. She set down the bread, studying him across the table. He met her gaze steadily, no trace of mockery in his expression.
“Thank you,” she managed, uncertain how else to respond.
“I mean it, Penelope.” He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped carelessly over the back in a manner that should have looked affected but somehow did not. “You have transformed that nursery into a proper home for her. Created routine and comfort from chaos. That takes real strength.”
Her throat tightened. “Anyone would have done the same.”
“No.” The word was firm, certain. “Anyone would have hired competent servants and delegated the burden. You chose to shoulder it yourself, despite having every reason to resent this entire situation.”
“She is innocent in all of this.” Penelope’s fingers twisted in her lap. “Whatever brought her to us, whatever secrets surround her parentage—none of it is her fault. She deserves better than to be treated as an inconvenience.”
“And so do you.”
The words hung between them, weighted with meaning she was not prepared to examine. Penelope looked away first, reaching for her teacup to give her hands something to do.
“I am managing perfectly well,” she said, though the words lacked conviction.
“You are running yourself into the ground.” No teasing now. Only quiet concern that somehow felt more dangerous than all his charm. “Promise me you will allow Lottie to take the night feedings. At least some of them.”
“Alastair—”
“Promise me, Penelope.” He leaned forward, his eyes searching hers. “You cannot care for Rose if you collapse from exhaustion. And despite what you seem to believe, accepting help does not make you weak. It makes you sensible.”
She wanted to argue. Wanted to insist she was perfectly capable of managing on her own, that she needed no assistance, that self-sufficiency was a virtue to be maintained at all costs.
But the weight of exhaustion pressed down upon her shoulders, and the concern in his eyes felt genuine enough to strip away her defences.
“I will consider it,” she conceded.
“I shall take that as a victory.” His smile returned, warm and handsome enough to make her knees go slightly weak. “Now eat your luncheon before Mrs. Keating stages a rebellion.”
She nodded, then continued eating—unable to hide that she was somewhat amused.
The house had settled into silence by the time Penelope finally convinced herself to seek her bed. The longcase clock in the hall had chimed half eleven, and still she had found herself pacing her chamber, her mind too active for sleep.
Rose had woken twice since dinner. Lottie had handled both instances with calm efficiency, yet Penelope had found herself standing in the corridor outside the nursery regardless, listening for cries that never came.
She was being absurd. She knew it. Yet the compulsion to check, to ensure, to know that Rose was well cared for, proved impossible to resist.
One more look. Just one, and then she would retire.
The corridor was dark save for a single candle burning in its wall sconce, casting shadows that danced across the papered walls. Penelope tightened her wrapper around herself, acutely aware that she wore only her nightgown beneath the silk.
Entirely improper. But the household slept, and surely—
She very nearly collided with him.
One moment the corridor stood empty. The next, Alastair emerged from the shadows near the library door, and only his quick reflexes prevented them from crashing into one another.
His hands caught her shoulders, steadying her even as her own hands flew up to brace against his chest.