Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Benedict droned on cheerfully, a series of chattering words that didn’t mean much.
Malcolm leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass, eyes focused on the flickering firelight.
The warm amber glow contrasted sharply with the chill that had taken root inside of him since the morning, an unease he couldn’t shake.
It had nothing to do with the estate or any of the duties he’d ignored for the past few days. No, it was her. Lady Romwich. The image of her on his grounds, standing so defiantly, so protectively over her son, lingered in his mind like a shadow.
Her fiery spirit, her sharp tongue, her beauty… it was all far too much for him to ignore.
Benedict, the Marquess of Hayward, had been talking, but Malcolm hadn’t heard a word. He wasn’t interested in anything his friend had to say. It was all background noise to the constant swirl of thoughts that had consumed him all day.
Finally, Benedict’s voice broke through, not entirely gentle but teasing. “You have been awfully quiet, Malcolm. I would almost ask why you are brooding, my friend?”
Malcolm blinked, refocusing on his friend. Benedict was lounging in a chair across from him in Benedict’s estate’s drawing room, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, clearly amused by Malcolm’s silence.
“Not brooding,” Malcolm muttered, lifting his glass to his lips for a long sip.
He had no desire to explain himself, and especially not to Benedict, who was far too good at prying into things that weren’t his concern.
Benedict, however, wasn’t the type to drop a subject easily.
“Something’s got you thinking hard,” he pressed, his tone light but insistent.
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing with interest. “Come now. You are usually full of opinions, especially when the whiskey’s flowing. Tell me what is eating at you.”
Malcolm’s jaw tightened slightly.
He wasn’t the type to share his thoughts, especially not about anything personal. His mind flashed back to Penelope once more, no matter how hard he tried not to think of her.
Malcolm exhaled sharply, setting his glass down with a soft clink, his fingers tapping absently against the rim.
Annoyingly, there was something about Benedict’s bluntness that Malcolm found oddly comforting. Still, he wasn’t sure he was ready to share the turmoil stirring inside him.
“Nothing, really,” Malcolm muttered, forcing himself to appear nonchalant, but even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true.
Benedict raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying the excuse.
“Oh, do not be coy, Brigrock, for I have known you too long. Something’s been on your mind all day.
” He grinned mischievously, leaning in as if he were about to uncover a particularly juicy secret.
“Is it a woman, perhaps? It is never a woman with you, but the peculiar way you are behaving… I would not discard the notion.”
Malcolm’s hand stilled around his glass. The casual way Benedict spoke had a way of drawing out truths Malcolm wasn’t ready to face.
He grunted in response, more as an attempt to deflect than anything else. His gaze drifted to the fire again, his mind still occupied with Penelope.
Benedict raised an eyebrow. “Ah, I knew it. So, it is true. A woman has your attention.” He leaned back with a self-satisfied smile, his tone teasing. “Do I know her? Or is this some new intrigue?”
Malcolm didn’t immediately respond, the weight of the question hanging in the air.
The thought of Penelope, the way she had looked at him with such suspicion, such fire, made his chest tighten.
He hadn’t wanted to talk about it, certainly not with Benedict.
But the words came before he could stop them.
“Well, there is a woman,” Malcolm muttered, his voice low, almost reluctant to say it out loud. His gaze locked onto his glass again, focusing on the swirling liquid. “But only because her son trespassed on my property.”
Benedict’s eyes lit up with interest.
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” He leaned forward again, clearly enjoying the moment far too much. “And what is it about her that’s got you so distracted?”
Malcolm shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly aware of how much he’d just revealed. Lady Romwich wasn’t someone he wanted to talk about, not to anyone, not yet. But Benedict wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily.
“She’s…” Malcolm hesitated, trying to find the right words. “She has a sharp tongue, and Heavens knows she has not been afraid to use it on me, a duke, higher-ranked than her. But it just showed how protective she is of her son.”
Benedict’s eyebrows rose. “Ah, a lady with spirit, I see. And here I thought you were a good Duke who didn’t care for women who raise their voices.”
Malcolm bristled at the insinuation, though his voice remained even. “I did not say I did or did not care for her,” he replied, his tone low. “She is just not what I expected. Not what I was looking for.”
Benedict grinned knowingly. “So, what happened? Did you two have some sort of moment, or did she just scold you for scaring off her son?”
Malcolm didn’t answer immediately.
He thought back to their encounter at his cottage, and then in the main garden.
Lady Romwich had been on edge, her eyes wary but intense.
The way she had snapped at him when Hector had barked at her son, it had been unlike any interaction he’d had with a woman in a long while.
There had been a spark between them, something volatile, something that set his blood alight.
“She was not scared,” he said slowly, almost to himself. “She stood her ground—both times I saw her, that is.”
Benedict laughed, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Well, well. Sounds like someone’s gotten under your skin, eh? Do I get a name?”
Malcolm grunted in response, unwilling to give it at first, but he had already begun speaking. There was little point in hiding things now.
“Lady Romwich,” he told Benedict.
His friend’s brows almost disappeared into his hairline. “As in the Dowager Countess, Lady Romwich?”
Malcolm stilled. “You know her?”
“I know of her,” Benedict corrected. “She has been the poor brunt of the ton’s gossip for a while.”
Malcolm wanted to ask why she was gossiped about, but he had been the center of that sort of judgement before. Her story was her own, and it was not for anyone else to tell him.
“I see,” was all he finally said, sighing. “Well, she is clearly happy in the countryside… whenever her son does not run off and cause her clear distress and irk me. I do not like people on my estate even invited, let alone trespassing in the shadows at night.”
“Then perhaps you should make her an invited guest into your estate.” Benedict’s grin widened devilishly. “Perhaps just her? You, Lady Romwich, some candles to light up that damned gloomy place.”
His brow lifted up and down suggestively, and Malcolm scowled.
“It is not like that,” he said firmly, though his words felt hollow even to him. “I did not wish for her company the night we met, or the other time, let alone willingly being in it when I can live peacefully.”
Yet… the thought of Lady Romwich sat at his dining table, her gown appropriate for dinner, her features aglow in the candlelight.
Who was she when she was not fretting over her son or bickering with him about the whole situation?
Malcolm swallowed, trying to put such things from his mind. It would do him no good, and he did not need more complications in his life, let alone getting involved with a woman who had a runaway son.
Benedict chuckled. “Oh, come now. Is it not even worth considering? You don’t get to have that kind of chemistry with a woman and then pretend it is nothing.”
Malcolm’s temper flared, and he shot Benedict a sharp look. “It is nothing,” he growled. “Do not push me, Benedict.”
Benedict held up his hands in mock surrender, though the grin never left his face.
“All right, all right. No need to bite my head off. But I am telling you, you are not fooling me. I can see how your mind is spinning with thoughts of her. I truly have never seen you so distracted.”
Malcolm ignored him, turning his attention back to his drink, though his mind was still locked on Lady Romwich. And that, in itself, was terrifying.
Benedict leaned back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with a casual air that Malcolm found frustratingly unbothered.
The man seemed to have no sense of the heavy silence Malcolm had been carrying since their conversation began. Benedict was too damn perceptive for his own good, and Malcolm knew he could feel the tension, knew he could sense that something had shifted in his friend since their last conversation.
Then, with a grin that Malcolm knew all too well, Benedict dropped the bomb.
“You know, I have it on good confirmation that Lord Hillsborough is hosting a pheasant hunt soon,” he began, eyes twinkling as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.
“It is always an affair to remember. The men get to hunt; the ladies get to play cards and Pall Mall. It is a highlight of the Season, and plenty of people find matches in such a way.” Malcolm braced himself.
“Perhaps your Lady Romwich will be there.”
Benedict grinned as he added, “and perhaps she will have a friend whom I can charm while you speak with your lady.”
His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he allowed the silence to stretch out between them, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond Benedict as his mind worked furiously.
Lady Romwich.
The name sparked an uncomfortable warmth deep in his belly. He had seen her only a few days ago, her defiance as sharp as ever, her beauty as undeniable as it was maddening.
Benedict’s voice broke through again, far too casually for Malcolm’s liking.
“You could use some company. Heavens, we both could. And you clearly want to see her again.”
Malcolm shot him a glare. The thought of Lady Romwich’s face, her sharp eyes watching him, full of suspicion and that barely contained tension. He could feel it all over again like it had been just moments ago. She was a puzzle he wanted to solve, and it frustrated him.
“I said I don’t need your suggestions, Benedict,” Malcolm bit out, his voice low and controlled, though the pulse of his thoughts betrayed him.
He did want to see her again. He couldn’t deny that. The idea of being in her presence, feeling that magnetism between them again, had an edge of something dangerous, and it made his blood quicken.
God, what is wrong with me?
He didn’t want to feel this way. It wasn’t just lust; it was something deeper, something he couldn’t quite name. He wanted to be near her, to see what lay behind those guarded eyes.
Damn it.
“Fine,” he growled. “I shall go,” he said finally, his voice rougher than he intended. Just as Benedict’s face lit up, Malcolm held up a hand. “But not because of her. Hector and I could do with the exercise. The hunt will be good for him. And for me.”
Benedict snorted, clearly unconvinced.
“Certainly, exercise. Whatever you say, Brigrock.” His grin was obvious, but Malcolm refused to rise to the bait.
Malcolm’s thoughts, however, betrayed him. The thought of seeing her again, it clung to him, lingering like smoke.
What if he saw that hint of vulnerability he’d caught a glimpse of before? What if she let her guard down, even just for a moment? What if…?
He mentally shook himself.
This is foolish.
“I will go for the exercise, Benedict,” he said again, this time with finality. “But that’s all.”
Benedict raised his glass in a mock salute. “Of course, old friend. Exercise it is.”
Malcolm’s mind, however, was already elsewhere. On a woman he couldn’t seem to forget, no matter how hard he tried.
His thoughts went back to what he would do when he saw Lady Romwich again.