Page 78 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“My first wife… Frances. She hated Brigrock Hall.”

Penelope went very still. He had never spoken of his past marriage before. Not once during their brief courtship or the whirlwind week in London.

Malcolm rested both hands heavily against the stone mantel, his head bowing slightly. “She found this place cold. Too large. Too isolated from the ton. She preferred the bright lights of London.”

Penelope waited, barely breathing.

“When we married, I thought…” He exhaled once, a sharp, rough sound through his nose. “I thought affection would come with time. Respect did. Habit did. We were always perfectly polite to one another. Careful. Distant.”

His voice carried absolutely no tenderness when he spoke of Frances Balfour. There was no lingering love there. Only the cold, heavy weight of memory.

“She became pregnant less than a year after the wedding,” Malcolm continued, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on the fire. “Everyone celebrated. My father spoke endlessly of grandchildren before the child had even drawn its first breath.”

Penelope’s chest tightened painfully, her heart aching as she began to see the ghost that haunted him.

Malcolm’s large hand flexed once, his knuckles scraping against the rough stone mantel. “The labor was difficult.”

The words landed like lead weights in the quiet room. Penelope lowered herself slowly into the velvet chair beside the hearth, her eyes locked on his rigid silhouette.

“The baby was a boy,” Malcolm said, his voice dropping into a rough, fractured whisper. “He never drew a breath.”

A flash of raw, agonizing pain crossed his face then. It was quick, violent, and gone almost immediately afterward as he locked his emotions back down. But she had seen it clearly.

“And Frances?” Penelope whispered, her own voice trembling.

His throat moved once in a heavy swallow. “She died before the next sunrise.”

The fire crackled softly between them, casting long shadows across the floorboards. Penelope looked down at her hands, her heart breaking for the sheer weight of tragedy he had carried alone.

“I am so sorry, Malcolm.”

He only nodded, then turned away from the fire, facing her fully.

“There are moments,” he said, his dark eyes locking onto hers, “when I still remember walking into that room afterward.”

Penelope’s breath caught in her throat.

“The nurses would not look at me.” His mouth twisted into a faint, bitter line. “One of them was weeping hysterically. I remember being intensely irritated by her tears. It felt entirely useless.”

She watched him, her soul aching for the young man he must have been then, drowning in a silent house of death.

Something in her chest throbbed for him. For the absolute, suffocating silence that must have followed that tragic night.

“That is why you left,” she said softly, realization dawning. “For the Navy.”

“Yes.” His gaze dropped briefly to the jagged white scar that tracked along his hand and wrist. “It was far easier to survive cannon fire and French steel than it was to stand in that empty room.”

Penelope stood up slowly from her chair. Malcolm went entirely still, watching her approach him across the rug. She stopped directly before him, close enough to feel the sheer, radiating heat coming from his massive body, close enough to see the pulse hammering in his throat.

“I was the master of this house, and I could do nothing. She should not have died.”

“It was not your fault.”

The heavy words hung between them, cutting through the ghosts of the past. Penelope lifted one hand slowly. Carefully, she pressed her palm against his scarred cheek.

The moment her soft skin touched his face, Malcolm went completely, utterly still, as if he were afraid that breathing might break the spell.

“You did not kill her, Malcolm.”