Page 67 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

Charles blinked, his bloody mouth dropping open. “What?”

Malcolm’s voice did not rise. It remained flat, hard, and terrifyingly steady. “Lady Romwich is my fiancée.”

Penelope turned toward him slowly, her eyes wide and completely stunned. “Your Grace…”

He did not look at her. If he looked at her now, he might see refusal. Or confusion. He could not afford either.

Charles stared at him for three long seconds, then let out a harsh scoff. “That is absurd. You expect me to believe that rubbish?”

“I do not care a damn what you believe.”

Charles’s face tightened, his nostrils flaring. “You cannot simply announce an engagement in a dark room because it suits your purposes.”

“I can.”

“Without her consent?”

Malcolm finally shifted his gaze to Penelope. Her honey-brown eyes searched his face, frantic and breathless. He held her look, pinning her with the sheer intensity of his stare.

“Lady Romwich,” he said quietly, his voice softening just enough for her ears, “will you permit me to make this true?”

Her lips parted, her chest heaving against her bodice.

Charles snapped, “Do not answer him, Penelope!”

Malcolm did not move an inch.

Penelope’s breathing shook the silk of her gown. She looked from Malcolm’s scarred, steady face to Charles’s blood-stained, frantic features. Her fingers were still trembling against the wood, but her chin lifted a fraction.

“You would do that? For us?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The question struck harder than either blow he had dealt Charles.

Because your son laughed in my garden. Because you look ready to break into a thousand pieces and you still stand between him and the world. Because I have been a dead man for years and you make me remember the shape of wanting.

He said none of it.

Instead, his gaze darkened with absolute possessiveness. “Because he cannot have you.”

Charles barked a wet laugh. “How touching. How noble.”

Penelope swallowed hard. Her eyes closed for one agonizing second. When they opened, the tears were still there, but the panic had cleared into something solid.

“Yes,” she whispered. “His Grace is my betrothed, Charles.”

Charles’s smug smile vanished instantly.

Malcolm turned back to the man, his broad chest blocking Penelope from view entirely. “There,” he said. “Now you have your answer.”

Charles’s face had turned an ugly, mottled red. “You think this charade changes anything?”

“It changes everything.”

“No chancery court will be impressed by a sudden engagement made in a locked room after an assault.”