Chapter 14
“We cannot hide from the ton forever.”
Alastair spoke the words into the afternoon light filtering through his study window, though he was not entirely certain he believed them. Hiding had, after all, served him rather well for the better part of three decades.
Penelope looked up from the letter she’d been reading, her eyes finding his own.
“I was not aware we were hiding,” she said mildly.
“Strategically withdrawing, then.” He moved from the window, restless energy pulling at him.
The scandal sheets had followed them here—Mrs. Keating had shown him one just that morning, her expression rather concerned.
The ton’s memory, it seemed, was rather longer than he’d hoped.
“But the effect is much the same. We’ve been at the estate for weeks.
If we continue avoiding society, we merely confirm everything they’re whispering. ”
She set the letter aside with deliberate care, her movements betraying nothing. But he’d been watching her long enough now to recognise the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers stilled against the arm of her chair.
“What did you have in mind?”
“The Haversham ball.” He’d rehearsed this, though he disliked admitting it. “Tomorrow evening. It’s being held in the assembly rooms in town—hardly a London affair, but respectable enough. Half the county will attend.”
“And you believe our appearance will silence the gossip?”
The scepticism in her voice was warranted. He crossed to his desk, leaning against it with what he hoped appeared as casual confidence rather than the unease currently twisting through him.
“I believe our absence will confirm it,” he countered. “If we present ourselves as a properly married couple—calm, united, utterly unbothered by speculation—curiosity will eventually yield to boredom. The ton cannot sustain interest in a scandal that refuses to perform.”
She studied him for a long moment, and he forced himself not to look away. This close scrutiny was still unsettling, still unfamiliar. Most people saw only what he showed them. Penelope seemed determined to look deeper.
“Very well,” she said at last. “We shall attend.”
Relief surprised him with its intensity. He’d half-expected an argument, reasons why they should remain sequestered here where the nursery felt safe and the world’s judgement couldn’t quite reach them.
“Excellent.” He pushed away from the desk. “I shall have the carriage prepared for seven o’clock.”
She rose, smoothing her skirts with that unconscious grace he’d noticed more than he cared to admit. At the doorway, she paused.
“Alastair?”
“Yes?”
“You’re right. We cannot hide forever.” She sighed deeply—a tired sound. “But neither can we pretend this will be comfortable.”
Then she was gone, leaving him alone with the afternoon light and the uncomfortable truth that comfort had ceased being a reasonable expectation the moment he’d agreed to this marriage.
* * *
The following evening found Alastair in the entrance hall, adjusting his cravat with more attention than the task warranted. His valet had already pronounced it perfect. Twice.
But his hands needed occupation, and standing idle whilst waiting for his wife to descend the stairs felt absurdly like waiting for a verdict.
As though the woman who had occupied his thoughts could read them, a door opened above just then. Footsteps on the landing—measured, unhurried. He looked up.
And forgot, quite completely, how to breathe.
Penelope descended the stairs in a gown the colour of deep sapphire, the silk catching the candlelight with each step.
Her hair was swept up, revealing the elegant line of her neck, with a few soft curls left to frame her face.
She wore no elaborate jewellery—just a simple pendant at her throat—and somehow that restraint only emphasised the quiet beauty he’d been studiously trying not to notice for weeks.
She reached the bottom step and paused, meeting his gaze with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher.
“Will I do?” she asked, and there was just enough edge to the question to tell him she’d noticed his reaction.
He should say something charming. Something light and meaningless that would restore the careful distance they’d been maintaining. Instead, the truth escaped before he could stop it.
“It’s rather dangerous, bringing a wife like you into a ballroom.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “You flatter yourself, Your Grace. I’m not certain my appearance reflects on you at all.”
“On the contrary.” He moved forward, offering his arm with the sort of proprietary gesture he’d never actually made before.
Strange, how natural it felt. “Society will take one look at you and wonder what on earth you’re doing with me.
I shall spend the entire evening defending my improbable good fortune. ”
She placed her hand on his arm, the contact light but undeniably present. “I suspect,” she said dryly, “that the questions will run rather differently.”
She wasn’t wrong. But as they stepped out into the evening air and he handed her into the carriage, Alastair found himself hoping—quite irrationally—that she might be surprised.
The carriage was silent on their way to the ball—each of them, Alastair supposed, too consumed by their own thoughts to speak. They arrived far too soon, he thought, and their eyes met as he helped her from the carriage.
“Easy now,” he muttered, recognizing the wild look in her eyes—as though she were keen to flee. “Do not mind them.”
She nodded, her lips pursed. “Why would I mind them?”
He smiled rather proudly at the courageous edge in her voice, though he felt Penelope’s hand tighten on his arm as they approached the entrance.
“Steady,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. “Remember—we’re unbothered.”
“Easy for you to say,” she returned, just as quietly. “You’ve been performing for society your entire life.”
The observation was uncomfortably accurate. He covered it with a smile as they crossed the threshold.
The reaction was immediate.
Conversations didn’t precisely stop—that would have been too obvious—but they stuttered, shifted, acquired new undertones. Heads turned with practised subtlety. Fans snapped open to conceal whispering lips. The orchestra played on, but even the music seemed to acquire a watchful quality.
Alastair had spent years courting this sort of attention. Usually, he rather enjoyed it.
Tonight, with Penelope’s composure held together by sheer will beside him, he discovered he wanted to set the entire assembly on fire.
“Your Grace. Your Grace.” Mrs. Haversham materialised before them, her smile tight with the strain of a hostess determined to navigate scandal without acknowledging it. “How delightful that you could attend.”
“Mrs. Haversham.” Alastair executed a bow calibrated to convey both respect and supreme unconcern. “Your hospitality is, as always, impeccable.”
Penelope curtsied with perfect grace. “Thank you for including us, ma’am. The assembly rooms look lovely.”
The older woman’s expression softened —though whether from genuine warmth or simple relief that they weren’t going to make a scene, Alastair couldn’t determine.
“You must allow me to introduce you to Colonel Jameson and his wife,” Mrs. Haversham continued, already gesturing towards a cluster of guests near the refreshment table. “They’ve recently returned from India and have the most fascinating stories—”
The introductions followed in rapid succession.
Colonel Jameson proved to be a jovial man with an impressive moustache and a tendency to begin every sentence with “In my experience.” His wife possessed the sort of sharp intelligence that manifested as carefully phrased observations.
Both treated Penelope with polite interest and Alastair with the cautious respect due a duke whose reputation preceded him.
More guests drifted into their orbit as the evening progressed.
Some were genuinely friendly. Others offered courtesy that barely concealed curiosity.
A few—primarily the marriage-minded mamas whose daughters Alastair had spent years avoiding—radiated disapproval so potent he could practically taste it.
Through it all, he remained at Penelope’s side. Closer than strictly necessary. His hand found the small of her back when they moved through the crowd. His body angled towards hers in conversation, a subtle claim of connection that he told himself was purely strategic.
They were presenting a united front. That was all.
“Lady Blackmere.” A new voice, smooth and entirely too pleased with itself. “What a pleasure to see you again.”
Alastair turned to find Geoffrey Thornton offering Penelope a bow that lingered just a fraction too long.
The man was handsome in that aggressively symmetrical way some women found appealing—all golden hair and practised charm, with the comfortable fortune of a younger son who’d never actually had to work for anything.
Alastair had met dozens like him. Usually, he barely registered their existence.
“Mr. Thornton.” Penelope’s smile held polite recognition but nothing more. “I trust you’re well?”
“Exceedingly.” Thornton’s attention remained fixed on her face with the sort of focused interest that made a muscle jump in Alastair’s jaw. “Though I confess I’ve been quite bereft since you left London so suddenly. The season has been decidedly dull without your presence to enliven it.”
Alastair held his breath and balled his fists.
Jealousy was beneath him. He’d made that determination years ago.
Apparently, his body hadn’t received the memorandum.
“How kind of you to say,” Penelope replied, her tone suggesting she found it anything but. “Though I’m certain London has managed to survive my absence.”
“Barely.” Thornton’s smile widened. “In fact, I was just thinking how fortunate His Grace is to have secured such a charming wife. One might even say suspiciously fortunate, given the circumstances—”