Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
“Your Grace,” Penelope urged when he still did not speak. “What have you done?”
Malcolm stood by the closed door, his broad shoulders blocking half the weak candlelight from the corridor beyond. He did not answer at once.
Penelope gripped the edge of the writing desk, her fingers digging into the wood until her silk glove slid against the polished mahogany. Her heart was beating in her throat.
His dark, unblinking gaze moved over her face, tracking the tear tracks, before dropping down to her trembling hand. “Do not call me that. We have covered formalities.”
Her fingers tightened, her knuckles turning bone-white. “This is hardly the moment to correct my address.”
“It is exactly the moment.”
Penelope stared at him. The small side room felt entirely too claustrophobic now that Charles was gone.
Before, her brother-in-law’s venomous fear had filled every corner. Now Malcolm did. His black coat, his broad shoulders, his dark eyes glittering in the candlelight, his leather-gloved hand still flexing once at his side as if his powerful body had not quite finished the fight.
“You cannot simply say such things because they serve in an argument, Your Grace. It is reckless.”
“I can say them if I mean them.”
Her breath stopped, trapped behind her ribs.
Malcolm stepped away from the door. Not quickly. He crossed only halfway toward her and stopped, leaving a deliberate, heavy space between them. The scent of him, sandalwood and the cold night air, wrapped around her, making her dizzy.
Penelope swallowed hard, her throat painfully dry. “You cannot mean it.”
“I do.”
“No.” She shook her head once, a desperate gesture. “No, you are angry. You heard him threaten Nicholas and you wished to frighten him. You reacted out of chivalry.”
“I wished to frighten him, yes.” Malcolm’s mouth hardened into a grim line. “I also fully intend to marry you.”
Penelope pressed one hand to her middle, her stomach twisting. The room tipped for half a second.
“I know you are afraid,” he said softly.
“I am not.”
“Do not lie to me, Penelope.”
Her head snapped up, her eyes wide. He did not soften the command, but his face changed. The dangerous anger in his eyes shifted, not gone, only turned entirely away from her.
Penelope’s lips parted, but no answer came.
Malcolm moved one deliberate step closer. The sheer heat radiating from him was palpable. “I will not let him separate you from Nicholas. I swear it.”
He held her gaze, pinning her with the fierce intensity of his stare until she was forced to look away first. Penelope rubbed nervously at her wrist where Charles had gripped her. The soft skin still ached beneath the plum silk of her sleeve.
“Why would you do this?” she demanded, her voice shaking. “Do not tell me it is only because Charles is vile. Many men are vile. You do not propose marriage to every threatened woman.”
His hand tightened once at his side, the leather of his glove creaking. Malcolm looked away to the smashed porcelain on the carpet, the broken little shepherdess lying in pieces right beside the dark smear of Charles’ blood.
He looked back at her, his expression raw and entirely unguarded. “Because when you were begging him not to take Nicholas, I wanted to tear this entire house apart with my bare hands.”
Penelope’s breath caught hard.
“Because your son should never have to hear that his mother had to bargain her body away to keep him safe.” His voice roughened, a low, gravelly sound.
“Because I have a name, a title, a fortune, and influence enough to make every man hesitate. Because if I walk away tonight and let you face that monster alone, I am no better than every man who failed you before.”
Her eyes stung with sudden, hot tears. “You are not responsible for me. Nor for my son.”
“No.” His gaze did not waver an inch. “But I wish to be.”
A profound silence spread between them. The music ended somewhere beyond the door, and a muffled burst of applause rose, distant and hollow. Penelope stood very still. Her heart beat so violently she felt it pulsing in her wrists.
Malcolm moved closer, slowly, giving her ample time to retreat if she chose.
She did not move.
He stopped directly before her, his massive frame towering over her.
“Penelope,” he said, and the deep, rough sound of her name in his voice made her fingers curl tightly into her palms, “will you marry me?”
Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her throat was entirely closed.
He lowered his head slightly, his dark eyes fixed on hers, thick with restraint.
“I will provide for you and for Nicholas. Your household will be secure. Your son will remain by your side. No school, no guardian, no grasping uncle will take him without coming through me first.”
“What do you require from this bargain?”
His heavy jaw shifted. “It is not a bargain.”
“It sounds like one.”
“It is a proposal.”
“A proposal usually contains some mention of affection, Your Grace.”
His eyes darkened instantly, the atmosphere in the room shifting, thick with a sudden, suffocating heat. Penelope immediately wished she had not said it. Then wished he would answer. Then wished she could look away from the raw hunger in his face.
Malcolm reached out and took her gloved hand. Slowly. Carefully.
She let him.
His large thumb rested against her knuckles, warm even through the layers of fabric. “You want affection spoken plainly?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Her mouth went completely dry. “I want truth.”
His gaze dropped to their joined hands. “I want you and Nicholas safe.” His fingers tightened slightly around hers. “And I want to be the one who keeps you safe.”
Her eyes burned fiercely.
“And… I want to kiss you,” he said, his voice dropping into a rough, intimate whisper that sent a shiver down her spine.
“I want it so damn badly it feels like a physical ache. I want to consume your thoughts until you cannot remember a single thing you are supposed to be worrying about. I want you entirely present in my arms, Penelope, blind to everything but the weight of my hands on you and the pleasure I am going to give you. But I will not do it while you are still looking over your shoulder. When I kiss you, I want you to be wholly mine. Without worries. Without inhibitions.”
Penelope stopped breathing entirely, her chest locked.
Malcolm released her hand at once, stepping back just a fraction, though his intense gaze never let her go. “I am at your mercy, Penelope. I will touch you only when you tell me you cannot bear another second without it.”
She drew in a long, cleansing breath.
She thought of Nicholas. His small, warm hand in hers. His bright, gap-toothed grin when Hector barreled toward him in the grass. His stubborn little chin when he spoke of hunting and manly pursuits.
Charles would send him away to be broken. Charles would hurt her sweet boy just to punish her.
Malcolm would stand in front of the entire world and dare them to try.
She straightened her spine, lifting her chin.
“Yes,” she said.
Malcolm went completely still.
“Yes,” she repeated, her voice ringing clear. “I will marry you.”
He did not smile. He only closed his eyes once, deeply. When he opened them, the dangerous tension in his face had finally settled into something resolute.
“Thank you.”
“That is a very strange thing to say to a woman accepting your hand.”
“It is all I can say without alarming you further.”
“You have already done plenty of that.”
“So I have.”
A sharp, sudden knock sounded at the heavy door.
Penelope jolted, her breath catching. Malcolm moved before she could, instantly placing his massive frame between her and the entrance.
“Who is it?” he called out, his voice harsh.
“Benedict,” came the cheerful, muffled answer from the corridor. Penelope pressed a hand over her mouth.
Malcolm opened the door only halfway, keeping his body as a shield. Benedict’s sharp gaze flicked past his shoulder, immediately finding the broken porcelain pieces, the dark smear of blood, and Penelope’s pale, tear-stained face. His easy smile vanished instantly.
“What happened?” Benedict asked, his tone turning serious.
“Charles threatened Penelope.”
Benedict’s eyes hardened into flint. “Where the devil is he?”
“Gone.”
Benedict looked between the two of them, his sharp mind putting the pieces together.
Malcolm said flatly, “We are to be married.”
Benedict’s brows shot straight into his hairline. Penelope closed her eyes, bracing for the reaction.
“Ah,” Benedict said after a long beat. “Well, that is certainly one definitive way to address the matter.”
“Benedict.”
“No, no. Excellent. Bold. Terrifyingly abrupt.” Benedict looked past Malcolm to Penelope, his voice softening with genuine concern. “Lady Romwich?”
Penelope lowered her hand from her mouth, forcing her voice to remain steady. “It is true.”
Benedict studied her face for a moment, then nodded once, resolute. “Then we had better make it respectable before the society gossips smell blood in the water. We need speed.”
Malcolm’s expression turned grim. “A special license.”
“Splendid,” Benedict said, a hint of his usual spark returning. “When is the happy day?”
Malcolm looked directly at Penelope. “Within the week.”
Her stomach fluttered wildly.
One week.
Seven days from a guarded country widow to a duchess of the realm. Seven days from paralyzing fear to something she did not yet dare name.
She nodded slowly.
Benedict clapped his hands once, then winced slightly at the loud sound in the quiet room.
“Good. I shall fetch Lady Amelia and Lady Violet before they launch a full search party.” He glanced down at the floorboards again. “Though I shall deeply mourn the rug.”
He slipped out, closing the door before either could answer.
Penelope stared at the wood panel. The enormity of what she had just agreed to pressed down on her chest all at once.
Marriage. London. A special license. Nicholas living under Malcolm’s roof. Malcolm across from her at breakfast. Malcolm’s large hand resting at her waist. Malcolm’s deep voice in the dark.
She reached out, touching the sharp edge of the desk again to ground herself.