Page 58 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“We’ll see,” Penelope said softly.

He took the cat back toward the hall, and Violet looked at Penelope over the rim of her cup.

Penelope knew the conversation was coming. The one about who would be at the ball, about Malcolm, and about what his presence in London meant for them both.

She picked up her cup, her fingers steady. To her surprise, she didn’t feel like running.

For the first time in years, she felt like she was stepping back into her own life, rather than hiding from it.

Chapter Eighteen

The ballroom glittered with candlelight and diamonds.

Music swept beneath the painted ceilings of the Marquess of Hayward’s townhouse, violins rising and falling above the hum of polite conversation.

Ladies drifted across the polished parquet floor in silk and satin, their fans fluttering like bright-winged birds. Footmen carried heavy silver trays of champagne through clusters of laughing guests, while near the card room, a gentleman barked out a laugh loud enough to turn heads.

Penelope stepped through the double doors beside Violet and Amelia, her gloved hand resting lightly on Lord Giltbury’s arm. Her corset felt restrictive as every eye in the entryway seemed to track their arrival.

“Well,” Violet murmured beside her, eyes dancing as she surveyed the packed room, “Lord Hayward appears determined to bankrupt himself through hospitality.”

“As long as there is food, I approve,” Amelia said.

“There is always food where Lord Hayward is involved,” Lord Giltbury muttered dryly.

Almost on cue, Lord Hayward appeared through the crowd, a grin fixed upon his face.

“Lady Romwich,” he declared, catching Penelope’s hand with dramatic flair. “You have arrived at last. Another quarter hour, and I would have been forced to begin mourning publicly.”

“You recover from grief remarkably quickly, my lord,” Penelope said.

“I have had years of practice.” Lord Hayworth turned, kissing Amelia’s hand next. “Lady Amelia. Lady Violet. Ravishing as ever.”

Amelia and Violet curtsied after greeting him back.

Then, the Marquess offered Lord Giltbury a brief bow before leaning closer to Penelope. His voice dropped. “You look lovely tonight, by the way. I should warn you half the gentlemen in attendance have already asked whether the Dowager Countess of Romwich means to dance.”

Penelope smiled politely. Her fingers tightened around the ivory sticks of her fan until the wood creaked. “I am… uncertain about dancing, my lord.”

“Oh, that will disappoint quite a few men, my lady.”

The orchestra swelled again, the opening notes of a new set rising into the rafters. Penelope turned slightly toward the ballroom floor and saw him.

Malcolm stood near the far wall, apart from the crowd.

Black coat. Black cravat. Broad shoulders cutting a stark, dangerous line against the gold-paneled room. One gloved hand rested behind his back while the other held a glass untouched. Men gave him space, a wide berth of respect and fear, without seeming aware they were doing it.

The candlelight caught the rugged scar along his jaw. He was not speaking. Not smiling. Just watching.

His gaze found hers across the expanse of the room.

Penelope’s breath caught hard, a sharp ache in her chest. She looked away at once, her pulse suddenly racing.

“Oh,” Violet said softly beside her. “There he is.”

Amelia’s eyes flicked toward Malcolm and then immediately toward Penelope’s face. “You are blushing,” Amelia murmured.

“I am not.”