Page 76 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“Hector, no, look at me. Shake paws properly like a gentleman, like this.”

The dog simply sneezed directly into the boy’s face.

Nicholas looked utterly delighted, wiping his cheek with his sleeve. Penelope pressed her lips tightly together, her shoulders shaking as she tried to stop herself from laughing aloud in front of her new staff.

Malcolm, however, failed at restraint entirely. A rough, low sound of amusement escaped his chest as he watched the utter disaster unfolding on his pristine marble floor.

The line of servants looked visibly stunned. Penelope realized why a fleeting moment later, the infamous, terrifying Duke was openly laughing. It was small. Brief. Barely a rumble in his throat. But it was unmistakable.

Malcolm noticed the entire staff staring at him as if he had grown a second head, and his expression flattened into a stern, unreadable mask immediately.

Too late.

Mrs. Wilcox, the stern housekeeper, looked as though she might genuinely faint from sheer shock right onto her keys. Penelope hid her triumphant smile behind her lace glove.

Dinner that evening was served in a smaller, more intimate morning parlor rather than the enormous, echoing formal hall. Penelope suspected Malcolm had ordered it done deliberately to keep her from feeling overwhelmed by the vastness of the estate.

The room glowed softly under the gentle light of a dozen beeswax candles. Rich, dark mahogany paneling lined the walls, reflecting the dancing flames, while a gentle evening rain tapped quietly against the tall glass windows. Footmen moved silently in and out, serving roasted meats, summer vegetables, and heavy red wine.

Nicholas sat directly between Penelope and Malcolm, trying very hard to behave like a proper young gentleman of the ton and failing spectacularly every few minutes.

“So,” the boy announced loudly, attacking a roasted potato, “am I supposed to call you Papa now?”

Penelope choked slightly on her wine, coughing into her napkin as her cheeks flushed. Across the table, one of the young footmen visibly jolted, nearly dropping a silver serving spoon onto the rug.

Malcolm blinked once, his wineglass halting halfway to his lips. The silence in the room stretched out, heavy and filled with bated breath.

Nicholas frowned, looking between them with innocent confusion. “Or should I still say ‘Your Grace’ when we are at the table?”

“You are seven,” Malcolm said, his deep voice slicing through the tension. “If you call me ‘Your Grace’ while you are covered in potato grease, I shall assume you are mocking me.”

Nicholas’s face brightened instantly. “Then Papa?”

Penelope watched Malcolm carefully over the rim of her glass. Something profound shifted in the lines of his rugged face. It wasn’t fear or discomfort. It was something much quieter. Something deeply fragile.

“If you wish,” the Duke said at last, his voice softening.

Nicholas beamed so brightly that the entire somber room seemed to change with the force of his smile. “Good,” he declared, taking a massive bite of bread. “Because I already told Hector you were my papa, and he did not mind at all.”

Malcolm looked down toward the massive hound currently snoring softly beneath the table linens. “The dog offered no objections to my new title?”

“He licked my hand and stole my napkin.”

“A ringing endorsement, indeed.”

Penelope laughed softly before she could stop herself.

Malcolm looked at her immediately, his dark gaze locking onto her face. That happened so often now; every small sound she made, every breath or sigh, seemed to pull his absolute attention toward her as though he felt her presence physically in the room.

Nicholas pointed his fork excitedly toward the Duke. “Tomorrow, can Papa show me the stables? The big black stallion?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said automatically.

“And the hunting guns in the library?”

Penelope lowered her fork with a sharp click against the porcelain. “Absolutely not.”

Nicholas groaned, slumping back. “Mama.”