Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“So, you’re the one who’s fattened my dog.” The Duke’s voice sliced through the humid night air, low and gravelly, with an edge of amusement.
Penelope’s heart skipped a jagged beat. Every nerve in her body snapped to attention, her muscles locking into a rigid, defensive line. The way he spoke—not with thunderous fury, but with a terrifyingly calm accusation— made her pulse hammer against her throat.
Even as she couldn’t look away, she felt his presence: a masculine energy that seemed to oppose the oxygen in the cottage’s clearing.
It was an energy she had not known for a long time, and now that gaze was assessing her, her son, and the hound that didn’t cower nor whine.
The Duke wasn’t roaring. That was the first thing that registered. Wrong, somehow, against everything she’d braced for. She had expected fury. Instead, there was only that voice, low and almost dry, and his head, cocking to one side as though questioning her as much as she did him.
That was worse.
Penelope stepped in front of Nicholas, her chin tilting upward even as her pulse hammered against her throat.
“I am Lady Romwich,” she replied, her voice coming out sharper than she intended. “And this is my son, Nicholas. I would appreciate it if you would let us return home without delay. Neither of us meant to trespass here—”
“Hector waits for me to feed him!” Nicholas spoke out over her.
Penelope blinked in surprise at his outburst, as if he was trying to say that, yes, he did mean to trespass, and had done it often enough that he thought nothing of it.
Hector, she thought, glancing at the English setter, whose tongue hung out happily.
The Duke took a step forward into the spill of light. He moved with a heavy, predatory grace, his boots crunching slowly on the gravel. He didn’t look at her; his gaze was now fixed on Nicholas, who stood proudly next to her.
Her instincts honed to a lethal point, a lioness ferocity flaring in her chest until it burned.
You should have known better.
What on earth was Nicholas thinking, wandering onto this estate? This was the Duke of Brigrock, the man rumored to have returned from war with a soul as scarred as his face.
This was the man the stable hands spoke of in half-whispers. The man whom ladies whispered about behind their fans, claiming his face would be the reason he would remain a recluse. The man who reportedly did not care that he was a recluse.
And Nicholas had been feeding his dog chicken.
“Nicholas,” the Duke mused, and Penelope tensed further at the reprimand in his voice. “Did you never get taught not to trespass on other people’s lands? Did nobody warn you that you ought not to approach a stranger’s dog? He could have bitten you.”
“Oh, I know he would not have! He really likes me,” Nicholas chirped, stepping out from Penelope’s safety circle. “I even discovered that he is good at sitting, although you must know that. And did you know he prefers the skin to the meat when I feed him?”
Nicholas looked up at the Duke, completely unfazed by the man’s imposing, muscular silhouette. He beamed, his face full of the reckless pride of a child who had made a friend.
Do not speak to him, lay like lead on Penelope’s tongue, but she swallowed them. She merely wanted to escape, but she knew she had to be careful about it.
The Duke’s mouth twitched as though curious. “Does he now?” He looked at Penelope then. His blue-grey eyes traced the disarray of her chocolate-brown hair and the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
“Your son lacks a sense of boundaries, my lady,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “A dangerous trait when wandering into a wolf’s lair.”
“His boundaries are my concern, Your Grace. Not yours,” Penelope answered. Her defensive instincts flared like a physical heat. “I appreciate your concern, but he is only a child with an adventurous heart, and one that caused me great distress, at that.”
The Duke merely looked her over once more, as if taking in that distressed state. Then his eyes flicked to Nicholas, a huff coming from deep in his throat.
“Nicholas,” he addressed, “you will do well to remember that stranger’s dogs aren’t meant to be approached without permission, and trespassing is a dangerous game for a boy your size.”
His eyes flicked back to Penelope then, the weight of his gaze settling on her. It was a piercing, expectant look, as if he were daring her to contradict his authority on his own land.
Heavens help me, she thought.
He was not what she’d pictured. She had assembled him from rumor: brutish, broken, wild with some private grief the ton couldn’t name.
She had not pictured this: his stillness, the way he filled the clearing without appearing to try. The way he looked at her as though she were the one who had wandered somewhere she didn’t belong.
Her pulse was a frantic drumming in her ears. She had every urge to snatch Nicholas and bolt into the darkness, but she forced her feet to stay planted. The tension between them was palpable, a live wire of heat that made the hair on her arms stand up.
She felt the sudden, unwanted awareness of him. The scent of rain, aged brandy, and something primally masculine.
“Do not threaten my son, Your Grace,” she finally said. “He has done no harm. He merely wanted to feed your dog, and while I understand the danger, he does not. Not always.”
“Exactly!” Nicholas looked up with wide, innocent eyes. “I have been feeding him for weeks and nobody saw me! Hector always waits for me.”
Penelope held on tight to Nicholas’s hand, aching at his simple innocence, the affection of a dog erasing the laws of the land for him.
Still, she needed him to be careful. She glared at him.
All those evenings she had thought him safely in the nursery, all those nights she had read by the fire believing the house was settled, he had been here. On this man’s land.
This man, this Duke with the jagged silver scar cutting across his rugged face, was the very definition of danger. She didn’t care about the rumors of his bravery in the Navy; she only saw a predator whose territory had been breached.
“Nicholas,” she said, her voice coming out sharper than intended, vibrating with the worry she couldn’t hide. “His Grace is right. You did trespass when you should have asked permission.”
Her gaze remained locked with the Duke’s.
There was a strange, heavy pause. He didn’t move, but his eyes bored into hers, calculating and analytical. Despite the intensity that made her knees want to tremble, she refused to look away. She drew herself up to her full height, her chin high.
The Duke shifted his stance, taking another slow step closer. Penelope instinctively took a small step back before she caught herself and stood her ground.
“I will have you off my land now, Lady Romwich,” he told her, his words biting.
“I grow tired of this foolishness. It is clear your son is fond of my dog. But you…” He turned the full force of his blue-grey eyes on her, and Penelope’s stomach tightened in a way that had nothing to be with fear.
“You should know better than to let him roam around my estate. A mother’s eye should be more vigilant. ”
Penelope’s throat constricted.
She felt the heat of a blush crawling up her neck, born of both anger and the Duke’s searing proximity. She forced her spine to remain stiff. She did not trust him, not a man who lived in shadows, but she would not show him a single crack in her armor.
“I was unaware he was… visiting your dog,” she said, choosing her words with the care of a diplomat. “But I assure you, Your Grace, it shall not happen again.”
“Good. Ensure it will not.”
She stepped back, her fingers tightening around Nicholas’s arm, urging him away from the English setter’s final, eager nudge.
Just as she turned, the dog bounded forward again, his tail wagging with a frantic, rhythmic thud against the grass. He darted toward Nicholas, an eager whine vibrating in his chest.
Penelope’s heart lurched. Her grip on Nicholas tightened involuntarily as she pulled him back toward the boundary. “No,” she said, her voice breathless. “We are going home.”
The Duke let out a growl that was low, animalistic, and vibrated through the clearing. “Hector.”
The dog froze mid-bound, his muscles tensing instantly. With a firm, low-voiced command, the Duke ordered, “Heel—now.”
Hector reluctantly obeyed, his head dropping as he trotted back to the Duke’s side, though his sad eyes remained fixed on Nicholas. Penelope watched the massive animal pad away, her heart aching for her lonely son. But her fear of the master outweighed her pity for the child.
Her steps were hurried as she moved toward the darkness of the woods. There was no looking back. No reflecting on the way the Duke’s white shirt had clung to his muscular frame, or the way the flickering light had caught the silvered line of his scar.
Still, she could feel His Grace’s eyes fixed on her, as if making sure they truly left. She shivered, but pressed on, not stopping until she finally reached Romwich Hall once more.