Page 24 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“You are quite right, of course,” Penelope continued. Her voice was steady, balanced on an edge of cold steel. “I don’t need anyone’s approval to raise my son, and certainly not from someone who doesn’t know the first thing about what it takes to protect him.”

The other ladies fell silent, the only sound the distant barking of a dog. Penelope stood tall, her chin lifted, her honey-brown eyes focused and unblinking. She refused to let them see a single crack in her composure.

Violet stepped in, still glaring at Constance. “Do not let her get to you, Penelope. She knows nothing of your strength. You are doing what is best for Nicholas, and that’s all that matters.”

Penelope gave her friend a grateful look, her heart slowing as the immediate threat receded. “Yes,” she agreed softly. “That is all that matters.”

As the conversation drifted toward safer topics, Penelope felt the sting of the remark linger like a physical bruise. Raising Nicholas alone was a path through thorns, and every day she made decisions that clutched at her heart. But she would walk it for him. Always for him.

She turned her attention back to the game, her grip on the mallet loosening as she forced herself into the rhythm of the play.

But even as she smiled and struck the ball, part of her remained fixed on the horizon, watching for a small boy, and for the man whose shadow had fallen so heavily across her life.

The heat of the sun had begun to wane as the hunting party pressed deeper into the heart of the woods, the air thick and heavy with the scent of damp earth and crushed pine needles.

The men were spread out in a loose, disciplined line, their eyes scanning the tangled underbrush for the slightest tremor of movement.

Malcolm moved with them, his boots silent on the mossy floor. His rifle rested comfortably in the crook of his arm, a familiar weight, but his mind refused to stay on the game.

His thoughts kept drifting back to the terrace, to Lady Romwich. It was difficult to shake the image of her face, the way her honey-brown eyes had locked onto his, and the electric tension that had hummed between them.

His focus snapped back to the present when he caught sight of a flash of movement through the oak trees, something moving much too quietly for the boisterous lords of the party. He squinted, his pulse quickening as he recognized the boy.

Nicholas.

The boy was crouched low in the ferns, his eyes fixed on a patch of briars ahead. He didn’t appear to notice that he had strayed nearly fifty yards from the safety of Lord Hillsborough’s group. His entire world was focused on a single hare frozen near a stump.

Malcolm felt a sharp tug of amusement, quickly followed by a dark ripple of annoyance.

Hillsborough would be livid if he found out that the boy had wandered off alone. The hunt was no place for a child to be playing at a soldier’s game, not with the unpredictable terrain and the danger of a stray shot. Malcolm moved forward, his pace slow and deliberate, until he was close enough to speak without sending the boy leaping out of his skin.

“Why are you so far from the group, Nicholas?” Malcolm’s voice was a low rumble, barely louder than the rustle of the leaves.

Nicholas jumped, his shoulders hitting his ears before he spun around. He looked at the ground, his face flushing a hot, embarrassed red as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Oh! Your Grace, I—I was chasing after a hare,” he admitted, his voice a breathless mixture of shame and lingering excitement.

Malcolm studied him, noting the boy’s quiet, vibrating intensity. He had been impressed by young boy’s curiosity at the cottage, but this was a dangerous streak of recklessness. Then again, he had thought little of stumbling onto a stranger’s land and trusting an unfamiliar dog.

It seemed that Nicholas had the spirit of a hunter.

“I see you are quick, I shall give you that,” Malcolm said with a short, sharp nod. He kept his voice neutral, masking the warmth he felt. “But you should stay with the group. You never know when something bigger, and hungrier, might appear.” He paused, watching the boy’s eyes. “And if you truly want to catch something, you’ll need more than speed. You need patience.”

Nicholas looked up, a small, tentative smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I have been practicing my sneaking,” he said, puffing his chest out until the buttons of his jacket strained. “Hector taught me.”

Malcolm let out a short, amused laugh that felt foreign in his chest. “Is that so? If a setter is your teacher, you are in better hands than most. But you need to learn to move like a shadow. A hare will not run if it cannot sense that you were there to begin with.”

Nicholas’s eyes shone with a sudden, bright hunger for praise. “I will keep trying, Your Grace. One day, I shall be just like you! Strong and manly and able to hunt easily!” He smiled to himself, and, after a moment, he added, “and I will make my mama proud. She is ever so upset lately, and I fear I have caused it.”

The words were so innocent, so full of a raw, unvarnished hope that Malcolm felt something stir deep in the hollows of his chest. He had never been a father. He had never imagined himself as a man with anybody to guide. But for a fleeting second, the thought didn’t feel like a burden.

Then, the reality of Lady Romwich’s guarded face returned to him.

She is ever so upset lately.

“You’re getting there,” Malcolm said with a curt nod, his tone turning crisp once more, trying not to think of the debacle of how he kept meeting Lady Romwich or Nicholas. “Now, come on. You have strayed far enough. Let us get you back before your mother has my head for losing you.”

Nicholas let out a small groan of protest, his feet dragging in the dirt. “But I have not even caught anything yet! Please, Your Grace? Just one more try?”