Chapter 15
“You’re brooding.”
Penelope glanced up from her embroidery, the needle suspended mid-stitch.
Alastair stood in the doorway of the drawing room, one shoulder propped against the frame.
The candlelight caught the sharp planes of his face, transforming him into something between angel and devil—though she suspected he’d claim the latter with considerable pride.
“I am not brooding,” she said, returning her attention to the hopeless tangle of silk thread in her lap. “I am concentrating.”
“On what? Torturing that poor fabric into submission?” He moved into the room without invitation. “You’ve been stabbing at it for the past quarter hour as though it personally offended you.”
She had, actually. The realisation made her fingers still.
The house was almost eerily quiet. The servants had gone home.
Rose had been asleep for hours—a small miracle that still felt too fragile to trust entirely.
And now here she sat, alone with her husband who was not truly her husband, attempting to appear as composed as possible whilst her pulse performed acrobatics.
“I enjoy embroidery,” she lied.
“You loathe embroidery.” Alastair settled into the chair opposite hers with the fluid grace of a cat claiming territory. “You told me so yourself last week. Something about it being a pointless exercise designed to keep women’s hands busy whilst men made all the interesting decisions.”
Blast. She had said that, hadn’t she? During one of those treacherous moments when his company had felt almost... comfortable.
“Perhaps I’ve reconsidered my position.”
“Or perhaps you’re avoiding going to bed because you’re afraid of what you’ll dream about.”
The needle slipped. A bright bead of blood welled on her fingertip.
“You presume too much, Your Grace.” She set the embroidery aside with careful deliberation, refusing to let him see that he’d struck too close to truth.
Every night since the assembly, since that waltz, since the carriage ride home where she’d declared they could not do that again—whatever that was—her dreams had been full of eyes and the phantom pressure of his hand at her waist.
She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
Alastair leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and studied her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “You know what I think?”
“I’m certain you’re about to tell me regardless of whether I wish to know.”
“I think you’re wasted in such serious gowns.”
The observation landed like a stone tossed into still water. Penelope blinked, momentarily robbed of response. Of all the things she’d expected him to say—another tease about her embroidery, perhaps, or some quip about her retiring early—this was decidedly not among them.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your gowns.” He gestured vaguely at the silk dress she wore, high-necked and utterly proper. “They’re so... dutiful. As though you’ve appointed yourself guardian of respectability itself.”
Heat crept up her neck. “Some of us take our responsibilities seriously.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt of that.” His smile was lazy. “But tell me, duchess—do you ever tire of performing virtue? Of being so relentlessly proper that even your clothes are afraid of causing scandal?”
“My clothes are perfectly appropriate for—”
“For a woman who has decided she must never be looked at too closely.” He tilted his head, his smile deepening. “Which is a terrible shame, really. Society would be far more dangerous if you ever decided to use your beauty against it.”
The words struck her in a painful manner. She gripped the arm of her chair, willing herself to remain perfectly still, perfectly calm. This was what he did—wielded compliments like daggers.
“Your compliments are rehearsed, Your Grace.” Though she did not know how, she managed to keep her voice cool. “And utterly meaningless. I suspect you’ve deployed that exact line on half the women in London.”
“Have I?” He didn’t seem remotely offended. If anything, his expression suggested he found her accusation amusing. “And here I thought I was being rather original.”
“You were not.”
“Then allow me to try again.” He rose from his chair with fluid grace, moving to the sideboard where a decanter of brandy waited. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Pity. You might find it loosens that stranglehold you have on propriety.” He poured himself a generous measure, the amber liquid catching the firelight. Penelope folded her arms. “I happen to have been raised to understand propriety and duty. And I believe that you have had enough already.”
He took another slow, languid sip. “Where was I? Ah yes—convincing you that I’m not simply deploying tired flattery.”
The liquid, she feared, had loosened his tongue somewhat, and she shifted in her discomfort at this version of him.
“A task at which you are failing spectacularly.”
“Am I?” He turned back to her, glass in hand and her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of his expression.
The teasing edge remained, but underneath it lurked something sharper.
“Let me be clear, then. When I tell you that you’re beautiful, it is not because I’ve rehearsed the words or because I’m attempting to seduce you for sport.
It is because you are. And the tragedy—the absolute waste—is that you seem utterly determined not to notice. ”
Her fingers had gone numb. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Indeed?” He took a slow sip of brandy, his gaze never leaving hers. “Tell me something, Penelope. When was the last time someone looked at you and saw past the duty? Past the self-sacrifice and the endless propriety? When last did someone look at you and truly see all that you are?”
She was not breathing. Could not breathe. Where had this come from? Was he toying with her once more? No one had ever noticed, or at the very least mentioned, her duty-bound existence. “Stop.”
“Why? Because it makes you uncomfortable? Or because some small part of you wants to believe it might be true?”
“Because it’s cruel.” The words escaped before she could stop them.
“You speak of beauty and charm and as though it means something when we both know that it does not. This is what you do. This is your reputation, your entire manner of being. You charm and tease and make women feel—” She cut herself off, horrified at how close she’d come to confessing something unforgivable.
“Feel what?” His voice had gone quiet. Dangerous in an entirely different way.
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“It clearly matters a great deal.”
“What matters is that I am not one of your conquests, Your Grace. I am your wife in name only, and I will not be swayed by pretty words that you’ve perfected over years of practice.”
Silence stretched between them, taut as a violin string.
Alastair set down his glass, then crossed the space between them in three measured strides.
He stopped just short of improper, close enough that she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight stubble along his jaw that suggested he hadn’t bothered to shave before dinner.
“You are wrong,” he said softly.
“About what?”
“About everything.” He crouched down so they were eye level, making it impossible to look anywhere except directly into his eyes.
“You think my compliments are rehearsed? That I’ve said these things to half of London?
I have not. I’ve told you that you’re beautiful because watching you with that baby is something akin to holiness.
I’ve told you that your gowns are wasted because I cannot help but wonder what you would look like if you ever allowed yourself to wear beautiful colours, garments that would make you feel as fair as you truly are. ”
Her heart was attempting to beat its way free of her ribcage. “You’re being absurd.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m simply being honest.” He looked at her directly and she attempted to swallow, though her throat was far too dry to make it entirely possible. “You think me a rake. That I am performing charm… but I find myself entirely too honest in your presence.”
The confession hung between them.
“Tell me,” he said at last, his voice suddenly clearer. “What do you want?”
The answer escaped her lips. “Peace. Quiet. Just… I suppose, a simple life. One without… society.” She blushed furiously as her lips involuntarily admitted it, though she did not pay it too much mind. It was not, she thought, as though he would remember much in the morning.
Penelope’s mind scrambled for purchase, for some clever retort or cutting dismissal that would restore the safe distance they’d maintained. Nothing came. Only the thundering awareness of how close he was.
“You should go,” she managed finally. “It’s late.”
Alastair studied her for a long moment, not a word leaving his lips. Then he rose, stepped back, and executed a bow so precise it bordered on mockery.
“As you wish, duchess. Though for what it’s worth—” He paused at the doorway, glancing back with an expression she couldn’t decipher.
“If I were truly trying to charm you, to seduce you, you would know it. This? This is merely honesty. And I suspect that frightens you far more than any rehearsed flattery ever could.”
He left.
Penelope remained perfectly still, listening to his footsteps retreat down the corridor, then climb the stairs to his separate chambers. The fire crackled. The clock on the mantel ticked. The embroidery lay forgotten in her lap, a hopeless tangle of silk and failed concentration.
Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.
She was not some green girl to be swept away by a rake’s pretty words.
She knew better. Knew him better—or thought she did.
This was Alastair Reed, the Duke of Blackmere, London’s most notorious libertine.
The man whose reputation preceded him into every ballroom, whose name was synonymous with scandal and careless pleasure.
Except.
Except he’d been nothing but honourable since their marriage.
Maintained every promise, kept every boundary.
Had held that baby with surprising competence and argued with her in whispers so as not to wake the child.
Had danced with her at the assembly not because he wanted to create a scene, but because he’d noticed she was uncomfortable and sought to ease it.
Penelope stood abruptly, abandoning the embroidery entirely. She needed sleep. Rest. Distance from this evening and the way his voice had softened when he’d called her beautiful.
She pressed her hand to her chest, willing her heart to cease its rebellion.