Chapter 19 #2
Charles’s face had turned an ugly, mottled red. “You think this charade changes anything?”
“It changes everything.”
“No chancery court will be impressed by a sudden engagement made in a locked room after an assault.”
“They will be impressed by a formal marriage settlement prepared by my personal solicitor by morning.”
Charles took a menacing step forward. “You cannot marry her.”
Malcolm moved only his head, slowly looking Charles over from his loosened cravat down to his trembling hands. “Can I not?”
“She is—”
“Choose your next word with extreme care.”
Charles stopped dead. His nostrils flared like a winded horse.
Malcolm continued, his voice dropping into a smooth, terrifying purr.
“A court will hear that the Duke of Brigrock intends to marry the Dowager Countess of Romwich and provide a stable, protected household for her son. It will hear that Nicholas is welcome under my roof. It will hear that his mother has the immediate support of a duchess’s household, a duke’s fortune, and a duke’s name. ”
Charles’s mouth tightened into a thin, white line.
“And then,” Malcolm said, stepping closer until his shadow swallowed the man completely, “the court will hear from you. The second son of an earl, clinging to temporary authority over an estate that will one day belong to the very boy you wish to send away.”
Charles’s eyes flickered violently. Malcolm saw it. Fear. Small, sharp, and deeply rooted. So, he pressed the blade home.
“It will hear that you threatened to remove Nicholas from his mother unless she submitted to your …base demands.”
Charles went entirely pale beneath his flushed skin. “You cannot prove that. It’s your word against mine.”
Malcolm leaned nearer, his voice a whisper of pure malice.
“If necessary, I will put Lord Hayward, Lord Giltbury, and every single soul in this house on a witness stand between you and that child. I will hire barristers who will skin your reputation clean from your bones in open court. I will have every financial account you have ever touched examined. Every debt. Every creditor. Every hidden mistress. Every back-alley gambling marker.”
Charles’s lips parted. A cold sweat broke out along his forehead.
Ah. There it was.
Malcolm smiled faintly, a terrifying, humorless twitch of his lips. “You have debts.”
Charles said nothing.
“You have creditors who prefer not to wait for a seven-year-old boy to become of age.”
Still, silence.
Malcolm’s voice dropped. “Do not make me interested in your life.”
Penelope drew in a sharp, ragged breath behind him.
Charles tried to force a laugh, but it caught in his throat, turning into a weak cough. “You think yourself untouchable because of your bloody title!”
“No,” Malcolm said softly. “I know exactly what I can touch.”
He took one more deliberate step. Charles backed up until his spine hit the edge of the mahogany table.
“Stay away from Penelope.”
Charles swallowed hard, his throat clicking.
“Stay away from Nicholas.”
“You have no right!”
Malcolm reached out, seized Charles by the front of his silk waistcoat, and hauled him forward until they were nose to nose.
Charles’s words died instantly in his throat.
“If I see you lay a hand on her again, or hear her name cross your filthy lips, no court in England will find enough pieces of you to bury.”
Charles’s face completely drained of color.
Malcolm released him with a rough shove. Charles stumbled backward, caught his boots on the rug, and stared at him with wide, hollow eyes. For the first time all evening, he had no clever retort ready.
Penelope’s frantic breathing was the only sound in the room. Charles looked at her then, but only for a fraction of a second. Whatever he saw lingering in Malcolm’s dark gaze made him look away instantly.
Charles adjusted his cravat with fingers that failed twice before obeying his command. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his bloodied handkerchief, and dabbed at his mouth one last time before glancing toward the exit. He calculated his escape route like a trapped animal.
Malcolm did not move aside. He stood like a stone wall.
Charles was forced to edge around his massive frame, pressing his back against the wall to avoid touching him. At the threshold, he paused, his hand gripping the frame, though he did not turn fully back.
“You will regret this, Your Grace.”
Malcolm reached past him and pulled the door wide open, letting the bright light and loud music of the gala flood the small room.
“I regret not doing it sooner.”
Charles left, his hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor until they were swallowed by the crowd.
The heavy door shut behind him.
The music from the ballroom pressed faintly through the thick wood once more.
Malcolm stood perfectly still, his back to Penelope, listening to the absolute silence that settled between them.
Only when he was certain Charles was gone did he slowly turn around.
Penelope was still standing beside the writing desk, one hand braced heavily on its edge to keep her knees from buckling. Her face was entirely bloodless. Her large, honey-brown eyes were fixed on him, wide with a terrifying mix of shock, relief, and sudden apprehension.
“Penelope,” he said softly.
She flinched at the sound of her name on his lips. Not much. Just a slight tightening of her shoulders.
But it was enough to make Malcolm stop dead where he stood.
Her lips parted twice before she could force any air into her lungs to form the words. “What have you done?”