Chapter 14 #2
Alastair’s hand moved before conscious thought directed it, settling possessively at Penelope’s waist.
“Indeed,” he said pleasantly, though his smile made Thornton’s fade. “Suspiciously fortunate describes it precisely. I cannot imagine what I did to deserve such luck. Can you?”
The implied threat hung in the air between them—subtle enough to maintain plausible deniability, clear enough that only an idiot would miss it.
Thornton’s smile became fixed. “Quite right, Your Grace. I meant no offence.”
“Of course not.” Alastair’s hand remained at Penelope’s waist, warm and claiming and utterly inappropriate for polite company. “If you’ll excuse us, I believe the next set is forming.”
He steered her away before Thornton could formulate a response, cutting through the crowd with practised ease. It wasn’t until they’d reached the relative privacy of the edge of the ballroom that he realised what he’d done.
His hand fell away as though the contact had scalded him.
“I apologise,” he said rather stiffly, his voice becoming far too formal. “That was presumptuous.”
Penelope looked up at him, her expression unreadable in the shifting candlelight. “Was it?”
“We agreed to maintain—” He paused, searching for the right words and finding only inadequate ones. “Distance. Propriety. I should not have—”
“Defended me from an impossible man making veiled insinuations about our marriage?” She tilted her head slightly. “I believe that falls well within the bounds of presenting a united front, Your Grace.”
He should have felt good about her words, he supposed. He did not.
Because defending her hadn’t been strategic. It had been instinctive, visceral, driven by something far heavier than concern for appearances.
The orchestra struck up a waltz.
“Dance with me,” he said impulsively and her eyes widened .
“Dance with you? Now?”
“Indeed.” He offered his hand and smiled. “We’re meant to be convincing, are we not?”
For a heartbeat, he thought she might refuse. Then her gloved fingers settled into his palm, and he led her onto the floor before either of them could reconsider.
He was aware of her. All too aware of her, he realised as he looked at the porcelain skin so close to him.
They began to move, and Alastair discovered that years of muscle memory could carry a man through the steps whilst his mind was entirely elsewhere.
Specifically, his mind was occupied with the precise curve of her waist beneath his palm, the faint scent of roses that clung to her hair, the way candlelight caught in her eyes and turned them gold.
“You’re very quiet,” Penelope observed.
“Am I?” He forced his usual insouciance into his tone. “Merely concentrating. It’s been some time since I’ve danced.”
“Liar.” But there was no heat in the accusation, only something that might have been amusement. “You move as though the steps are second nature.”
“Training from childhood,” he admitted. “My mother was quite insistent that a duke’s son master all the social graces. Even the ones he’d rather avoid.”
“Truly? You wanted to avoid them?”
“For as long as possible.” They turned, and he tightened his hold to steady her. The contact sang through his nerves. “I found actual combat significantly less complicated than navigating a ballroom.”
“Because the rules are clearer?”
“Because the weapons are visible.” The admission emerged before he could stop it. “In a ballroom, everyone’s armed and pretending they’re not.”
Her gaze found his, and he saw understanding there. “Yet you’ve spent years in them anyway.”
“It seemed easier than the alternative.” The music swelled around them, other couples spinning past in flashes of colour and jewels. “If you’re going to be talked about regardless, you might as well control the narrative.”
“Is that what we’re doing now?” Her voice was quiet enough that he had to lean closer to hear it. “Controlling the narrative?”
Closer. Too close. He could see the precise shade of her eyes now, the faint dusting of freckles across her nose that powder couldn’t quite conceal, the way her lips parted slightly as though she was about to say something else.
“I’m not certain,” he admitted, and knew it for the most honest thing he’d said all evening.
The waltz ended.
Around them, couples broke apart with practised ease, already turning towards new partners or retreating to the refreshment tables. The orchestra paused, preparing for the next set.
It felt as though it was over too quicky, and at the same time he was certain that it had lasted forever. At last, Alastair stepped back, bowing with mechanical precision whilst his pulse thundered in his ears.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Grace.”
Penelope curtsied, her composure flawless save for the colour high on her cheekbones. “The pleasure was mine, Your Grace.”
He offered his arm, and she accepted it with the same careful grace she’d employed all evening. They moved through the crowd as the next set formed, exchanging pleasantries with other guests, maintaining the performance of a united, unbothered couple.