Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
The carriage rolled through the gates of Brigrock Hall just before sunset.
Penelope looked out the polished glass window as the great stone house emerged between the ancient, sweeping oak trees. It was an imposing monument of gray stone walls, climbing dark green ivy, and tall windows that burned a rich, welcoming gold with candlelight.
The first time she had come to this estate, her heart had been half-wild with panic, her shoes sinking into the muddy earth as she frantically searched for Nicholas through the terrifying dark.
Now she arrived sitting upon velvet cushions, returning as its Duchess.
The thought still felt strangely heavy, almost surreal, against her skin.
Beside her, Nicholas nearly climbed directly over Malcolm’s lap to see better, his small boots dangling precariously close to the Duke’s immaculate trousers.
“We are really living here?” the boy asked, pressing his nose flat against the glass for perhaps the sixth time that afternoon.
“Yes,” Malcolm said, his deep baritone rumbling through the small space of the carriage.
“For always?”
“For a very long time, I imagine.”
Nicholas turned around and grinned so hard his cheeks turned a bright, vibrant pink.
Penelope watched the two of them together quietly, her gaze softening.
Nicholas leaned his small frame against Malcolm’s side without a shred of hesitation now.
It happened entirely naturally, unconsciously, as though some lonely, fatherless part of her son had simply decided it belonged right there against the big man.
And Malcolm let him.
There was no sudden stiffness in the Duke’s shoulders. No awkward, aristocratic correction about posture or personal space. Just one large, leather-gloved hand resting absently but securely against Nicholas’s shoulder whenever the carriage lurched too hard over the gravel path.
The sight pressed somewhere deeply tender, somewhere long-hidden, inside Penelope’s chest.
With a final crunch of iron wheels, the carriage stopped before the grand stone steps. Before the footman could even move to lower the iron steps, the heavy oak front doors of Brigrock Hall exploded outward, and a mass of chestnut-and-white fur came hurtling down the steps.
“Nicholas!” Penelope exclaimed, reaching out a warning hand.
It was too late, for her son launched himself straight out of the carriage door the moment it swung open, diving directly into the dog’s frantic path.
Hector hit him like a joyous cannonball. Nicholas fell straight backward into the smooth gravel with a delighted, ringing shriek, while the massive hound pinned him down, licking his face with wild, enthusiastic devotion.
“Traitor,” Malcolm said, stepping down from the carriage and looking down at the ecstatic dog.
Nicholas laughed so hard he could barely draw breath, his arms wrapped around the hound’s thick neck. “He missed me! Look, he missed me!”
Malcolm turned back and offered Penelope his hand to help her descend.
His broad, calloused fingers closed around hers with immense care, as if she were made of fragile glass.
Warm. Steady. Every single time he touched her now, her pulse seemed to notice and skyrocket before the rest of her mind could even process the proximity.
As her slippers hit the gravel, the grand front doors opened fully. A long, pristine line of housemaids, footmen, and estate staff stood waiting in perfect formation inside the cavernous, marble-floored entrance hall.
Penelope instinctively straightened her spine, her aristocratic training taking over.
She had managed a grand household before at Romwich Hall.
She knew exactly how servants watched a new, unexpected marriage.
She knew how kitchen staff whispered, how maids gossiped, and how elderly butlers observed every single glance, every cold silence, and every forced smile between a master and mistress.
Malcolm, however, walked past them seeming entirely unconcerned by the weight of their scrutiny.
“Welcome home, Your Graces,” the silver-haired butler said, bowing deeply from the waist.
Home.
The word caught in Penelope’s throat, sending a strange thrill through her veins.
Nicholas had already scrambled upright from the dirt, entirely unbothered by the gravel dust on his coat, and was currently trying to convince the massive hound to greet the staff with proper decorum.
“Hector, no, look at me. Shake paws properly like a gentleman, like this.”
The dog simply sneezed directly into the boy’s face.
Nicholas looked utterly delighted, wiping his cheek with his sleeve. Penelope pressed her lips tightly together, her shoulders shaking as she tried to stop herself from laughing aloud in front of her new staff.
Malcolm, however, failed at restraint entirely. A rough, low sound of amusement escaped his chest as he watched the utter disaster unfolding on his pristine marble floor.
The line of servants looked visibly stunned. Penelope realized why a fleeting moment later, the infamous, terrifying Duke was openly laughing. It was small. Brief. Barely a rumble in his throat. But it was unmistakable.
Malcolm noticed the entire staff staring at him as if he had grown a second head, and his expression flattened into a stern, unreadable mask immediately.
Too late.
Mrs. Wilcox, the stern housekeeper, looked as though she might genuinely faint from sheer shock right onto her keys. Penelope hid her triumphant smile behind her lace glove.
Dinner that evening was served in a smaller, more intimate morning parlor rather than the enormous, echoing formal hall. Penelope suspected Malcolm had ordered it done deliberately to keep her from feeling overwhelmed by the vastness of the estate.
The room glowed softly under the gentle light of a dozen beeswax candles.
Rich, dark mahogany paneling lined the walls, reflecting the dancing flames, while a gentle evening rain tapped quietly against the tall glass windows.
Footmen moved silently in and out, serving roasted meats, summer vegetables, and heavy red wine.
Nicholas sat directly between Penelope and Malcolm, trying very hard to behave like a proper young gentleman of the ton and failing spectacularly every few minutes.
“So,” the boy announced loudly, attacking a roasted potato, “am I supposed to call you Papa now?”
Penelope choked slightly on her wine, coughing into her napkin as her cheeks flushed. Across the table, one of the young footmen visibly jolted, nearly dropping a silver serving spoon onto the rug.
Malcolm blinked once, his wineglass halting halfway to his lips. The silence in the room stretched out, heavy and filled with bated breath.
Nicholas frowned, looking between them with innocent confusion. “Or should I still say ‘Your Grace’ when we are at the table?”
“You are seven,” Malcolm said, his deep voice slicing through the tension. “If you call me ‘Your Grace’ while you are covered in potato grease, I shall assume you are mocking me.”
Nicholas’s face brightened instantly. “Then Papa?”
Penelope watched Malcolm carefully over the rim of her glass. Something profound shifted in the lines of his rugged face. It wasn’t fear or discomfort. It was something much quieter. Something deeply fragile.
“If you wish,” the Duke said at last, his voice softening.
Nicholas beamed so brightly that the entire somber room seemed to change with the force of his smile. “Good,” he declared, taking a massive bite of bread. “Because I already told Hector you were my papa, and he did not mind at all.”
Malcolm looked down toward the massive hound currently snoring softly beneath the table linens. “The dog offered no objections to my new title?”
“He licked my hand and stole my napkin.”
“A ringing endorsement, indeed.”
Penelope laughed softly before she could stop herself.
Malcolm looked at her immediately, his dark gaze locking onto her face. That happened so often now; every small sound she made, every breath or sigh, seemed to pull his absolute attention toward her as though he felt her presence physically in the room.
Nicholas pointed his fork excitedly toward the Duke. “Tomorrow, can Papa show me the stables? The big black stallion?”
“Yes,” Malcolm said automatically.
“And the hunting guns in the library?”
Penelope lowered her fork with a sharp click against the porcelain. “Absolutely not.”
Nicholas groaned, slumping back. “Mama.”
Malcolm hid a look of suspicious amusement behind his wineglass, his dark eyes glittering with mirth. Penelope narrowed her eyes across the table, aiming her sharpest maternal glare at her new husband.
“Do not dare encourage him, Malcolm.”
“I have said nothing, my Duchess.”
Nicholas snorted so hard at that he nearly inhaled a piece of crust. Penelope stared at both of them in mock disbelief, throwing her hands up slightly. “This is what I shall have to contend with now, is it? The two of you allied against me?”
“Yes,” Malcolm said calmly, taking a slow sip of his wine.
Nicholas nodded. “You are outnumbered, Mama.”
Penelope tried to keep her stern expression intact, but she failed entirely. A bright, genuine smile broke across her face. The sheer warmth in the room surprised her. It wasn’t grand or formal or rigid like the dinners of her past. It was just warm.
The comforting scrape of silverware. Nicholas talking endlessly about horses, hounds, and future hunting expeditions. Malcolm listening to the boy’s ramblings.
There was no knot of cold dread beneath Penelope’s ribs tonight. No waiting for the sound of sharp, heavy, erratic footsteps in the corridor outside. No calculating, venomous glances from Charles.
There was only candlelight, easy laughter, and the steady patter of rain against the windows.
Later that evening, after Nicholas had finally been coaxed upstairs to bed and Hector had followed him with mournful, heavy-pawed devotion, Penelope stood alone in her new chambers.
Her chambers—a wife’s chambers.