Page 61 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“And yet you still dance with me.” His voice dropped lower, a rough whisper meant only for her. “And you have not once asked me to let you go.”

Her stomach twisted with a fierce, terrifying hunger.

The music began too quickly. Penelope suddenly wished it would continue for another hour, keeping them locked in this small, private world.

Malcolm’s hand lingered at her waist a fraction too long when the dance ended, his fingers pressing into her skin before he reluctantly stepped back.

People around them resumed talking immediately, though Penelope felt oddly unsteady, as though she had stepped off a moving carriage.

Malcolm bowed. “Thank you for the dance.”

She managed a small nod.

He studied her one moment longer, his eyes burning, before his attention shifted toward someone across the room. “I must speak with Benedict before he gets accosted by every debutante in this ballroom.”

“That may already be too late.”

A rough sound of amusement escaped him. Then he turned and was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

Penelope stood still for several seconds, trying unsuccessfully to slow her shallow breathing until her friend approached her again.

“Well,” Violet said, appearing at her elbow, “that looked rather intimate.”

“Hush.”

“You were staring at him as though he were dessert.”

“Violet.”

Amelia fanned herself dramatically from behind them. “I may require a glass of lemonade after witnessing that. Several glasses.”

Penelope turned away before they could see how warm her face had become.

“I need air. Excuse me, ladies,” she whispered.

She moved toward the edge of the ballroom, needing space. Anything to quiet the frantic pounding in her chest.

She had barely reached the dim corridor when a hand closed sharply around her upper arm. Penelope jerked in surprise, pain shooting through her muscles. She turned.

Charles.

Ice flooded her stomach. He looked terrible. His face was flushed dark with anger, his jaw tight beneath carefully trimmed whiskers. His grip bit through her silk sleeve, bruising.

“You,” he said quietly, his teeth clicking together, “will come with me.”

Penelope pulled her arm back at once, but his fingers clamped tighter. “What are you doing here?”

“You seem disappointed.”

“You wrote to say that you had gone to Scotland.”

“I changed my mind.” His eyes flicked toward the ballroom doors behind her. Toward Malcolm. Rage flashed openly across his features. “Now,” he said again.

People lingered nearby in the corridor, her spine stiffening, her pride rising. “If you make a scene…”

“You are hardly in a position to lecture me about propriety after what I just witnessed.”

Her cheeks burned instantly. “Lower your voice.”