Page 65 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

Charles lifted his chin, smoothing his waistcoat in a desperate bid for dignity. “This is a family matter.”

Malcolm crossed the room in three predatory strides and struck him.

The blow landed with a sickening, heavy crack across Charles’s jaw.

Charles reeled sideways, his boots leaving the floor. He crashed hard into a velvet armchair, his arm flailing to catch the edge of a mahogany side table before he could collapse entirely. A delicate porcelain figurine toppled from the tier, shattering into a dozen white shards on the carpet.

Penelope gasped, a hand flying to her chest. “Malcolm!”

Charles remained bent over, one hand braced heavily on the table, the other pressed flat against his mouth. Bright crimson blood began to ooze between his pale fingers.

Malcolm did not look away. He stood over him, his broad shoulders squared, his breathing perfectly controlled.

“Threaten her again,” he said, his voice a low, lethal vibration, “and I shall not stop with one.”

Charles spat a mouthful of blood onto Benedict’s fine carpet and laughed. The sound came out wet and choked. “You fool.”

Malcolm took another step forward.

Charles held up one bloody hand, still smiling through his split lip. “No, by all means. Strike me again, Your Grace. Bruise me, break a tooth, if you like. Every mark you leave on my flesh will be useful.”

The remaining color drained from Penelope’s face.

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Useful?”

“Oh, exceedingly.”

Charles straightened up slowly, wincing as his fingers brushed his swelling jaw. “A duke caught alone in a closed room with my late brother’s widow. A widow whose gown is rumpled, whose eyes are full of tears, whose reputation has survived only because I’ve protected it. Until now.”

Penelope’s breath caught hard in her throat. Malcolm heard the small, wounded sound.

Charles’s eyes darted past him, a predatory gleam in them as he looked at her. “There now. You understand the consequences, Penelope.”

“Do not look at her,” Malcolm growled, stepping into his path.

Charles turned his bloodied face back to him. “Why not? She is the lovely subject of this charming little scandal. They will think Lady Romwich has become the Duke of Brigrock’s mistress.”

Penelope made a small, choked sound of horror.

Malcolm’s entire upper body locked. Charles watched the hit land, his cruel smile sharpening as he pressed the blade deeper.

“They will think she has taken up with a violent recluse who cannot keep his hands to himself. They will think she has brought a monster near her innocent son. They will decide she has no judgment. No modesty. No restraint.”

“Charles,” Penelope whispered, her voice breaking. “Please.”

Malcolm turned to her at once.

She was gripping the edge of the writing desk behind her so hard her knuckles were white. Her other hand had slipped down to her middle, pressing flat against her stomach as though she were physically holding herself together.

Charles’s grin widened. “Yes, Penelope. Plead. That becomes you far better than defiance.”

Malcolm lunged toward him again.

Charles scrambled backward, nearly tripping over the overturned chair, but his mouth kept working. “Careful, Your Grace. The more savage you appear, the better my case looks to the barristers.”

Penelope shook her head wildly, her eyes locked on her brother-in-law. “Do not do this. Please. You cannot take Nicholas from me.”

Malcolm looked down at her fingers. They were trembling against the dark mahogany of the desk. Not faintly. The lace at her cuff was quivering with the violent force of her shuddering breaths.