Page 85 of Saved By the Rakish Duke

Pleasantries and greetings were exchanged as His Grace allowed his mother to pull him down for a quick kiss on the cheek while she fussed over him.

“Where on earth did you disappear off to this time?” she lovingly complained as she stroked his cheek. “You had us ever so worried about you.”

“I’m sorry, Mother, but I had very little choice. I shan't bore you with the details,” came the duke’s elusive answer, “but I promise that it’s all taken care of now.”

He was smiling, but not in the way that Penelope had grown accustomed to. His smile didn't reach his eyes, betraying its insincerity.

Even when his eyes met hers for a fleeting moment, there was a difference. The familiar warmth that they usually carried was absent, replaced by a barrier of cordiality that caused Penelope’s knees to slightly buckle underneath her.

Just as her mind scrambled for what to say to him, the duke declared that he didn't want to keep them from getting on with their day and wished them well before hastily entering the house.

Over the last few days, Penelope had slowly grown used to His Grace’s absence—save for the occasional wandering thought or two that she would immediately quell. But his return now opened the floodgates of her mind, distracting and swallowing her whole as she and the other women flitted between various shops and market stalls around town.

Penelope’s agitation only increased on the coach ride home and became absolutely unbearable when she stood on the front door’s threshold, almost shivering at the thought of entering the house knowing that His Grace was now inside.

So, she bowed away from the door, muttering something to Mother about wanting to stretch her legs.

The last thing she heard as she strolled away from the front door was the slight commotion in the entrance hall as the servants collected the wrapped parcels of shopping while the dowager duchess happily announced to the cook that they had successfully managed to procure the cheese they wanted.

Penelope’s heartbeat eventually slowed down enough for her to be able to enjoy the light bird song in the air—how she wished she could exchange places with the carefree sparrows that curiously watched her as they perched on the branches above.

And what a curious sight she must have been to them, walking around and around the winding garden path that encircled the manor, like a haunting sentinel chasing an invisible opponent.

But as she turned the corner this time, she caught sight of another coach arriving, its driver a familiar face. Before she had fully registered who it was, the coach’s door was swinging open to reveal Uncle Winston—his face an angry crimson as he stalked towards her.

Penelope wanted to run but found her feet practically nailed to the ground, feeling too weak as she felt her soul drain away, her knees weak and shaking against each other.

Her worst fear had come true.

“You!” he hissed, thundering towards her, already raising his cane high.

Knowing what was coming, but still unable to run, all Penelope could do was brace herself—sucking in a deep breath as she squeezed her eyes shut.

But the blow never came—but strangely enough, the sound of a blow still rang in her ears. When she finally opened her eyes, she found out how it had been possible.

The Duke of Blackmoore’s large frame stood between her and her wretched uncle, who now lay on the ground, blood visibly leaking from his nose.

“Get up,” snarled the duke, his voice low and guttural, different from anything Penelope had ever heard from him before. “Common courtesy prevents me from hitting an adversary when he is down—even if he is nothing but vile scum.”

The older man looked up at His Grace with shock, but when his eyes landed on Penelope once more, his features contorted as the flames of his rage stoked higher.

“Stay out of our family’s affairs, Blackmoore,” hissed the older man propping himself up on his elbows.

“Stay out of my garden, then,” the duke retorted, “or would you prefer that I drag you out with my bare hands?”

“A pathetic wench like her isn’t worth your-”

The earl’s remark halted abruptly when the duke placed a heavy boot against his chest—not pressing down into the other man’s frame yet, but the threatening implication was enough to jolt Penelope out of the statue-like state she had found herself in.

“Your Grace, please!” she barely managed to yelp.

But the duke remained unyielding, lowering his foot just enough to leave a print on his opponent’s chest as he growled, “Close your eyes, rat. You aren’t fit to even look at her!”

“Your Grace...” Penelope pleaded again, weakly tugging at his arm.

The contact managed to momentarily snap his attention to her where, once again, she saw his eyes different from anything she had ever seen from him before. But this time, the barrier of cold cordiality had not dissipated, replaced by scorching rage that threatened to consume anything in its path.

“Your Grace...” Penelope swallowed, beginning anew in the hopes of getting through to him, “it’s only because he had intended to marry me himsel-”

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