Page 91 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

Penelope stood outside a charming, narrow bookshop on Bond Street, pulling her velvet-trimmed cloak tightly around her shoulders against the biting December chill.

Beside her, Nicholas had his small nose pressed so flat against the glass display window that his breath left large, fogged patches on the pane. Hector sat directly at his heels, his heavy chestnut-and-white frame upright with the solemn, immovable dignity of a royal footman guarding the crown jewels.

“Papa,” Nicholas announced loudly, tapping an insistent finger against the glass. “I require this specific volume immediately. It is an absolute necessity.”

Malcolm stepped up beside the boy, the sheer breadth of his broad shoulders blocking the wind. He peered down through the glass, his rugged features twisting with an amused, dark brow lifted. “Naval Warfare and Heroic Battles of Europe?”

“Yes.”

“Nicholas, you are eight years old.”

“Which is practically ancient, Papa. I am practically a grown man.”

Penelope let out a soft, melodic laugh, the sound rising like mist in the winter air, and tucked her hand more firmly through the crook of Malcolm’s powerful arm.

One whole year had passed since the terrifying afternoon in the old glasshouse. One year since the shadow of Charles had threatened to swallow their newfound peace whole. Now, looking at Nicholas bundled snugly in a tailored dark blue wool coat, chattering endlessly about topmasts, brigantines, and hunting hounds, Penelope felt a profound sense of gravity settle into her chest.

Home no longer felt like a fragile, translucent thing that could shatter at any moment. It felt real. It felt permanent.

Malcolm looked down at the book again, his deep baritone rumbling. “If I remember correctly, you already own three separate volumes detailed entirely with naval battles.”

“Yes, but this one has hand-colored illustrations of the sails,” Nicholas countered with grand, theatrical hand gestures. “And a complete map of the Mediterranean.”

“Ah. Hand-colored sails,” Malcolm murmured dryly. “Then clearly, it is entirely essential to your education.”

Nicholas grinned triumphantly, his honey-brown eyes flashing with victory. Penelope watched Malcolm surrender to the boy’s persistence with poorly concealed amusement as the massive Duke ushered both the ecstatic child and the lumbering hound into the warmth of the shop.

The sheer sight of them still caught at her chest sometimes, bringing happy tears to her eyes. The Duke of Brigrock—once whispered about in the glittering ballrooms of Mayfair as a savage, deformed recluse who hid from society—was now patiently listening while an eight-year-old argued naval military strategy over pastry crumbs.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the little bell chiming overhead, Nicholas immediately vanished into the labyrinth of shelves toward the adventure and travel section, Hector trotting faithfully and heavily behind him.

The elderly bookseller behind the counter looked up, his eyes widening in immediate alarm at the sight of a massive hound navigating his narrow aisles of precious leather and parchment.

“Hector,” Malcolm said mildly, not even raising his voice.

The great dog sat at once, his front paws perfectly aligned, his tail giving a single, polite thump against the floorboards.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the bookseller whispered faintly, visibly wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.

Penelope hid a bright smile behind her muff, leaning closer to her husband. “You have domesticated them both quite beautifully, Your Grace.”

Malcolm glanced over his shoulder toward the aisle where Nicholas’s dark head was visible. “The hound is domesticated. The boy remains highly questionable.”

Nicholas looked up instantly from an atlas. “I heard that, Papa.”

“You were meant to hear it, rascal.”

Penelope wandered away toward the poetry shelves, her skirts swishing softly against the floor, while Malcolm began negotiating with the bookseller over three different volumes that Nicholas absolutely did not need but would undoubtedly receive. A deep, enveloping warmth spread through her chest at the rhythmic sound of their voices echoing behind her.

Then a heavy, incredibly warm palm settled gently against the small of her back.

Malcolm.

She looked up at him, her heart swelling. Time and happiness had softened nothing essential about Malcolm Balfour.

He was still broad-shouldered and intimidating enough to clear entire corridors of London society when he was irritated. But now, there was an unmistakable warmth in him.

A visible, radiating light.