“This is necessary,” she muttered , making her way down the hallway so that she may intercept him outside his chambers. “It is only natural for a wife to worry when her husband returns home at an hour like this.”
Moments later, Alexander emerged from the top of the stairs. Penelope rehearsed in her head exactly what she would say to him, but he did not even notice her there at first. She noticedthat he seemed to be exerting great effort in trying to lug himself up the stairs. As he reached for the banister, his face twisted into a wince.
Suddenly, the script Penelope had rehearsed in her head went flying out the window. She rushed over to him.
“Your Grace,” she said, worry lines creasing her forehead. “Is everything all right with you?”
Alexander noticed her then. Immediately, he made an effort to stand up straighter than before.
“Yes, I am fine,” he said quickly, retreating his hand from the banister as he stepped into the hallway. “Why are you awake at this hour?”
Alexander was a bad liar. Penelope ignored his question, and instead made a move to take his hand into her own. He was not quick enough to pull it away in time.
“Let me see,” she insisted and then gasped as she noticed the bruises on his knuckles. They had turned a shade of dark purple, indicating whatever injury he had incurred was fairly recent. At her reaction, he quickly withdrew his hand from her grasp and stuffed it inside his pocket.
As though putting it away would make the problem disappear. Out of sight, and out of mind.
“Your Grace,” she said in a low voice, “why is your knuckle bruised? What were you doing before coming home? You must tell me, immediately.”
His expression made it abundantly clear that he did not appreciate her questioning. Drawing in a sigh, he turned towards her.
“It’s nothing,” he stated decisively. “I got into a small accident at the club. One particular gentleman had drank more than his share, and was being a nuisance.”
“And so you decided to be the one to take care of it?” Penelope’s eyes widened. “Why did you not let Fergus and Lewis handle the matter?”
Alexander flicked the wrist of his good hand in a dismissive gesture. “Duchess, you really ought to not bother me at this time of night. There is nothing to worry about, and you should return to your chambers.”
He began walking towards his own chambers, but Penelope followed him in.
“I am not going anywhere,” she insisted with a stubbornness that she had all but perfected over the years. “It is clear to me that you are in need of care .”
“I have dealt with worse,” he said, nonchalantly. “Really, a bruised knuckle is not worth losing sleep over.”
“That might have held true before you married me,” Penelope pressed her lips together. “But I cannot in good conscience stand here and do nothing when you’re injured. Please, stay put and I will return in a moment.”
She made him sit down on one of the sofas, and then hurriedly exited the room. A part of her wondered if he would take this chance to not let her back in again. But when she returned a few moments later, armed with some healing herbs and bandages, she found the door slightly ajar.
For all his outward bravado, it seemed that the duke did not mind the concern after all. Or he would have slammed the door shut.
“Really, this is quite unnecessary,” he said warily, eyeing the supplies that she had brought in. Still, he made no effort to stop her.
“It is the bare minimum,” Penelope said, already preparing the herb concoction by mashing a mix of dried leaves together. An aromatic scent filled the air as she did, and Alexander scrunched his nose.
“This reminds me of my childhood,” he muttered . “My governess would make the same mixture.”
“And do you think you are somehow more immune to injury now than you were back then?” Penelope raised an eyebrow, and gestured at the empty space between them on the sofa. “Please put your hand here.”
“Perhaps not,” he said, thoughtfully, “But I am not used to people fussing over me.”
Penelope paused for a second at the statement, before resuming her process of putting on the herbal ointment over his knuckles. He winced slightly at the contact.
“I promise I’ll be gentle,” she said softly. “And fussing is not the right word to use. I would rather use the word concern.”
“You are concerned for me?” he asked. Penelope could feel his gaze on her as she worked, making her cheeks warm in response. She hoped that he wouldn’t notice.
“Should I not be?” she said, rubbing the mixture in between the grooves of his knuckles. “Anyone would be, if they see someone walk in looking as though they have attempted to skin their knuckles down to the bone.”
“You’re dramatic,” he chuckled softly. “And he had it coming for him. I do not tolerate misbehavior.”
