Page 56 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“Excellent.” Benedict smiled. “You know, it is permitted. Enjoying oneself. It will not kill you, even if it feels like it might.”

“I enjoy myself.”

“She’s a remarkable woman, Malcolm.” Benedict’s voice lost its edge of mischief, turning genuine and careful. He looked at his friend directly. “She’s had a hard time of it. She’s not what the gossips say she is. And neither are you.”

A heavy silence followed, filled only by the muffled roar of London beyond the walls.

Malcolm looked at the ground. “I’m coming to the ball,” he repeated.

“I know.” Benedict stood, clasped him once on the shoulder, and let go. “Now come inside.”

Malcolm followed him toward the house. In the back of his mind, quietly and without his permission, the image settled:

Penelope in candlelight, her chin lifted in that defiant way she had, her eyes the particular honey-brown he had started noticing in the same involuntary way a sailor notices the tide.

“There are so many horses!”

Nicholas had his face pressed against the carriage window, both hands framing his eyes against the glass to see past the glare. They had been inside the city limits for twenty minutes, and he had not sat back once.

“There are always many horses in London, Nicholas,” Penelope said, her voice amused.

“Not like this. Look!” He turned briefly, his eyes wide. “There are three just standing there waiting, and two more coming around that corner. And that one is white. Have you ever seen a horse that white in the countryside?”

Penelope watched him rather than the street. He had been transformed the moment they crossed the eastern toll, his energy shifting from its usual enthusiasm into a sustained, wide-eyed wonder. Every corner was a revelation; every stretch of street had a vendor or a crossing sweeper or a building that required an immediate, breathless commentary.

“Mama! That building is enormous. Which one is that?”

“I don’t know that one, darling. Perhaps a livery stable or a warehouse.”

“Why are there so many signs? Look at that one, it is a giant boot!”

“Because there are many shops, and people need to know what they sell.”

“Can we go to the shops? The one with the giant boot?”

“Within reason, Nicholas.”

He accepted that.

Penelope sat with her hands folded in her lap and looked at the slice of London visible past her son’s shoulder.

She had not been to the city in a while. She had left it with the deliberate intention of burying her past, and she had largely succeeded. If success meant a quiet life and a mind that didn’t dwell on the coldness of her marriage or the sharp tongues of the ton.

What she had not accounted for was the feeling of returning. It felt like stepping back into a dress that no longer fit.

The carriage slowed as they entered the dignified streets of Mayfair. Violet’s townhouse was a pale stone facade, composed and assured. Nicholas was on his feet before the wheels had even stopped.

“Nicholas, wait until we have stopped.”

He waited exactly until the carriage came to a halt, then opened the door himself.

“That is for the footman to do,” Penelope scolded gently as she descended.

She found him standing on the pavement, head tilted back as he cataloged the height of the house. He had his hands clasped behind him in an unconscious imitation of a much older man.

The door opened before they reached the top step.

“You’re here!” Violet appeared in the doorway, a vision in pale yellow silk. Her hair was slightly escaped from its pins, and her face was lit with genuine pleasure. She flew down the steps and took Penelope’s hands. “I’ve been watching the street for an hour.”