Page 52 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“Archery is different. It requires a certain temperament.”

“Why?” He said it without mockery or inflection, a plain question that demanded a plain answer. “Is it because you think it is beneath you, or because you are afraid you won’t be perfect at it immediately?”

She searched for a rebuttal and found only the uncomfortable truth of his words. “Like I said, it is not an activity that women usually do.”

“In London, perhaps,” he agreed. “Here, a woman should know how to defend herself and her land.” He didn’t move the bow. “Pick it up, Penelope.” His eyes met hers, and her breath caught. “Your son is watching.”

Nicholas was indeed watching, his expression a mix of encouragement and the dawning realization that his mother was currently in the same “learning position” he had been in all morning.

“Please, Mama?” he said softly.

She walked to the rack. She took the bow from Malcolm’s hand. It was lighter than she’d expected, the wood smooth and cool, smelling of linseed oil and age.

Malcolm moved behind her. He didn’t ask; he simply stepped into her space, his presence a sudden heat source in the cool morning air.

He positioned her feet first, his boot nudging her heel into alignment, and then his hands found her shoulders. She was acutely aware of him, the scent of sandalwood and old leather, the steady rhythm of his breathing.

“Arm up,” he said, his voice a low vibration near her ear. His hand guided her draw arm, his fingers hovering just over her skin. “Elbow out. Do not collapse your chest. Press back.” His other hand came to her back, between her shoulder blades, pressing the alignment straight.

She stared at the target, the center blurred by the sudden hammering of her heart.

She drew the string back. The tension was surprising, a physical pull that demanded her full attention. He adjusted her anchor point, his fingers brushing against her jaw. A light, fleeting correction that felt like a spark against her skin. Then, he stepped back. The sudden absence of his warmth was almost as jarring as his touch.

She fired.

The arrow skipped off the lower edge of the frame and vanished into the grass.

She lowered the bow, her face heating. She braced herself, the old, familiar instinct rising up.

In eleven years of marriage, the late Earl of Romwich had never let a failure pass without a commentary. Usually a thin, amused observation about the “delicacy of the female mind” or the “waste of good equipment.” She spent a decade waiting for that specific sound of disappointment that made her feel small and foolish.

Malcolm was looking at the target. Then he looked at her.

“Your draw hand released too soon,” he said, his voice entirely neutral. “You let the string go instead of letting it slip. Your grip was correct, however. Try it again.”

Nothing else. No sigh. No smirk. He simply handed her a second arrow and turned back to watch the target as if her success were an inevitability.

She stood holding the arrow for a heartbeat longer than necessary, the silence of the yard settling around her. She nocked it. She drew. She held the release for one deliberate, stubborn second longer.

The arrow hit the outer blue ring, halfway up.

“Better,” Malcolm said.

She handed the bow back without a word. But the blow she had braced for—the sting of criticism—hadn’t come.

After that, Malcolm guided them to the fencing area in the long, cool shadow of the east wall. Penelope watched from a stone bench and didn’t protest when Malcolm handed Nicholas a practice foil. She realized that her objections were no longer based on her son’s safety, but on her own need for control.

Malcolm was direct with the footwork and physical with the corrections. Nicholas made the same mistake on the parry three times in a row, and Malcolm offered three different explanations without a hint of impatience. On the fourth pass, Nicholas seemed to finally resonate with the lesson.

“That, yes,” Malcolm said. “See? It takes patience, and you are letting yourself listen and learn. You are having patience. Now, try again.”

Nicholas did, and once more, he had success.

Malcolm picked up the second foil. “Now try it against something that moves.”

Penelope watched her son face the Duke of Brigrock with a look of terrified joy. Malcolm met every lunge at exactly the right height, offering enough resistance to challenge Nicholas without crushing his spirit. He was calibrating himself in real-time, displaying empathy and consideration she hadn’t expected from a man so guarded.

She unfolded her arms, finding herself relaxing a little more.