His eyes were sharp, cold, assessing, and unnervingly familiar. A threat dressed in impeccable tailoring, his presence alone was a challenge.
“Your Graces,” he intoned, a chilling charm in his voice. “A delightful pleasure to see you.”
Richard’s body stiffened, a subtle but unmistakable protective shift in his stance. He positioned himself between Victoria and the stranger without overt display, the silent declaration of his claim evident to all who could read it.
Penwike’s gaze lingered on Victoria, sharp and appraising, his smile wide but unsettling. “Pardon my directness, Your Grace. Thomas Conolly, Marquess of Penwike, at your service. Might I say that you look absolutely enchanting? Hawksford has indeed secured a remarkable wife. I am not disappointed.”
Penwike. The rival family.
Victoria forced a composed smile, the formal grace of her position in full effect. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord. It is easy to settle into a role when one has a husband like His Grace,” she replied, carefully measured. “I come from a large family and hope to recreate the bonds I have learned through them.”
Penwike raised an eyebrow, keenly observant. “Ah. Your father was … not gentle, I hear. And yet you manage this … domestic tableau with ease?”
The question struck with quiet precision. For a brief, unwelcome instant, Victoria felt that familiar tightening at the base of her spine: the instinctive bracing of oneself, learned young and never entirely unlearned. Her father’s voice rose unbidden in her memory, sharp and exacting; the sense of being watched for error, of affection offered only in exchange for obedience.
She schooled her expression at once. Whatever had been done to her, it would not be visible now.
“Indeed,” Victoria said, her tone polite, cool. “My father was harsh. Richard, however, offers guidance and support.”
Richard’s hand tightened on her arm briefly, the only acknowledgment she needed of his unwavering support.
“Then Hawksford is fortunate,” Penwike said smoothly. “But we all know duty has its demands. High expectations often lead to … unforeseen complications.”
Richard’s voice was deadly calm, each word deliberate as he said, “My wife has enjoyed the ball sufficiently, Lord Penwike. We must bid farewell to our hostess.”
Penwike bowed, but his eyes never left Victoria. “I shall be watching your progress with interest, Your Graces,” he said, the threat underlying the civility unmistakable.
Victoria felt a shiver run through her, which Richard immediately noticed, brushing his hand lightly over her arm, a grounding presence against the cold intrusion of Penwike’s gaze.
In that moment, she felt the strange security of his dominance, the certainty that she would be protected even amid scrutiny, even from those who sought to unsettle her. And though her smile remained polite, she knew the tension had shifted.
Richard Weston, duke and husband, had made it clear to all: she belonged to him, and she was safe under his watchful eye.
Chapter Fourteen
Victoria was deeply relieved when they were finally separated from Penwike by a few feet.
Her chest heaved with quiet exhalations she did not bother to restrain. She prided herself on being fearless, but there was something inherently malignant about that man. It was not an exaggeration. The marquess exuded a cruel delight in the misfortune of others. Richard’s misfortune, in particular. The very air around him seemed to hum with malice. Victoria could still feel the chill from his gaze lingering on her skin, and the thought made her shiver anew.
“Let’s go home, Richard,” she urged, her voice unexpectedly small, and she hated that it sounded so. She had never admitted fear aloud before, and the recognition of it made her chest tighten. “I want to see Melody.”
She hoped, almost desperately, that the baby had not become a crutch for her emotions. She wanted to be strong for the child,to ensure that Melody’s world was secure and nurturing, not merely a mirror for her own anxieties.
“Me too,” he admitted, voice low but carrying a rumble of something feral beneath the restraint. “Let us go.”
Victoria could feel the simmering anger radiating from him. She had always thought herself adept at understanding danger, at anticipating threats, but Penwike had shown her another level entirely: the danger of human malice, deliberate and intimate. She now understood what it must feel like to be hunted not only by circumstance but by a consciously calculating enemy.
The carriage ride back to Hawksford House was quiet, and yet the silence carried a different weight than before. It was not just the absence of Penwike; it was the intimacy of confinement, the closeness of Richard’s presence, and the heat that radiated from him like a living thing.
Richard stared out the window, jaw tight, hands clenched into fists resting on his knees. Victoria felt the heat of the carriage swell around her. She was acutely aware of every line of his broad shoulders, every subtle shift in posture. The anger he felt toward Penwike was tangible, a current running through the space between them, and it was almost intoxicating.
“You managed the dowagers and gossips admirably,” he said suddenly, turning toward her. His voice, rough and edged with lingering fury, carried a note of admiration that made Victoria’s chest tighten. “And they are right. You look wonderful in yourdress. It suits you perfectly … just as everything seems to suit you.”
Victoria blinked, startled by the unexpected praise. She had expected him to comment on her composure, perhaps on how well she had handled the scrutiny, but to hear him focus on her in this way—personal, intimate—made her cheeks warm.
“Richard,” she began, a playful note creeping into her voice despite the tension, “do you always compliment others as if you’re in a schoolroom, or as if admiring freshly painted walls?”
He bristled at her teasing, the color rushing to his cheeks. “Ah. Since when are you the expert on the delivery of thanks and polite addresses, Victoria? Have we appointed experts on compliments now?”
