Page 21 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

He turned back to her, his eyes narrowing as his gaze traveled from her hem to her brow. His hand drifted toward hers on the terrace railing, a subtle, creeping move meant to close the gap.

Penelope fought the urge to recoil, her feet remaining planted on the stone but right as she thought he would do something too bold, a sharp whistle from Lord Hillsborough cut him off. “Gentlemen! Ready yourselves! The hunt awaits!”

A wave of relief washed over Penelope as Charles pulled back, his attention snapping toward the horses. He gave her a parting glance, his eyes lingering with a promise that felt like a threat.

Charles strode off to join the riders, and Penelope let out a shuddering breath that didn’t quite ease the knot in her chest.

“Penelope, are you well?” Violet asked, her voice a soft, knowing interruption.

Penelope turned, her smile more genuine but her voice carrying an edge. “Yes, of course. Just a little too much company for my liking.”

Violet gave a silent nod, but Penelope’s attention was already darting across the field.

The riders were beginning to line up, the horses shifting and snorting in the crisp air.

And then there he was.

The Duke of Brigrock, dressed in his fine hunting attire, was one of the last to take his position.

Penelope’s breath caught in her throat as she saw him. The rush of heat to her cheeks was impossible to ignore.

He stood at the edge of the party, as though people were giving him a wide berth. He didn’t seem fazed at all. His broad shoulders squared, his posture commanding with the ease of a man born to lead. His shirt was slightly open at the collar, revealing the corded, tan muscle of his neck. His gaze swept across the terrace, but when his eyes locked onto hers, the world seemed to freeze.

For a heartbeat, the laughter and the barking of the hounds faded into a dull hum. Neither of them moved. The pull between them was a physical thing, heavy and undeniable. Penelope felt her pulse hammer against her skin, her lungs refusing to draw air.

Then, she snapped her gaze away, her heart racing.

I can’t.

Not with him. Not with so much at stake.

The men rode off into the woods, a blur of red coats and bay horses. Penelope stood frozen for a moment longer, her eyes lingering on the Duke’s retreating form for a fraction of a second more than propriety allowed.

Malcolm could feel the eyes on him even before he stepped closer to the center of the gathering.

The air seemed to shift and thicken as he approached, the whispers slithering through the crowd like a foul, cold undercurrent.

Despite the years that had passed since he’d earned the jagged battle scars on his face in the screaming chaos of the Navy, they still viewed him like he was an animal.

But he didn’t care. He did not need their shallow approval to draw breath into his lungs.

He heard Benedict’s voice before he even saw the man.

“There you are, Brigrock! I was beginning to think you had turned feral in that estate of yours, surrounded by nothing but hounds and silence.”

Malcolm’s lips curled in the ghost of a smirk, but his gaze remained hard as flint, tracing the line of horses.

“Perhaps I have,” he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that resonated in his own chest.

Benedict grinned wide and patted Malcolm on the back in a mockingly hearty manner. Malcolm’s muscles tensed into iron coils under the contact.

“You ought to smile, my friend,” Benedict teased, his eyes dancing with a light that Malcolm found increasingly exhausting. “You know the ton is already whispering about your tendency to devour children whole for breakfast. You would not want to feed their imaginations further, would you?”

Malcolm didn’t bother to respond, his scowl deepening until the silvered scar on his cheek pulled tight and white. Benedict’s humor was an endless, tiresome thing, yet Malcolm found he couldn’t entirely suppress the faint glint of amusement buried deep in his gut.

The teasing was a distraction he didn’t realize he needed, a shield against the suffocating politeness of the estate.

As they walked toward the staging area, a few lords approached. Their expressions were neutral masks, but their eyes were full of a veiled, ugly interest. One of them, Lord Garrick, stood his ground as they passed, a condescending smile pulling at his thin, pale lips.