Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Aweek later, the sun hung low in the sky, casting long, bruised shadows over Lord Hillsborough’s sprawling estate as Penelope stepped onto the stone terrace overlooking the garden.
Around her, the ladies were preparing for their first game of Pall Mall, while the men were preparing for the hunt, their camaraderie unmistakable as they checked the barrels of their rifles and adjusted the cinches of their saddles.
Penelope’s gaze swept over the crowd, but her thoughts remained anchored to Nicholas.
He stood at the edge of the group of gentlemen, his posture awkward, his small shoulders squared in a desperate attempt to look older than his seven years.
The air on the terrace was sharp with the scent of damp earth and the metallic tang of gun oil.
Penelope moved through the throng of gentlemen, her silk skirts whispering against the stone as she sought out Lord Hillsborough. She stopped several paces away from him.
“Lord Hillsborough,” she began, her voice was soft, but even she could hear her tinge of worry.
The Earl of Hillsborough turned toward her, his face flushed with the brisk morning air.
“Lady Romwich! A fine morning, is it not? The birds will be out in plenty today, I suspect.”
“Yes, it is a glorious day,” Penelope replied. “I apologize for bothering you right as you are preparing for the hunt, I wonder if I might ask a favor of you before you set off. It is about my son, whom you may have noticed standing at the edge of the group.”
Lord Hillsborough shifted his weight, giving her his full attention.
“Anything, Lady Romwich.”
Penelope’s gaze drifted toward her son again. Nicholas was currently attempting to mimic the stride of a taller man, his small hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.
“He is most eager today,” she said, her voice dropping an octave.
She pressed her palms flat against her midsection, trying to still the flutter there.
“But he has never done anything of this sort before, and I worry his excitement could get him into harm. I would appreciate it if you could keep an eye on him. He is still so young, and I worry about him out there with the men. The woods can be… unpredictable.”
Lord Hillsborough followed her gaze, his expression softening as he watched Nicholas’s frantic enthusiasm.
“Of course, of course,” he said. He reached out and gave her arm a reassuring pat. “I shall make sure he stays out of trouble, my lady, and will keep him in my own party. It will be good for him to have a bit of adventure, build some character, but I will keep him in check. I promise you that.”
“Thank you, Lord Hillsborough,” Penelope said. She felt the tight coil of tension in her chest loosen by a fraction, though her pulse remained quick. “I trust your word. Truly.”
“It is no trouble at all,” he insisted, his eyes sparkling with the coming thrill of the chase. He straightened his waistcoat. “Let the boy have his fun. He’s in good hands.”
As he turned to join the cluster of riders and barking hounds, Penelope remained anchored to her spot on the terrace.
She watched Nicholas’s small figure move further toward the tree line, her gaze heavy and shadowed with worry. She drew a slow breath of the biting air, her heart a heavy weight in her breast, hoping with every fiber of her being that her trust was not misplaced.
“Penelope.”
The smooth voice broke through her thoughts like an unwanted touch.
Charles.
He stood just a few feet away, his presence feeling as oppressive as a summer storm. Penelope stiffened, her spine turning to a rod of iron, but she forced a polite, empty smile as he moved into her personal space.
“Good morning, Charles,” she said. Her tone was cool, cordial, and distant. “How are you?”
“Much better now that you have graced us with your presence.” Charles’s voice was too smooth, his gaze lingering on the curve of her throat for a heartbeat too long.
He flashed a smile that held far too much unspoken meaning, and Penelope felt the air between them shift, growing thick and cloying.
“Ah, I see you’ve managed to escape the house for a while,” she said, her eyes quickly scanning the group of men to avoid his stare. “I trust the renovations are going well?”
Charles followed her gaze, a hint of dark amusement playing on his lips.
“Indeed, and I have no doubt the hunt will go splendidly. I could not help but overhear you asking Lord Hillsborough to watch over Nicholas. Why not simply ask me? I am the boy’s uncle.”
“I merely went straight to the host,” Penelope answered. “It is his responsibility to look after his hunters, no?” The excuse felt like ash on her tongue.
Charles opened his mouth to speak, but she cut in again first.
“I am curious, though, has your family joined you in your estate out here yet?”
It was a smooth, easy way to remind Charles that he had a wife and his own family, that he ought to stay away from hers.
“No.” Charles mouth tightened. “My wife is visiting relatives in France, and her visit only made me realize just how much of my brother’s family I am missing out on spending time with. Do not worry, Penelope, that shall soon change.”
He turned back to her, his eyes narrowing as his gaze traveled from her hem to her brow. His hand drifted toward hers on the terrace railing, a subtle, creeping move meant to close the gap.
Penelope fought the urge to recoil, her feet remaining planted on the stone but right as she thought he would do something too bold, a sharp whistle from Lord Hillsborough cut him off. “Gentlemen! Ready yourselves! The hunt awaits!”
A wave of relief washed over Penelope as Charles pulled back, his attention snapping toward the horses. He gave her a parting glance, his eyes lingering with a promise that felt like a threat.
Charles strode off to join the riders, and Penelope let out a shuddering breath that didn’t quite ease the knot in her chest.
“Penelope, are you well?” Violet asked, her voice a soft, knowing interruption.
Penelope turned, her smile more genuine but her voice carrying an edge. “Yes, of course. Just a little too much company for my liking.”
Violet gave a silent nod, but Penelope’s attention was already darting across the field.
The riders were beginning to line up, the horses shifting and snorting in the crisp air.
And then there he was.
The Duke of Brigrock, dressed in his fine hunting attire, was one of the last to take his position.
Penelope’s breath caught in her throat as she saw him. The rush of heat to her cheeks was impossible to ignore.
He stood at the edge of the party, as though people were giving him a wide berth.
He didn’t seem fazed at all. His broad shoulders squared, his posture commanding with the ease of a man born to lead.
His shirt was slightly open at the collar, revealing the corded, tan muscle of his neck.
His gaze swept across the terrace, but when his eyes locked onto hers, the world seemed to freeze.
For a heartbeat, the laughter and the barking of the hounds faded into a dull hum. Neither of them moved. The pull between them was a physical thing, heavy and undeniable. Penelope felt her pulse hammer against her skin, her lungs refusing to draw air.
Then, she snapped her gaze away, her heart racing.
I can’t.
Not with him. Not with so much at stake.
The men rode off into the woods, a blur of red coats and bay horses. Penelope stood frozen for a moment longer, her eyes lingering on the Duke’s retreating form for a fraction of a second more than propriety allowed.
Malcolm could feel the eyes on him even before he stepped closer to the center of the gathering.
The air seemed to shift and thicken as he approached, the whispers slithering through the crowd like a foul, cold undercurrent.
Despite the years that had passed since he’d earned the jagged battle scars on his face in the screaming chaos of the Navy, they still viewed him like he was an animal.
But he didn’t care. He did not need their shallow approval to draw breath into his lungs.
He heard Benedict’s voice before he even saw the man.
“There you are, Brigrock! I was beginning to think you had turned feral in that estate of yours, surrounded by nothing but hounds and silence.”
Malcolm’s lips curled in the ghost of a smirk, but his gaze remained hard as flint, tracing the line of horses.
“Perhaps I have,” he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that resonated in his own chest.
Benedict grinned wide and patted Malcolm on the back in a mockingly hearty manner. Malcolm’s muscles tensed into iron coils under the contact.
“You ought to smile, my friend,” Benedict teased, his eyes dancing with a light that Malcolm found increasingly exhausting. “You know the ton is already whispering about your tendency to devour children whole for breakfast. You would not want to feed their imaginations further, would you?”
Malcolm didn’t bother to respond, his scowl deepening until the silvered scar on his cheek pulled tight and white. Benedict’s humor was an endless, tiresome thing, yet Malcolm found he couldn’t entirely suppress the faint glint of amusement buried deep in his gut.
The teasing was a distraction he didn’t realize he needed, a shield against the suffocating politeness of the estate.
As they walked toward the staging area, a few lords approached. Their expressions were neutral masks, but their eyes were full of a veiled, ugly interest. One of them, Lord Garrick, stood his ground as they passed, a condescending smile pulling at his thin, pale lips.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Your Grace,” Garrick remarked, his voice dripping with a mock politeness that turned Malcolm’s stomach. “I was under the impression the hunt was more for gentlemen of proper breeding and… social graces.”
Malcolm’s gaze darkened instantly. He didn’t bother with the empty niceties of their class. He took a long, deliberate step into Garrick’s personal space, his broad shadow swallowing the smaller man entirely.
“Your opinion of me is hardly a concern, Lord Garrick,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, predatory rasp. “I have little use for your approval, or your company.”
The tension in the air thickened until it was a physical weight. Malcolm didn’t move a muscle, but the sheer breadth of his shoulders and the cold, unyielding steel in his eyes spoke volumes.
Lord Garrick’s smile faltered; his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. He had clearly overestimated the safety provided by a public lawn.
“Is there a problem, Garrick?” Malcolm asked.
He kept his voice low, a deliberate edge that felt as though it could cut through stone.
“I suggest you keep your idle chatter to less dangerous topics. I have grown quite fond of hunting, as I am certain you have heard.” He tilted his head mockingly.
“There is something about the chase that really unleashes me.”
Garrick’s eyes widened, his pupils pinpricks of sudden fear.
The bravado evaporated in a heartbeat, his posture crumbling as if his spine had turned to ash. He muttered a hasty, unintelligible excuse and backed away, giving Malcolm a wide berth as if he expected the Duke to spring at his throat.
Malcolm let the man retreat, watching him with cold, silent amusement. He didn’t need to raise his voice or lift a hand. He only needed to remain still and let the wolf they feared show its teeth.
The men were making final, frantic adjustments to their rifles and mounting their snorting steeds. The air crackled with the electric energy of the coming chase. On the terrace, the women gathered in clusters of silk and lace, their chatter forming a constant, distant background hum.
It was then that he found her.
Penelope.
She stood across the field, her figure a striking, soft contrast against the vibrant greens and golds of the lawn. The breeze tugged at her chocolate-brown hair, and her expression, one of quiet, guarded contemplation, immediately drew his focus like a magnet.
He knew she felt it too. That magnetic, thrumming pull that had ignited the last time they stood in the dirt together near his cottage. She didn’t look at him with disdain or fear like other people did. Her look was something else entirely.
Something far more dangerous. Something that threatened to make Malcolm unravel slowly, make him feel as if the walls he kept up were getting weaker.
Her eyes lifted, and their gazes locked across the distance. The world seemed to stop, the barking of the hounds and the shouting of the grooms reduced to a dull, insignificant hum. Neither of them looked away.
Malcolm found himself lost in the deep, honey-brown pools of her eyes, noting the subtle curve of her mouth and the poised, guarded stillness of her body. Hunger gnawed at his insides, his muscles going sharply, suddenly tense.
Benedict broke the spell with a knowing grin. “Now this is interesting.”
Malcolm’s jaw tightened until it ached. “Stay out of it, Benedict.”
“Oh, I’m just observing. No harm in that.”
A few moments passed before Penelope finally turned her head, breaking the connection. But the effect lingered in Malcolm’s blood. He could feel his heart rate quicken, his body taut with the primal instinct to close the distance and claim the connection he was trying to deny.
“Go on, Malcolm,” Benedict teased, sensing the inner turmoil his friend tried to hide. “I dare say you are getting all broody on me. One would think you were actually going to do something about it.”
Malcolm gritted his teeth, his fingers tightening on the reins. “You should keep your voice down, Benedict. We’re not in some private salon.”
Benedict chuckled, unfazed. “Ah, you are serious then. All right, all right.”
The men were gathering now, the horses stamping and snorting in the crisp air. Malcolm’s gaze fell to the group, but his mind remained partially on the woman on the terrace. His body responded to her presence with a primal urgency he hadn’t felt in years.
He mounted his horse, but before he turned away, his eyes flicked to Nicholas.
The boy was doing his best to keep up with the older men, his strides short but determined, his chin tucked low. Nicholas was eager, too eager, perhaps.
Malcolm watched him for a moment longer, noting the fire in the boy’s eyes. It reminded him of a younger version of himself, a boy trying to find his place in a world that had no guidance.
Malcolm looked back to the riders, his mind shifting to the hunt. His muscles tensed as he spurred his horse forward, the rhythm of the hooves beating in sync with the heavy thud of his pulse.
The chase had only just begun.