Page 23 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

Chapter Eight

The sun beat down lazily over the terrace, but the warmth did little to ease the cold knot tightening in Penelope’s chest.

Around her, the rhythmic clack-clack of mallets hitting balls filled the air as the game of Pall Mall began. Penelope swung her mallet, but the ball rolled aimlessly, her focus constantly fracturing.

Her gaze strayed toward the horizon where the gentlemen had mounted their horses. Among the sea of bay and chestnut, she tracked one small, lithe figure. Nicholas.

Her world was riding off into the tall grass with Lord Hillsborough, and nearby, the broad, commanding silhouette of Malcolm was barely visible. Penelope bit her lip, the taste of salt and worry sharp on her tongue. She willed herself to look away, but the concern in her stomach only twisted tighter.

Violet stepped into her line of sight, her silk skirts hissing against the grass.

“Once again, I see you are utterly distracted today.” Her voice was light, carrying a teasing lilt, but her hazel eyes glinted with a sharp, pointed mischief. She leaned in, her bonnet brushing Penelope’s shoulder. “I do believe your mind is miles away from the Pall Mall, and I’m certain it is not just your son that is troubling you.” Penelope let out a sharp huff, smoothing the front of her gown with a restless hand.

“I am certain I do not know what you mean, Violet,” she said, her voice coming out a fraction too high. She could feel a creeping warmth staining her cheeks.

Violet raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a slow, sly grin.

“Oh, come now. It is clear as day. You’ve been eyeing the hunting party since the first hound bayed, and I dare say there is one man among them who has caught your attention.” She dropped her voice to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “Perhaps it is a certain brooding Duke?”

Penelope’s breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that burned her throat. She quickly masked the reaction with a small, forced laugh and brushed a stray lock of chocolate-brown hair behind her ear.

“I am not worried about the Duke of Brigrock, Violet,” she said. Her voice was firm, an attempt at a finality that they both knew was a lie. “I am merely concerned about Nicholas. He’s still just a child, and the woods are deep.”

Violet’s grin only widened. “Oh, I am sure.” She drew the words out, her eyes sparkling. “But it is certainly no crime to notice His Grace’s presence. He fills a room even when he is standing in a field, although that might be more so the fact that he rarely shows his face, so his presence is commanding.”

Penelope thought that his presence was commanding even when he stood only with her and Nicholas.

Her eyes flicked toward the men, where the Duke sat astride his horse, his muscular frame commanding the attention of every eye on the terrace.

Penelope turned back to the game, her cheeks burning under the scrutiny. She didn’t reply, hoping the silence would end the topic, but Violet leaned in closer.

“Perhaps it is not just your son you are worried about,” Violet’s voice was quieter now, probing the softest parts of Penelope’s heart. “Perhaps you are also worried about what His Grace might be doing to your own pulse, to that very guarded heart of yours.”

Penelope’s fingers gripped the mallet handle until the wood bit into her palms. She could feel her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She shook her head and forced a calm, empty smile.

“That is enough, Violet. I am here to enjoy the afternoon, nothing more, and to make sure Nicholas gets a reprieve if even just for today.”

Violet smirked, clearly satisfied with the nerve she had struck, but she turned her attention back to her mallet. As the game resumed, the light chatter of the other ladies formed a background hum. Penelope tried to focus on the wooden ball, but her eyes darted back to the distant group of hunters like a compass needle to the north.

“Such a shame, really,” came a brittle, sneering voice.

Penelope’s muscles tensed instantly as she turned.

Lady Constance stood several paces away, her nose tilted at a haughty angle.

“Such a shame that the poor boy has no father,” she continued, her voice dripping with a false, oily sympathy. “And that his mother has no intention of ever remarrying. Not that she would have any easy time if she did. Who would want to marry a widow?”

She looked down at Penelope with a pleased smirk.

Penelope’s knuckles went white as she gripped her mallet. The insult sliced through the humid air, a direct strike at the foundation of her life.

Violet’s head snapped toward the woman, her face flushing with a sudden, sharp fury. “How dare you!” she exclaimed, her voice a whip-crack across the lawn. “What a cruel, baseless thing to say.”

Penelope placed a firm hand on Violet’s arm, feeling the heat of her friend’s anger. She shook her head slowly, though the hurt was a dull ache in her chest.

“It is all right, Violet,” she said softly. She turned to face Lady Constance, her spine a rod of iron. “I know exactly what is good for my child.”

Lady Constance’s eyes narrowed, her mouth twisting into a sour line as if she had expected a scream instead of a shield.