Page 73 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

Chapter Twenty-One

Aweek later, the ancient stone walls of St. George’s were not crowded. Malcolm had seen to that.

Penelope stood in the quiet vestibule, her breath coming in shallow pants. Violet stood at her left side, smoothing a stray hair, while Amelia stood at her right, her fan tucked into her stays.

Nicholas shifted nervously from foot to foot near Lord Giltbury, trying and failing entirely not to stare down the long, empty aisle.

“He looks very serious, Mama,” Nicholas whispered, his small voice echoing in the stone entryway.

Penelope followed his gaze. Malcolm stood near the altar in a dark, tailored coat that made his broad shoulders look even bigger. His posture was perfectly square, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Benedict stood just a pace beside him, speaking quietly from the corner of his mouth, though whatever wit he was offering earned absolutely no smile from the Duke.

“Yes,” Penelope whispered, her throat tight. “He often does.”

“Is he nervous?”

Violet leaned down, her silk skirts rustling. “All gentlemen are thoroughly terrified when they are about to marry clever women like your mama, Nicholas.”

Nicholas considered that for a moment, his chin lifting. “Will I be nervous someday?”

Penelope turned to him fully, dropping to her knees right there on the stone floor, completely heedless of the expensive blue silk. Her heart cracked open in one swift, silent break of pure love. She cupped his sweet face in her hands. “What is the rush, Nicholas?”

They all let out a quick laugh.

“Will we really live with the Duke now?”

“Yes.”

“And Hector, too?”

“Yes.”

His face brightened with a brilliant grin.

Nicholas nodded, satisfied. Then he leaned forward and wrapped both of his small arms tightly around her neck, burying his face in her shoulder. She squeezed her eyes shut and held him, breathing in the scent of sweet soap and childhood.

Violet’s voice came lightly from above them. “You will thoroughly wrinkle your mother before the ceremony even begins, young man.”

“I do not care,” Nicholas said, his voice muffled against Penelope’s silk collar.

Penelope laughed softly, kissing his dark curls before pushing herself up.

Penelope smoothed the front of her gown, a pale blue silk that flowed over her curves, trimmed with delicate, lace at the long sleeves. Amelia had insisted the soft color suited her honey-brown eyes. Violet had insisted the low-cut bodice would suit Malcolm’s frayed nerves.

Her hands were freezing. She clasped them together to stop the shaking.

The heavy inner doors opened, and the rector appeared. It began quickly after that. Entirely too quickly.

Penelope took Lord Giltbury’s arm for the walk down the aisle. Violet and Amelia followed closely behind her. Nicholas remained near the front pew, his chin held high, trying desperately to look older than his age.

Malcolm turned slowly as she approached. Penelope watched his face, her pulse drumming a frantic rhythm beneath her skin. There was no false smile for the church, no practiced warmth for the rector. But his dark eyes did not leave her face once. Not for a single second.

When Lord Giltbury reached the altar and placed her cold hand into Malcolm’s, the Duke’s fingers closed around hers with a careful, bruising firmness. Not possessive, but entirely present.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration meant only for her.

“Thank you. You look rather handsome, yourself.”

His mouth twitched at the corner.