Page 34 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

Benedict leaned forward, his shadow dancing long and jagged against the wall behind him.

“You came here in the mood you are in, sat down with that face, and haven’t said a useful word in forty minutes. We are discussing something tonight. It might as well be the thing that’s actually on your mind.”

Malcolm looked toward the far wall. Two men were deep in a card argument, their voices rising and settling in a comfortable, rhythmic growl.

“She came to my estate,” he said finally, the words forced out through a tight jaw. “This morning—to tell me to stay away from the boy.”

Benedict said nothing, but his eyebrows moved up and stayed there, arched in silent commentary.

“We argued.”

“And?”

A long, heavy pause stretched between them, filled only by the crackle of the fire.

“Ah,” Benedict said softly.

He had the decency not to smile, but his eyes danced with a sudden, sharp clarity. He lifted his glass, finished it in one long pull, and set it down. “Well,” he said. “That’s something.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Brigrock.”

“It was a mistake.”

Benedict nodded slowly, the gesture of a man who had noted a statement without believing a word of it. He signaled to the barkeep for another round.

They drank in silence for a time as the tavern settled into its later, looser hour. The fire dropped to a glowing bed of embers.

Malcolm turned his glass in a slow circle, watching the light catch the liquid. He kept his eyes on the table, fighting the memory of the exact expression on Penelope’s face in the half-second before she had pulled back. The way her lips had looked, swollen and parted in surprise.

Just then, two women arrived at their table. They stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the lamplight, reading the table and the men sitting at it in a single, expert glance. One was dark-haired and sharp-eyed; the other was fair. Both were young. Both were looking for a way to pass the night.

“Good evening.” The dark-haired one settled a hand on the back of Benedict’s chair, her fingers trailing lightly over the wood. “You look like men with stories worth hearing.”

Benedict looked up, and the grin that broke across his face was genuine and effortless. “Sit down and find out.”

The fair one took the chair beside Malcolm. She was pretty in a direct, uncomplicated way, her smile open and without the baggage of expectations.

“Navy men?” the dark-haired one asked, her voice a low purr.

“What gave us away?” Benedict asked.

“The way you hold yourselves. Men who’ve served carry the sea in their shoulders. Even sitting still.” She tilted her head, her gaze lingering on Benedict’s weathered face. “How long?”

“Three years in the Channel squadron.” Benedict leaned in, already settling into the best part of his evening. “Atlantic Coast to the Mediterranean. Action enough to last a lifetime.”

“You’ve earned something for that,” she whispered.

“That,” Benedict said, casting a brief, unapologetic glance at Malcolm, “is very nearly exactly what I was thinking. Don’t wait up.”

He stood, pushed back his chair with a cheerful scrape of wood on stone, and walked toward the back of the tavern. The dark-haired woman went with him, her hip brushing his as they moved.

The fair one watched them go, then turned her full attention back to Malcolm. She rested her arm along the table near his, her skin pale against the dark, scarred wood. She was close enough that he could smell the faint scent of lavender water and the simple, human warmth of her.

“And you?” she said. “You’ve been quiet all evening.”

“I’m usually quiet,” Malcolm answered plainly.