Page 80 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

Penelope’s fingers flew to his broad shoulders instantly, digging into the fabric as a sharp flash of white-hot heat rushed through her veins so intensely she nearly swayed on her feet.

“God,” she whispered, her eyes tightly shut.

Malcolm looked up at her once, the raw intensity of his gaze nearly undoing her completely. Then his mouth moved higher, his tongue tracing a path of pure fire along her skin.

And Penelope stopped being capable of thought at all, completely drowning in the safe, overwhelming storm of his touch.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Rain threatened all afternoon.

Low, oppressive gray clouds pressed heavily over Brigrock Hall, while a relentless autumn wind rattled the last skeletal leaves against the tall glass windows.

Penelope sat in the morning room, the cozy fire doing little to ease a strange, hollow restlessness in her chest. A piece of cream linen embroidery lay entirely forgotten in her lap. Beside her on the carpet, Nicholas was sitting cross-legged next to Hector, attempting to teach the massive white-and-chestnut hound a series of increasingly questionable tricks.

Penelope’s gaze drifted back toward the rain-streaked window. Malcolm had ridden out shortly after breakfast, accompanied by his estate manager, to inspect several tenant cottages that had been severely damaged by the recent northern storms.

He hadn’t left without a word, though. Before stepping out into the chill morning air, he had pressed a warm, lingering kiss to her forehead, his large hand resting briefly but possessively at the curve of her waist. Nicholas had loudly and dramatically turned his back, pretending to be intensely fascinated by a grandfather clock, though his ears had turned bright pink.

The phantom warmth of Malcolm’s touch still lingered on her skin, sending a delicate shudder through her veins.

Three days. Only three short days had passed since their wedding night, since the terrifying, beautiful storm of his touch had completely undone her.

They were in the quiet, domestic phase of learning one another now, a dance of shifting habits and unspoken rhythms.

Penelope was rapidly memorizing every facet of her new husband. She knew the precise way he impatiently loosened his cravat when a tenant ledger was missing a figure. She knew the way his heavy footsteps would invariably pause outside Nicholas’s bedchamber door every evening, lingering in the dark corridor to listen to the boy’s rhythmic breathing before he finally retired to his own rooms.

Most of all, she was learning the way he touched her now. It was constant, heavy, and seemingly uncontrollable.

Small, absent gestures filled their hours: the brush of his long fingers against her spine while passing behind her chair at breakfast; his lips pressing softly against her temple when handing her a fresh cup of tea; the intoxicating weight of his bare palm settling warm against her knee beneath the linen tablecloth at dinner, holding her there as if he simply could not bear to let her drift too far away.

The door of the morning room clicked open.

A young footman entered, his posture unusually rigid as he carried a polished silver tray. “For you, Your Grace.”

Penelope looked up from her embroidery. A neatly folded parchment note rested beside the fresh tea service.

Nicholas immediately abandoned his post beside Hector and scrambled eagerly to his feet. “Is it a message from Papa?”

“Possibly, darling.”

Penelope reached for the parchment, but as she did, her eyes flicked to the young footman. The boy kept his chin tucked tight to his chest, his eyes lowered far too carefully, his fingers trembling slightly against the edge of the silver tray.

Something small and sharp pricked faintly at her maternal instincts, a sudden ripple in the room’s atmosphere. But before she could question him, Nicholas had already darted forward excitedly, tugging on her dark green silk sleeve.

“Read it aloud, Mama! What does it say?”

Penelope broke the wax seal and opened the note. The handwriting was thick and hurried, the ink slightly smudged, but it bore the familiar, heavy slants of the Duke’s hand.

Penelope,

Meet me at the old glasshouse near the south gardens. I need to speak with you before I return to the main house. Bring Nicholas.

M

Her elegant brows drew together in slight confusion. “The glasshouse?” she murmured under her breath.

Nicholas brightened instantly, bouncing on his heels. “Can we go, Mama? Can we?”