Page 51 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“Mama.” Nicholas stepped into her line of sight, deploying the expression he usually reserved for negotiating an extra twenty minutes of reading before bed—brows slightly furrowed, eyes wide and brimming with a desperate, leashed sincerity. “One try, that’s all I’m asking. If it’s dangerous, or if I can’t hold the string, I’ll stop. But you said at Lord Hillsborough’s hunt that I could do things, and this is one of those things.”

“I did not say⁠—”

“You implied it, Mama,” Nicholas countered, his logic as sharp as any arrowhead.

She looked at her son. She saw the genuine excitement that had been vibrating under his skin since breakfast, a meal he had sat through without a single fidget, an act of sheer will designed specifically to earn this moment.

“One try,” she conceded.

Nicholas’s face transformed into sheer joy. “Thank you.” He said it with such gravity that Penelope felt a pang of guilt for her hesitation.

She moved to her designated position at the side of the range, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

Malcolm handed Nicholas the practice bow. He said nothing at first, simply watching the way the boy’s hands found the wood, gauging his natural balance.

Then he moved in. He repositioned Nicholas’ feet. Shoulder-width apart, left foot forward, weight centered. He touched his shoulders to square them, his movements precise and entirely devoid of the roughness the rumors suggested. He adjusted the angle of Nicholas’ draw arm and the tilt of his chin until the boy looked like a miniature statue of Apollo.

Nicholas tried to absorb every instruction at once, his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.

His first shot went wide, missing the target by several feet and burying itself with a dull thud in the earthen bank. He turned to Malcolm immediately, his face flushed but not discouraged, waiting for the verdict.

“Your elbow came up,” Malcolm said. “You were fighting the tension rather than leaning into it. Keep it in line with the arrow. But it is all right, try again.”

The second shot was better. It clipped the wooden edge of the target frame with a sharp crack.

“Better,” Malcolm noted. “Your back foot shifted when you released. Keep your foundation on your next try.”

The third arrow took flight and thudded into the outer blue ring. Nicholas made a small, strangled sound of triumph and started to jump.

“Settle,” Malcolm said, though his voice held a trace of something that wasn’t quite sternness. “It counts for a hit, of course. So, celebrate your victories, but always keep in mind that one can improve. Even I can, and I have been shooting like this for years.”

Penelope stood at the periphery, her arms folded over her chest.

She found herself watching Malcolm more than the target. He moved around Nicholas the way she had seen the finest masters move. Not correcting every flaw at once, which would only overwhelm a child, but choosing the one thing that mattered most and attending to it with singular focus.

He never used the same correction twice; if Nicholas didn’t understand “elbow up,” Malcolm would speak of “leveling the horizon.” He understood that the boy needed to hear the truth in different ways before it could settle into his bones.

Nicholas notched the next arrow. He set his feet without being prompted. He drew, held the tension, and adjusted his own elbow before Malcolm could speak.

He fired.

The arrow hissed through the air and struck the inner red ring, only two hand-spans from the yellow center.

Nicholas spun around, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. He couldn’t contain it this time; his arms went up and he let out a joyful shout that echoed around the grounds of the estate.

Malcolm put one hand on Nicholas’ shoulder. It was a brief contact. A single, firm press of his palm, but the weight of the approval was visible in the way Nicholas straightened.

Malcolm let go and squinted at the target with a critical, appraising eye. “Inner ring. Not bad for a first outing. I believe we can get you to the center by next month.”

Nicholas looked like he had just been handed the keys to a kingdom.

“Your turn,” Malcolm said, his voice nearer now.

Penelope looked up, startled. He was looking directly at her, the bow held out in his hand.

“I appreciate the offer, Your Grace,” she said, her voice regaining its habitual poise. “But I am merely the observer today. Archery is not for ladies.”

“You said the same thing about the riding.”