Page 4 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

The scar on his face was jagged, a silver lightning bolt that began near his temple and dragged down his cheek. It only just tugged at one of those hard eyes that never once looked away from her.

Penelope was standing across from the Duke of Brigrock.

Chapter Two

“So, you’re the one who’s fattened my dog.” The Duke’s voice sliced through the humid night air, low and gravelly, with an edge of amusement.

Penelope’s heart skipped a jagged beat. Every nerve in her body snapped to attention, her muscles locking into a rigid, defensive line. The way he spoke—not with thunderous fury, but with a terrifyingly calm accusation— made her pulse hammer against her throat.

Even as she couldn’t look away, she felt his presence: a masculine energy that seemed to oppose the oxygen in the cottage’s clearing.

It was an energy she had not known for a long time, and now that gaze was assessing her, her son, and the hound that didn’t cower nor whine.

The Duke wasn’t roaring. That was the first thing that registered. Wrong, somehow, against everything she’d braced for. She had expected fury. Instead, there was only that voice, low and almost dry, and his head, cocking to one side as though questioning her as much as she did him.

That was worse.

Penelope stepped in front of Nicholas, her chin tilting upward even as her pulse hammered against her throat.

“I am Lady Romwich,” she replied, her voice coming out sharper than she intended. “And this is my son, Nicholas. I would appreciate it if you would let us return home without delay. Neither of us meant to trespass here⁠—”

“Hector waits for me to feed him!” Nicholas spoke out over her.

Penelope blinked in surprise at his outburst, as if he was trying to say that, yes, he did mean to trespass, and had done it often enough that he thought nothing of it.

Hector, she thought, glancing at the English setter, whose tongue hung out happily.

The Duke took a step forward into the spill of light. He moved with a heavy, predatory grace, his boots crunching slowly on the gravel. He didn’t look at her; his gaze was now fixed on Nicholas, who stood proudly next to her.

Her instincts honed to a lethal point, a lioness ferocity flaring in her chest until it burned.

You should have known better.

What on earth was Nicholas thinking, wandering onto this estate? This was the Duke of Brigrock, the man rumored to have returned from war with a soul as scarred as his face.

This was the man the stable hands spoke of in half-whispers. The man whom ladies whispered about behind their fans, claiming his face would be the reason he would remain a recluse. The man who reportedly did not care that he was a recluse.

And Nicholas had been feeding his dog chicken.

“Nicholas,” the Duke mused, and Penelope tensed further at the reprimand in his voice. “Did you never get taught not to trespass on other people’s lands? Did nobody warn you that you ought not to approach a stranger’s dog? He could have bitten you.”

“Oh, I know he would not have! He really likes me,” Nicholas chirped, stepping out from Penelope’s safety circle. “I even discovered that he is good at sitting, although you must know that. And did you know he prefers the skin to the meat when I feed him?”

Nicholas looked up at the Duke, completely unfazed by the man’s imposing, muscular silhouette. He beamed, his face full of the reckless pride of a child who had made a friend.

Do not speak to him, lay like lead on Penelope’s tongue, but she swallowed them. She merely wanted to escape, but she knew she had to be careful about it.

The Duke’s mouth twitched as though curious. “Does he now?” He looked at Penelope then. His blue-grey eyes traced the disarray of her chocolate-brown hair and the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

“Your son lacks a sense of boundaries, my lady,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “A dangerous trait when wandering into a wolf’s lair.”

“His boundaries are my concern, Your Grace. Not yours,” Penelope answered. Her defensive instincts flared like a physical heat. “I appreciate your concern, but he is only a child with an adventurous heart, and one that caused me great distress, at that.”

The Duke merely looked her over once more, as if taking in that distressed state. Then his eyes flicked to Nicholas, a huff coming from deep in his throat.

“Nicholas,” he addressed, “you will do well to remember that stranger’s dogs aren’t meant to be approached without permission, and trespassing is a dangerous game for a boy your size.”

His eyes flicked back to Penelope then, the weight of his gaze settling on her. It was a piercing, expectant look, as if he were daring her to contradict his authority on his own land.