Page 63 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

Charles adjusted his linen cuff leisurely, right where she had struck him. “No,” he said softly. “But Nicholas does.”

Fear sliced through her instantly, sharp and cold. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, looking up, “that I am done waiting.”

Her stomach dropped.

Charles stepped closer again, lowering his voice to a malicious whisper. “I saw the way the Duke looked at you tonight. I saw the way you looked back.” His eyes hardened into flint. “And I will not permit it.”

“You cannot control who I speak to.”

“No,” he agreed softly. “But I can control your son.”

Cold spread through her limbs, paralyzing her. Charles watched her face carefully, taking in her sudden paleness. Satisfied.

“I have already spoken with my solicitor.”

Penelope’s breath caught in her throat. “You would not dare⁠—”

“I absolutely would, for it might be decided a young boy requires stronger masculine guidance than a hysterical, wanton widow.”

Her pulse roared in her ears, deafening. “He is happy with me.”

“He is the heir to my brother’s estate.” Charles’s eyes glittered with malice. “And heirs are not raised by sentimental women.”

Panic clawed at her throat, choking her. “You cannot take him.”

“I can petition for full guardianship.”

Her knees nearly weakened. She reached out, grasping a nearby chair. “No.”

“I can send him away to school immediately. Somewhere strict.” His mouth curved slightly. “The sort of place that beats softness out of boys. He could leave as soon as next month.”

Penelope stared at him in horror, images of her sweet, adventurous boy broken by cruelty flashing through her mind. “You would destroy him.”

“I would make him useful. A worthy heir of the Romwich title.”

Tears burned suddenly behind her eyes, hot and angry. She hated that he could see her fear. Hated that he held this power.

Charles stepped closer once more, until she could smell the heavy scent of brandy on his breath.

“I waited for you,” he said quietly. “I gave you time. I tolerated your coldness. Your pride. Your ridiculous independence.”

Penelope backed into the sharp edge of a writing desk. “You are insane.”

He raised a hand, his fingers brushing roughly against her jaw. She flinched violently away from his touch.

“You force my hand.”

Penelope’s chest tightened so painfully she could barely draw oxygen. “You cannot separate me from my son.”

Charles’s expression did not change. It remained dead. “Watch me.”

The room seemed suddenly smaller. Airless. Penelope gripped the mahogany edge of the desk behind her to steady her shaking frame.

Charles leaned closer, his voice dropping to a foul purr. “Submit to me,” he said softly.

Her stomach turned with violent nausea.