Page 92 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

The servants at Brigrock House no longer startled or dropped trays when he entered a room; they smiled. Hector slept on the expensive Persian carpets in the drawing room without a single fear of reprimand. Nicholas regularly climbed onto Malcolm’s lap during serious estate meetings, remaining there with a toy boat while tenants and stewards discussed drainage problems and crop rotations.

And Penelope slept every single night wrapped securely in the heavy, protective circle of his arms, knowing no harm could ever reach her again.

Malcolm’s thumb brushed absently across her waist through her heavy winter cloak.

That evening, Brigrock House practically glowed with the warm light of a hundred beeswax candles, echoing with laughter and the clink of crystal.

Benedict arrived first, striding into the drawing room and immediately declaring himself half-dead from absolute starvation, despite having consumed a full luncheon at his club only hours before.

“I know your gluttonous habits, Benedict,” Malcolm informed his friend as he poured him a glass of brandy. “You eat like a wolf.”

“And yet you still invite me to your table year after year. A true testament to your generous, long-suffering spirit, old man.”

“You are entirely impossible,” Penelope said, stepping forward to press a welcoming kiss to Benedict’s cheek.

“I am not impossible, Your Grace. I am charming.”

“You are exceptionally loud,” Amelia corrected sharply from the doorway, stepping into the room with her usual crisp, elegant poise.

Benedict brightened instantly, turning on his heel with a theatrical bow. “Lady Amelia. Every year that passes, you become more utterly devastating to my sanity.”

Amelia removed her long evening gloves leisurely, not a single hair out of place. “And every year that passes, Lord Hayward, you become more completely ridiculous.”

“Cruel, cruel woman.”

“But you continue to return to our dinners.”

“Hope is the ultimate tragedy of my life,” Benedict sighed dramatically, raising his glass.

Violet arrived moments later, wrapped in a breathtaking gown of silver silk and heavy winter furs, already laughing softly at something Lord Giltbury murmured under his breath as he escorted her in.

Nicholas came tearing down the grand marble staircase at the sound of their voices, with Hector racing in a joyous blur of fur right beside him.

“Aunt Violet!” the boy squeaked.

“Good Heavens, child,” Violet said with a warm laugh as Nicholas collided directly into her silver silk skirts, hugging her tightly. “You grow larger every single time I see you. What are they feeding you in the north?”

“I am nearly as tall as Papa now,” Nicholas declared proudly, puffing out his chest.

Malcolm looked down at the boy from his height by the hearth. “In approximately ten years, perhaps.”

Nicholas grinned widely, entirely unbothered by the correction, and ran off toward the dining room before anyone could stop him from surreptitiously stealing sugared almonds off a silver tray.

Dinner stretched long and beautifully into the evening. The grand dining room glowed a rich gold beneath the massive crystal chandeliers, while servants moved with practiced quiet between the decadent courses. Outside, a soft winter rain tapped rhythmically against the glass windows, making the interior feel like a safe, impenetrable fortress.

Halfway through the supper, Benedict raised his wineglass dramatically into the air, the crystal catching the candlelight.

They all ate and drank. As she lowered her glass, Penelope caught Malcolm watching her over the rim of his own wine. The sheer, intense look of devotion in his dark eyes still made a delicate, intoxicating warmth climb slowly beneath her skin, making her heart flutter.

Violet leaned forward slightly, her expression turning slightly serious. “Have there been any further legal appeals from Charles’s solicitors in London?”

The grand table quieted instantly. Nicholas stopped kicking his feet under the table, looking up curiously at the mention of the name.

Malcolm’s expression cooled into a mask of hard iron in a fraction of a second. “No.”

“Good,” Amelia muttered darkly into her wine.

Benedict’s mouth flattened into a hard, serious line. “The high magistrate made the sentence absolute and permanent last month. There are no loopholes left for him to exploit.”