Page 50 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“That will be fine.”

She walked away.

She could feel his gaze on her back, a physical weight that followed her from the gate to the very end of the drive. She kept her pace even and her spine straight, refusing to turn around. She heard nothing behind her. No footsteps, no movement, only the stillness of a man standing exactly where she had left him.

“He wiped paint off your face?”

Violet set her teacup down, a squeal barely concealed. She was sitting across from Penelope in the drawing room, both feet tucked under her.

“It was a smudge that just happened to be on my cheek,” Penelope said, her voice a model of reason. “He noticed it. It was a practical, albeit intrusive, gesture.”

“He reached up and touched your face,” Violet repeated, her voice hushed and reverent. “In your private studio, and without an invitation. Penelope, the man is a duke with a reputation for being a hermit, and he is playing valet to your complexion! Not to mention that you said it sent fire through not even five moments ago.”

“I should not have used that word,” Penelope muttered.

“You absolutely should have! It is the most honest thing you have said about him since he caught Nicholas that very first night.” Violet tucked one knee up to her chin. “And the kiss? The one you mentioned in the garden? Heavens, did you kiss him back? You did not mention.”

Penelope turned her teacup in a slow, agonizing circle as her face heated up. Her silence said enough.

“You kissed him back,” Violet pieced together, her voice soft.

Penelope went to speak, then stopped. None of the excuses she had rehearsed were any good. “I do not intend to repeat it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I do not know who he is.” The words came out more honestly than she had intended. She heard them and recognized them as the root of her fear. “I do not know him. And yet somehow he is in my studio, and my son is hugging him, and he is teaching my son things I cannot, and I have agreed to see him three times a week indefinitely, and I… I do not know who he is, so why have I even agreed to any of this? Why am I standing for any of this?”

Violet looked at her for a long, quiet moment.

“Penelope,” she said gently. “I think there is some instinct in you that goes beyond the warnings and the stories. Perhaps you are seeing the man beyond rumor? The man who is merely a man, not a wolf?”

The drawing room was quiet. Somewhere outside, the afternoon had turned long and golden, the light slanting through the window in a heavy amber bar across the carpet.

Penelope looked at her teacup.

She didn’t answer. She did not know to, nor wanted to think that, deep down, Malcolm was just like her: somebody more than the rumors and stories.

Chapter Sixteen

Several days later, Penelope trailed Malcolm and Nicholas as they walked Hector through the gardens of Brigrock Hall.

Hector was excitable in his joyful, looping sweeps, and pivoted, his tail kicking up a small cloud of dust.

The archery range they were gathered around occupied a long, flat strip of the north grounds, carved out of the wilderness and maintained with military precision. It was backed by a tall earthen bank to catch stray shots and set with three targets at measured intervals, their painted rings faded by the sun but still clear. Near the entrance, a wooden rack held a collection of bows, their limbs gleaming with oil.

Penelope looked at the targets, then at the rack, then at the sheer distance between them.

“She is a bit worried,” Nicholas explained to Malcolm, leaning in slightly as if sharing a profound tactical secret.

“I can speak for myself, darling, do not concern yourself.” Penelope kept her eyes on the rack of bows. She could feel the familiar weight of anxiety settling in her chest. “He is seven years old, Your Grace. His coordination is developing. This seems like a premature escalation.”

“The arrows are blunted,” Malcolm said.

He didn’t look offended; he simply moved to the rack and picked one up, turning it so the flat, reinforced tip was visible.

“They will not pierce skin at this range, even if he were to somehow fire backward. The draw weight on this practice bow is a third of what I’d give a hunting party.” He set the arrow back with a definitive click. “He could hurt himself more tripping on a staircase at Romwich Hall.”

“That is not a reassuring comparison. I worry about the staircases as well.”