Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The sun beat down lazily over the terrace, but the warmth did little to ease the cold knot tightening in Penelope’s chest.
Around her, the rhythmic clack-clack of mallets hitting balls filled the air as the game of Pall Mall began. Penelope swung her mallet, but the ball rolled aimlessly, her focus constantly fracturing.
Her gaze strayed toward the horizon where the gentlemen had mounted their horses. Among the sea of bay and chestnut, she tracked one small, lithe figure. Nicholas.
Her world was riding off into the tall grass with Lord Hillsborough, and nearby, the broad, commanding silhouette of Malcolm was barely visible.
Penelope bit her lip, the taste of salt and worry sharp on her tongue.
She willed herself to look away, but the concern in her stomach only twisted tighter.
Violet stepped into her line of sight, her silk skirts hissing against the grass.
“Once again, I see you are utterly distracted today.” Her voice was light, carrying a teasing lilt, but her hazel eyes glinted with a sharp, pointed mischief.
She leaned in, her bonnet brushing Penelope’s shoulder.
“I do believe your mind is miles away from the Pall Mall, and I’m certain it is not just your son that is troubling you.
” Penelope let out a sharp huff, smoothing the front of her gown with a restless hand.
“I am certain I do not know what you mean, Violet,” she said, her voice coming out a fraction too high. She could feel a creeping warmth staining her cheeks.
Violet raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a slow, sly grin.
“Oh, come now. It is clear as day. You’ve been eyeing the hunting party since the first hound bayed, and I dare say there is one man among them who has caught your attention.” She dropped her voice to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “Perhaps it is a certain brooding Duke?”
Penelope’s breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that burned her throat. She quickly masked the reaction with a small, forced laugh and brushed a stray lock of chocolate-brown hair behind her ear.
“I am not worried about the Duke of Brigrock, Violet,” she said. Her voice was firm, an attempt at a finality that they both knew was a lie. “I am merely concerned about Nicholas. He’s still just a child, and the woods are deep.”
Violet’s grin only widened. “Oh, I am sure.” She drew the words out, her eyes sparkling.
“But it is certainly no crime to notice His Grace’s presence.
He fills a room even when he is standing in a field, although that might be more so the fact that he rarely shows his face, so his presence is commanding. ”
Penelope thought that his presence was commanding even when he stood only with her and Nicholas.
Her eyes flicked toward the men, where the Duke sat astride his horse, his muscular frame commanding the attention of every eye on the terrace.
Penelope turned back to the game, her cheeks burning under the scrutiny. She didn’t reply, hoping the silence would end the topic, but Violet leaned in closer.
“Perhaps it is not just your son you are worried about,” Violet’s voice was quieter now, probing the softest parts of Penelope’s heart. “Perhaps you are also worried about what His Grace might be doing to your own pulse, to that very guarded heart of yours.”
Penelope’s fingers gripped the mallet handle until the wood bit into her palms. She could feel her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She shook her head and forced a calm, empty smile.
“That is enough, Violet. I am here to enjoy the afternoon, nothing more, and to make sure Nicholas gets a reprieve if even just for today.”
Violet smirked, clearly satisfied with the nerve she had struck, but she turned her attention back to her mallet.
As the game resumed, the light chatter of the other ladies formed a background hum.
Penelope tried to focus on the wooden ball, but her eyes darted back to the distant group of hunters like a compass needle to the north.
“Such a shame, really,” came a brittle, sneering voice.
Penelope’s muscles tensed instantly as she turned.
Lady Constance stood several paces away, her nose tilted at a haughty angle.
“Such a shame that the poor boy has no father,” she continued, her voice dripping with a false, oily sympathy. “And that his mother has no intention of ever remarrying. Not that she would have any easy time if she did. Who would want to marry a widow?”
She looked down at Penelope with a pleased smirk.
Penelope’s knuckles went white as she gripped her mallet. The insult sliced through the humid air, a direct strike at the foundation of her life.
Violet’s head snapped toward the woman, her face flushing with a sudden, sharp fury. “How dare you!” she exclaimed, her voice a whip-crack across the lawn. “What a cruel, baseless thing to say.”
Penelope placed a firm hand on Violet’s arm, feeling the heat of her friend’s anger. She shook her head slowly, though the hurt was a dull ache in her chest.
“It is all right, Violet,” she said softly. She turned to face Lady Constance, her spine a rod of iron. “I know exactly what is good for my child.”
Lady Constance’s eyes narrowed, her mouth twisting into a sour line as if she had expected a scream instead of a shield.
“You are quite right, of course,” Penelope continued. Her voice was steady, balanced on an edge of cold steel. “I don’t need anyone’s approval to raise my son, and certainly not from someone who doesn’t know the first thing about what it takes to protect him.”
The other ladies fell silent, the only sound the distant barking of a dog. Penelope stood tall, her chin lifted, her honey-brown eyes focused and unblinking. She refused to let them see a single crack in her composure.
Violet stepped in, still glaring at Constance. “Do not let her get to you, Penelope. She knows nothing of your strength. You are doing what is best for Nicholas, and that’s all that matters.”
Penelope gave her friend a grateful look, her heart slowing as the immediate threat receded. “Yes,” she agreed softly. “That is all that matters.”
As the conversation drifted toward safer topics, Penelope felt the sting of the remark linger like a physical bruise. Raising Nicholas alone was a path through thorns, and every day she made decisions that clutched at her heart. But she would walk it for him. Always for him.
She turned her attention back to the game, her grip on the mallet loosening as she forced herself into the rhythm of the play.
But even as she smiled and struck the ball, part of her remained fixed on the horizon, watching for a small boy, and for the man whose shadow had fallen so heavily across her life.
The heat of the sun had begun to wane as the hunting party pressed deeper into the heart of the woods, the air thick and heavy with the scent of damp earth and crushed pine needles.
The men were spread out in a loose, disciplined line, their eyes scanning the tangled underbrush for the slightest tremor of movement.
Malcolm moved with them, his boots silent on the mossy floor. His rifle rested comfortably in the crook of his arm, a familiar weight, but his mind refused to stay on the game.
His thoughts kept drifting back to the terrace, to Lady Romwich. It was difficult to shake the image of her face, the way her honey-brown eyes had locked onto his, and the electric tension that had hummed between them.
His focus snapped back to the present when he caught sight of a flash of movement through the oak trees, something moving much too quietly for the boisterous lords of the party. He squinted, his pulse quickening as he recognized the boy.
Nicholas.
The boy was crouched low in the ferns, his eyes fixed on a patch of briars ahead. He didn’t appear to notice that he had strayed nearly fifty yards from the safety of Lord Hillsborough’s group. His entire world was focused on a single hare frozen near a stump.
Malcolm felt a sharp tug of amusement, quickly followed by a dark ripple of annoyance.
Hillsborough would be livid if he found out that the boy had wandered off alone.
The hunt was no place for a child to be playing at a soldier’s game, not with the unpredictable terrain and the danger of a stray shot.
Malcolm moved forward, his pace slow and deliberate, until he was close enough to speak without sending the boy leaping out of his skin.
“Why are you so far from the group, Nicholas?” Malcolm’s voice was a low rumble, barely louder than the rustle of the leaves.
Nicholas jumped, his shoulders hitting his ears before he spun around. He looked at the ground, his face flushing a hot, embarrassed red as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“Oh! Your Grace, I—I was chasing after a hare,” he admitted, his voice a breathless mixture of shame and lingering excitement.
Malcolm studied him, noting the boy’s quiet, vibrating intensity. He had been impressed by young boy’s curiosity at the cottage, but this was a dangerous streak of recklessness. Then again, he had thought little of stumbling onto a stranger’s land and trusting an unfamiliar dog.
It seemed that Nicholas had the spirit of a hunter.
“I see you are quick, I shall give you that,” Malcolm said with a short, sharp nod.
He kept his voice neutral, masking the warmth he felt.
“But you should stay with the group. You never know when something bigger, and hungrier, might appear.” He paused, watching the boy’s eyes.
“And if you truly want to catch something, you’ll need more than speed. You need patience.”
Nicholas looked up, a small, tentative smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I have been practicing my sneaking,” he said, puffing his chest out until the buttons of his jacket strained. “Hector taught me.”
Malcolm let out a short, amused laugh that felt foreign in his chest. “Is that so? If a setter is your teacher, you are in better hands than most. But you need to learn to move like a shadow. A hare will not run if it cannot sense that you were there to begin with.”