Page 72 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

A sharp, sudden knock sounded at the heavy door.

Penelope jolted, her breath catching. Malcolm moved before she could, instantly placing his massive frame between her and the entrance.

“Who is it?” he called out, his voice harsh.

“Benedict,” came the cheerful, muffled answer from the corridor. Penelope pressed a hand over her mouth.

Malcolm opened the door only halfway, keeping his body as a shield. Benedict’s sharp gaze flicked past his shoulder, immediately finding the broken porcelain pieces, the dark smear of blood, and Penelope’s pale, tear-stained face. His easy smile vanished instantly.

“What happened?” Benedict asked, his tone turning serious.

“Charles threatened Penelope.”

Benedict’s eyes hardened into flint. “Where the devil is he?”

“Gone.”

Benedict looked between the two of them, his sharp mind putting the pieces together.

Malcolm said flatly, “We are to be married.”

Benedict’s brows shot straight into his hairline. Penelope closed her eyes, bracing for the reaction.

“Ah,” Benedict said after a long beat. “Well, that is certainly one definitive way to address the matter.”

“Benedict.”

“No, no. Excellent. Bold. Terrifyingly abrupt.” Benedict looked past Malcolm to Penelope, his voice softening with genuine concern. “Lady Romwich?”

Penelope lowered her hand from her mouth, forcing her voice to remain steady. “It is true.”

Benedict studied her face for a moment, then nodded once, resolute. “Then we had better make it respectable before the society gossips smell blood in the water. We need speed.”

Malcolm’s expression turned grim. “A special license.”

“Splendid,” Benedict said, a hint of his usual spark returning. “When is the happy day?”

Malcolm looked directly at Penelope. “Within the week.”

Her stomach fluttered wildly.

One week.

Seven days from a guarded country widow to a duchess of the realm. Seven days from paralyzing fear to something she did not yet dare name.

She nodded slowly.

Benedict clapped his hands once, then winced slightly at the loud sound in the quiet room.

“Good. I shall fetch Lady Amelia and Lady Violet before they launch a full search party.” He glanced down at the floorboards again. “Though I shall deeply mourn the rug.”

He slipped out, closing the door before either could answer.

Penelope stared at the wood panel. The enormity of what she had just agreed to pressed down on her chest all at once.

Marriage. London. A special license. Nicholas living under Malcolm’s roof. Malcolm across from her at breakfast. Malcolm’s large hand resting at her waist. Malcolm’s deep voice in the dark.

She reached out, touching the sharp edge of the desk again to ground herself.