Page 77 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

Malcolm hid a look of suspicious amusement behind his wineglass, his dark eyes glittering with mirth. Penelope narrowed her eyes across the table, aiming her sharpest maternal glare at her new husband.

“Do not dare encourage him, Malcolm.”

“I have said nothing, my Duchess.”

Nicholas snorted so hard at that he nearly inhaled a piece of crust. Penelope stared at both of them in mock disbelief, throwing her hands up slightly. “This is what I shall have to contend with now, is it? The two of you allied against me?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said calmly, taking a slow sip of his wine.

Nicholas nodded. “You are outnumbered, Mama.”

Penelope tried to keep her stern expression intact, but she failed entirely. A bright, genuine smile broke across her face. The sheer warmth in the room surprised her. It wasn’t grand or formal or rigid like the dinners of her past. It was just warm.

The comforting scrape of silverware. Nicholas talking endlessly about horses, hounds, and future hunting expeditions. Malcolm listening to the boy’s ramblings.

There was no knot of cold dread beneath Penelope’s ribs tonight. No waiting for the sound of sharp, heavy, erratic footsteps in the corridor outside. No calculating, venomous glances from Charles.

There was only candlelight, easy laughter, and the steady patter of rain against the windows.

Later that evening, after Nicholas had finally been coaxed upstairs to bed and Hector had followed him with mournful, heavy-pawed devotion, Penelope stood alone in her new chambers.

Her chambers—a wife’s chambers.

Candles flickered softly across the unfamiliar, elegant furniture. Someone had already unpacked her traveling trunks; her silk and velvet gowns hung neatly in the wardrobe. Her silver-backed brushes rested beside the vanity mirror exactly as they used to at Romwich Hall. But everything smelled completely different here.

Cedarwood. Fresh rain. And faintly, underneath it all, the dark, intoxicating scent of Malcolm.

Her stomach fluttered unexpectedly at the realization, a sudden spike of heat tracing down her spine. She removed her diamond earrings slowly, watching her own reflection in the glass.

Wife.

The word still startled her, a title she had never thought to bear with anything resembling peace.

A sharp, low knock sounded at the door. Her pulse jumped instantly.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and Malcolm entered quietly. He had already removed his formal evening coat and waistcoat; the pristine white linen of his shirt stretched tightly across his broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up once at his thick forearms, revealing the dark hair and powerful muscles there.

Penelope suddenly forgot entirely what she had intended to say. Her mouth went dry.

He closed the door firmly behind him but did not approach her immediately, keeping a respectful distance near the threshold. “I wished to see whether you were settled comfortably tonight.”

“That is very civilized of you, my Duke.”

“I am attempting civilization for your sake.”

The corner of her mouth lifted in a soft smile. He looked tired tonight. Not physically—the man looked as strong as iron—but it was an older, heavier weariness. The shadows beneath his dark eyes seemed deeper in the flickering candlelight.

A heavy silence settled over the room. It wasn’t awkward, but it was weighted with an undeniable, suffocating awareness.

Malcolm walked toward the fire at last, bracing one large, calloused hand briefly against the stone mantelpiece. Penelope watched the movement carefully. She could see the rigid tension in his broad back.

Something was wrong.

“What is it, Malcolm?” she asked quietly, stepping closer.

He stared into the dancing orange flames for several long moments before answering, his jaw tight.