Page 17 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

He didn’t want to feel this way. It wasn’t just lust; it was something deeper, something he couldn’t quite name. He wanted to be near her, to see what lay behind those guarded eyes.

Damn it.

“Fine,” he growled. “I shall go,” he said finally, his voice rougher than he intended. Just as Benedict’s face lit up, Malcolm held up a hand. “But not because of her. Hector and I could do with the exercise. The hunt will be good for him. And for me.”

Benedict snorted, clearly unconvinced.

“Certainly, exercise. Whatever you say, Brigrock.” His grin was obvious, but Malcolm refused to rise to the bait.

Malcolm’s thoughts, however, betrayed him. The thought of seeing her again, it clung to him, lingering like smoke.

What if he saw that hint of vulnerability he’d caught a glimpse of before? What if she let her guard down, even just for a moment? What if…?

He mentally shook himself.

This is foolish.

“I will go for the exercise, Benedict,” he said again, this time with finality. “But that’s all.”

Benedict raised his glass in a mock salute. “Of course, old friend. Exercise it is.”

Malcolm’s mind, however, was already elsewhere. On a woman he couldn’t seem to forget, no matter how hard he tried.

His thoughts went back to what he would do when he saw Lady Romwich again.

Chapter Six

The morning sunlight spilled across the polished oak of the breakfast table in Romwich Hall, turning the steam rising from the tea service into shifting, translucent gold ribbons.

Penelope sat perfectly still, her spine a rigid line against the velvet upholstery of her chair.

Across from her, Nicholas sat with his shoulders hunched toward his ears, his small frame radiating a heavy, silent gloom. He systematically shredded a piece of crust into a pile of pale, jagged crumbs, his gaze fixed downward on the intricate patterns of the table linens as if they held some secret map of escape.

“Nicholas,” Penelope began. Her voice was soft, barely a murmur, but it carried a fine tremor she couldn’t quite smooth away. She reached for the teapot, her fingers brushing the silver handle. “You cannot keep running off to His Grace’s estate. I understand Hector is your friend, but you cannot keep doing this. It is dangerous, and he is losing his temper with us both when it happens. It is unfair to him, and to me.”

Nicholas’ posture snapped into a rigid, defensive line. “I’m not doing anything wrong,” he muttered, the words coming out quiet and sad as he used his spoon to push the shredded toast into a messy heap. “I was only playing with Hector.”

Penelope took a slow, measured breath, pressing her knees together under the table to stop them from shaking.

“I know, darling.” She kept her voice steady, though her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. “But Hector belongs to the Duke. You cannot just run off there whenever you wish. It is inappropriate, and not to mention that you have been told you are not welcome there.”

She tried to soften her voice at Nicholas’ angry little pout, but it was true. The Duke had made himself clear.

Nicholas’s brow furrowed, a deep crease appearing between his eyes as his lower lip protruded in a sharp, trembling pout.

“It is not fair,” he said, his voice rising with a sudden, jagged edge of frustration. “There is no one else to play with, and you know how lonely I get!” He gestured vaguely toward the window, where the vast, empty countryside stretched toward the horizon. “All I do is study with Mr. Calloway. I don’t have any fun.”

Penelope felt the guilt pierce her, a sharp physical ache in the center of her chest.

She reached for her tea, wanting the warmth, but her hand shook so noticeably that she pulled it back into her lap. She hid her trembling fingers in the heavy, silk folds of her skirts, her nails biting into the palms of her hands.

“Life is not always about having fun, Nicholas,” she said. “I am not trying to punish you. I am only trying to keep you safe and follow His Grace’s direct orders.”

She tried to inject a firmness into her tone, the kind of authority a Dowager Countess should wield, but the words felt hollow and thin in the quiet room.

Nicholas pushed back from the table, the chair legs screeching harshly against the polished floorboards with a sound that made Penelope wince. He threw his linen napkin down; it landed like a crumpled white flag of surrender in the center of the table.

“I do not care!” he cried, his voice cracking with the onset of tears he refused to let fall. “I cannot play with Hector, and I cannot play with anyone else. I don’t even have anyone to talk to except you and Mr. Calloway! And you will not go on adventures or run around with me.”