Page 38 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“Wonderful.” He turned to include Penelope fully. “I am actually hosting a ball in London within the month. At my townhouse. I would be very pleased if you would both attend. Bring whoever you like, so long as you are among them.”

He looked at Amelia once more, a look that said the invitation had a very specific intended recipient.

“We would be honored,” Penelope said.

He bowed again, held Amelia’s gaze for a second that lasted precisely a heartbeat longer than was strictly proper, and then he was gone. The bell above the door gave a small, clean note.

The bookshop went quiet, the air still vibrating from his presence.

Amelia looked at the shelf. Her hand rested on a book she hadn’t opened. A small, private expression crossed her face, a flicker of something new, before it was composed away.

Penelope watched her. “He seemed very agreeable.”

“He seemed very forward,” Amelia said, though she didn’t sound particularly offended.

“Both things,” Penelope agreed.

The corner of Amelia’s mouth moved in a tiny, secret smile. She opened her book.

They browsed in comfortable silence for several minutes, the cooling air of the shop settling around them.

Then Amelia said, without looking up from the page, “Brigrock will be there, you know. If Lord Hayward is hosting, he’ll have been invited.”

The shelf in front of Penelope went briefly out of focus. She reached up and straightened a book that was already perfectly aligned.

“I expect he might be,” she said.

Amelia turned a page and said nothing further. Penelope stared at the titles, her heart performing a slow, heavy thud. She realized she hadn’t read a single word on the shelf.

Chapter Twelve

Aweek had passed, and.

Malcolm was in the gardens before the sun had fully cleared the tree line. Not even a four-mile run had dampened his relentless energy. He was currently working with a weighted bar near the stone wall, his breath coming in steady, rhythmic huffs that clouded in the cool morning air.

Hector, usually a shadow at his master’s heels, was prowling the perimeter of the hedgerow. Suddenly, the dog froze, his ears twitching toward a dense patch of laurel. A single sharp bark echoed off the stone.

“Hector, heel,” Malcolm commanded, not breaking his stride.

The dog didn’t move. Instead, he let out a low whine and disappeared into the brush with a frantic wag of his tail. Malcolm swore under his breath and set the bar down with a heavy thud. He strode toward the bushes, expecting a hare or perhaps a stray fox.

Instead, he found a pair of small, mud-caked boots.

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

Malcolm looked at his dog first.

Hector was sitting in a gap in the hedge. Nicholas stood behind him, his chin tilted at a defiant angle.

“You’re on my property,” Malcolm said.

“Only barely.” Nicholas glanced at his feet, then back up, his honey-brown eyes clear and unblinking. “I’m hardly past the hedge at all. My heels are still on the lane side.”

“Your heels are in the dirt. You’re past it.”

“Hector came to me. I was just standing here.” He looked down at the dog, who wagged his tail once against the boy’s shin with great contentment. “He ran through himself. I couldn’t very well ignore him, could I? It would be rude.”

“Hector.” Malcolm kept his eyes on the boy. “Heel.”