Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
The ballroom glittered with candlelight and diamonds.
Music swept beneath the painted ceilings of the Marquess of Hayward’s townhouse, violins rising and falling above the hum of polite conversation.
Ladies drifted across the polished parquet floor in silk and satin, their fans fluttering like bright-winged birds. Footmen carried heavy silver trays of champagne through clusters of laughing guests, while near the card room, a gentleman barked out a laugh loud enough to turn heads.
Penelope stepped through the double doors beside Violet and Amelia, her gloved hand resting lightly on Lord Giltbury’s arm. Her corset felt restrictive as every eye in the entryway seemed to track their arrival.
“Well,” Violet murmured beside her, eyes dancing as she surveyed the packed room, “Lord Hayward appears determined to bankrupt himself through hospitality.”
“As long as there is food, I approve,” Amelia said.
“There is always food where Lord Hayward is involved,” Lord Giltbury muttered dryly.
Almost on cue, Lord Hayward appeared through the crowd, a grin fixed upon his face.
“Lady Romwich,” he declared, catching Penelope’s hand with dramatic flair. “You have arrived at last. Another quarter hour, and I would have been forced to begin mourning publicly.”
“You recover from grief remarkably quickly, my lord,” Penelope said.
“I have had years of practice.” Lord Hayworth turned, kissing Amelia’s hand next. “Lady Amelia. Lady Violet. Ravishing as ever.”
Amelia and Violet curtsied after greeting him back.
Then, the Marquess offered Lord Giltbury a brief bow before leaning closer to Penelope. His voice dropped. “You look lovely tonight, by the way. I should warn you half the gentlemen in attendance have already asked whether the Dowager Countess of Romwich means to dance.”
Penelope smiled politely. Her fingers tightened around the ivory sticks of her fan until the wood creaked. “I am… uncertain about dancing, my lord.”
“Oh, that will disappoint quite a few men, my lady.”
The orchestra swelled again, the opening notes of a new set rising into the rafters. Penelope turned slightly toward the ballroom floor and saw him.
Malcolm stood near the far wall, apart from the crowd.
Black coat. Black cravat. Broad shoulders cutting a stark, dangerous line against the gold-paneled room. One gloved hand rested behind his back while the other held a glass untouched. Men gave him space, a wide berth of respect and fear, without seeming aware they were doing it.
The candlelight caught the rugged scar along his jaw. He was not speaking. Not smiling. Just watching.
His gaze found hers across the expanse of the room.
Penelope’s breath caught hard, a sharp ache in her chest. She looked away at once, her pulse suddenly racing.
“Oh,” Violet said softly beside her. “There he is.”
Amelia’s eyes flicked toward Malcolm and then immediately toward Penelope’s face. “You are blushing,” Amelia murmured.
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
Penelope lifted her fan, snapping it open. “It is warm in here.”
“Might I remind you that I’m your dearest friend, and you don’t need to lie to me?”
Lord Hayworth followed their gaze. A grin spread across his face. “Ah,” he said. “Now the evening improves.”
Across the room, Malcolm finally moved.
Her pulse skipped. He crossed the ballroom slowly, people parting before him almost unconsciously. A young lord stepped backward so quickly he nearly collided with a potted palm. Malcolm’s dark gaze never left hers. Not once.
Penelope became painfully aware of everything. The tightness of her silk bodice. The sudden warmth beneath her skin. The way her fingers pressed bruised marks into her fan.
He stopped directly before her. The sheer size of him blocked out the rest of the room.
“Lady Romwich.”
“Your Grace.”
His eyes moved over her face once, then lower, taking in the deep plum silk of her gown. “You look very beautiful tonight.”
Heat climbed straight into her cheeks, hot and sudden.
Violet made a suspicious choking sound beside her. Malcolm looked at her friend only briefly. “Lady Violet, Lady Amelia.”
“Your Grace,” Violet replied innocently.
Amelia said nothing; she was only too clearly trying to control her smirk.
Malcolm extended one large hand toward Penelope. “I would be honored to share this next dance with you.”
Penelope hesitated for half a heartbeat. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Then, she placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers immediately, warm and heavy even through her glove.
Behind her, Lord Hayworth muttered, “Finally.”
Malcolm led her onto the floor, his grip firm. The orchestra shifted, the violins taking up a waltz. Penelope’s stomach tightened into a knot.
“I was not aware you danced, Your Grace.”
“Not if I can help it,” he responded, “but there are exceptions to that rule.”
His hand settled at her waist. Even through layers of silk and corset stays, she felt the branding weight of it.
She drew a careful breath as they began to move.
Malcolm danced far better than she expected. He danced smoothly and confidently. One turn flowed effortlessly into the next, his powerful body guiding hers with maddening ease.
“You look surprised,” he said.
“I merely expected you to glower through the evening from some dark corner.”
His mouth shifted slightly at one corner. Not quite a smile, but close. The movement sent warmth racing unexpectedly through her chest.
“You are enjoying yourself,” he observed.
“I was not aware I was forbidden from doing so.”
“You looked determined to behave sensibly when you arrived.”
So he’d been watching for her?
“And now?”
His dark eyes held hers, trapping her. “Now you look distracted. Distracting. Not sensible in the least.”
Her pulse jumped. Around them, couples spun beneath the glittering chandeliers. Conversation blurred into background noise, but Penelope felt every inch of Malcolm’s attention fixed squarely upon her. The scent of him—sandalwood, leather, and just a hint of brandy—wrapped around her.
“You ought not stare at me so,” she said softly.
“Why?”
“People will notice.”
“They already do.”
His thumb shifted once against the fabric at her waist. A tiny movement that had a devastating effect. It rubbed a slow, deliberate circle against her spine.
Penelope looked away quickly, her throat dry. “You enjoy making me uncomfortable.”
“No,” Malcolm said quietly, his voice a low vibration she felt in her bones. “My only wish is to make you comfortable.”
Her breath caught. He lowered his head slightly, his breath brushing her temple.
“You have not looked at another man once since we began dancing.”
The words struck low in her stomach, heavy with possessiveness.
“Your Grace.”
“And I have thought of little else but you for two weeks.”
The room seemed suddenly too warm, the air thick. Penelope swallowed hard, looking back up at him. “You should not say such things.”
“Why?”
“Because they are dangerous.”
His gaze darkened, intense and raw. “Yes.”
The orchestra carried them through another turn. His hand tightened slightly at her waist when another couple drifted too close.
The protective movement was instinctive. Immediate. Penelope hated how much she noticed that. Hated how safe it made her feel.
“You are quiet now,” Malcolm said.
“You make it difficult to think.”
“That is honest, at least.”
She looked up at him then, intending to answer sharply, and forgot the words entirely.
Heavens, he is handsome.
Not polished like the gentlemen of the ton. Not elegant in the soft, practiced way society preferred. He looked dangerous, a predator in a ballroom. The scar across his jaw only made it worse.
“You are staring now,” he murmured.
Heat flooded her face. “You are intolerable.”
“And yet you still dance with me.” His voice dropped lower, a rough whisper meant only for her. “And you have not once asked me to let you go.”
Her stomach twisted with a fierce, terrifying hunger.
The music began too quickly. Penelope suddenly wished it would continue for another hour, keeping them locked in this small, private world.
Malcolm’s hand lingered at her waist a fraction too long when the dance ended, his fingers pressing into her skin before he reluctantly stepped back.
People around them resumed talking immediately, though Penelope felt oddly unsteady, as though she had stepped off a moving carriage.
Malcolm bowed. “Thank you for the dance.”
She managed a small nod.
He studied her one moment longer, his eyes burning, before his attention shifted toward someone across the room. “I must speak with Benedict before he gets accosted by every debutante in this ballroom.”
“That may already be too late.”
A rough sound of amusement escaped him. Then he turned and was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
Penelope stood still for several seconds, trying unsuccessfully to slow her shallow breathing until her friend approached her again.
“Well,” Violet said, appearing at her elbow, “that looked rather intimate.”
“Hush.”
“You were staring at him as though he were dessert.”
“Violet.”
Amelia fanned herself dramatically from behind them. “I may require a glass of lemonade after witnessing that. Several glasses.”
Penelope turned away before they could see how warm her face had become.
“I need air. Excuse me, ladies,” she whispered.
She moved toward the edge of the ballroom, needing space. Anything to quiet the frantic pounding in her chest.
She had barely reached the dim corridor when a hand closed sharply around her upper arm. Penelope jerked in surprise, pain shooting through her muscles. She turned.
Charles.
Ice flooded her stomach. He looked terrible. His face was flushed dark with anger, his jaw tight beneath carefully trimmed whiskers. His grip bit through her silk sleeve, bruising.
“You,” he said quietly, his teeth clicking together, “will come with me.”
Penelope pulled her arm back at once, but his fingers clamped tighter. “What are you doing here?”
“You seem disappointed.”
“You wrote to say that you had gone to Scotland.”