11. An Unexpected Guest

AN UNEXPECTED GUEST

D ragged into a small knot of chattering women by her mother’s insistence, Melanie stood silently as the conversation swirled around her.

“Yes, Lady Josephine—just turned seven and ten this year—is dancing with the Earl of Northwoods right now, just over—there,” her mother announced brightly, pointing across the ballroom.

Melanie winced as all eyes followed the gesture. Her youngest sister twirled among the other dancers, paired with a plain-looking gentleman whose steps were as uninspired as Melanie felt.

Lady Varley hummed noncommittally, and her gaze sought out the other woman with her, a baroness who Melanie was unfamiliar with, and raised a disapproving eyebrow. “Yes, yes. So you’ve said.”

And she had said. Numerous times.

Josephine seemed to be all her mother could talk about—Josephine’s dress and her hair and the latest titled gentleman she’d been introduced to. And if she wasn’t boasting about Josephine, she was boasting about Caroline and her marriage to Helton. Even among the women of the ton , who normally loved discussing courtships and menfolk, her mother’s singular focus was… off-putting, to say the least.

Melanie pursed her lips and tried to discreetly wrap her hand around her mother’s wrist. Remembering what Caroline had said, she gave it a light squeeze, but her mother paid her no mind. She continued talking at the two ladies she had trapped in conversation, laughing too loudly, gesturing wildly.

Feeling somewhat helpless, Melanie squeezed her mother’s wrist a little tighter.

A mistake.

Her mother whirled on her quite suddenly. “Melanie, that’s quite enough!” she admonished, jerking her arm out of Melanie’s hold. “What do you need?”

Melanie blinked, her lips still frozen in the vague smile she’d resorted to for the majority of the evening. She said nothing, but now Lady Varley and the baroness were looking at her too.

“Well?” her mother demanded. “What is it that you want? If you need the powder room, I dare say you’re old enough to find it yourself by now.”

Melanie could feel the heat creeping up her neck and face. “I—um, I…” But, of course, her throat closed off, leaving her mouth gaping like a landed fish.

“Speak, Melanie.” Her mother’s stern demand only locked her voice up tighter. There were too many eyes on her, the music too loud, the pressure too great.

Without a word, Melanie turned and fled. She didn’t make excuses, didn’t offer any explanation.

Her steps carried her to the edge of the ballroom, but the distance helped only slightly. She needed somewhere to collect herself.

Spotting a group of boisterous gentlemen cutting across the room, Melanie instinctively ducked behind one of the countess’s tall potted plants, pressed her back against the wall, and stared up at the ceiling.

And then she silently reprimanded herself. Because this really was getting ridiculous. What was the matter with her?

A shrill voice—her mother’s—carried over the music more loudly than any other. Or perhaps it only seemed that way, thanks to Melanie’s guilty conscience.

She had tried. She really had!

If the situation weren’t so dreadful, she might find some humor in it.

But it was, in fact, dreadful, and aside from locking herself in her bedchamber and refusing to come out, Melanie had no choice but to cooperate with her family.

Whom she loved, and she knew loved her… even if they didn’t understand her at all.

In the ten days since that meeting in her father’s study, she’d felt herself retreating into an even darker silence than before. It was as if she were two people—one watching from the outside, willing the other to reach out, to reclaim the ease she once had in making friends. But the other part of her felt small, trapped by something unseen, something she couldn’t name.

And although she was putting forth her best effort, each gathering felt like a gauntlet, an onslaught of social interactions, each overwhelming her more than the one before.

And dear heavens, now she’d resorted to hiding behind a silly plant. But it didn’t feel silly. Because it provided a temporary retreat, one where she could simply take a moment and…

Breathe.

So many voices. So much talking. None of it meaning much of anything…

When two widows drifted closer, Melanie ducked lower.

“…Lady Bellwether insists she saw the duke’s carriage arrive.” A cultured voice drifted through her leafy shield.

“Now that would be the coup of the century, would it not? I hear he’s quite handsome, actually. Oh, to be young again.” The woman giggled. “She is wrong, though. He hasn’t attended a ball in years. The carriage must belong to some other lord.”

“She said it was unmarked, and all black…” The voices faded away as the ladies strolled along the edge of the room.

Normally, Melanie wouldn’t give gossip a second thought, but they were talking about a duke—a duke with a black carriage. There were fewer than a dozen dukes in London, and Melanie was personally acquainted with exactly one of them.

A duke who hadn’t attended a ball in years.

A duke who also happened to be strikingly handsome.

Though, on second thought, handsome felt laughably inadequate. He was, in fact, something far more… what? Melanie wracked her brain, but no word seemed quite right. Of course, her duke would defy even the English language.

Still, they couldn’t possibly mean him.

And yet, the Duke of Malum lingered in her mind, much like he always did. Along with thoughts of little Ernest, of course.

She couldn’t have been more startled that day in the park if they had stumbled upon the king himself. Seeing him there, with her mother and sisters as an unwitting audience—had sent a jolt of anger through her. She wasn’t ready to face him, not after his unforgivable betrayal. And yet, as Caroline made the introductions, she’d felt an odd sense of… relief.

Melanie stared down at the toes of her slippers, barely peeking out from beneath the hem of her gown. She’d seen his expression the moment he realized who they were. If she weren’t hiding, she might have laughed aloud at the memory.

Because, when he’d realized he was going to have to greet the four of them, London’s notorious brothel owner, the feared Duke of Malum, had looked…

Like a scared animal.

Oh, but he had most of London fooled.

It was almost endearing, in a way she couldn’t quite bring herself to admit.

She had wanted to admonish him for telling Lord Helton that she’d visited the Domus —to berate him for causing her to lose her precious solitude.

But she’d also wanted to ask after little Ernest. Was he eating enough? Had his mother been located? None of those questions would have been appropriate in front of her mother and sisters.

She wiggled her toes… recalling the way the duke’s gaze had settled on her, as though he could read her mind.

And now here she was, thinking about him again. It wasn’t intentional, of course. She didn’t mean to let him occupy her thoughts.

Before she could shift her mind to something else, she was dragged back to the present when she noticed a hush rippling through the room.

What is it this time?

Melanie’s stomach lurched, until her gaze landed on her mother, who was, thankfully, simply sipping her champagne.

Those gasps, dripping with judgment, always meant someone had stepped outside Society’s rigid expectations. A young woman speaking to the wrong gentleman, a couple dancing too closely—the pattern was predictable. Silence, whispers, louder gossip. The ton at its finest.

Melanie shuddered, recalling how she’d been on the receiving end of that uncomfortable attention at a garden party earlier this week. Her mother had called out to Josephine across the lawn—a little too loudly.

Or perhaps, a lot too loudly. Melanie winced at the memory.

But this time, the hush was more pronounced than those other occasions. The air crackled with tension, and the musicians ceased their playing, interrupting what had been a lively dance.

Feeling the hairs on her arms stand up, Melanie leaned forward and peered through the branches.

And immediately saw why.

Lady Bellwether had not been mistaken!

The Duke of Malum was, indeed, here! —standing beneath the arched entrance.

Melanie touched a hand to her heart.

His strong features were set in stone, making him appear as inscrutable as everyone would have expected, his indifferent gaze sweeping the room.

Who was he looking for?

He, of course, appeared entirely unbothered by the shocked stares.

It had been years since the duke had deigned to attend a ball, and now, with his dark, enigmatic reputation preceding him, no one dared approach. Not yet.

Careful to stay hidden behind her potted plant, Melanie tilted her head, a little perplexed. Although dressed to the nines, mostly in black, he seemed detached, disdainful of the pageantry that surrounded him.

Quite the contrast to the duke she’d seen in the nursery.

Why had he come?

Of course, he would have been invited. Dukes were invited to everything, regardless of their reputation. Not that any hostess actually expected him to show.

Still, they would hope. Because if anyone could break up the monotony of these endless, overdone parties, it was him. Different themes, same music. Different ballrooms, same dances.

The same dull conversations.

But tonight? Tonight’s hostess, the Countess of Fallbridge, would surely be the talk of the ton . She’d accomplished the unthinkable: the Duke of Malum in attendance.

No doubt, every gossip sheet would be scrambling to write about it by morning.

Yet no words, no matter how cleverly penned, could ever capture the mesmerizing effect of his presence.

And all Melanie could think about—absurdly, impossibly—was how he had cradled a baby. Those hands, now so rigidly tucked behind his back, had been startlingly gentle as he’d helped change Ernest’s soiled nappy.

Why had he come? He wasn’t the sort of man who would change his habits without having a powerful reason to do so.

With the initial shock of his arrival over, chatter started up again, louder and more excited than it had been before. Melanie simply kept watching from her hiding place.

After avoiding London’s ballrooms for so long, why return tonight?

And then it struck her.

This was the marriage mart . Now that he had a child, had he decided he needed a wife? Did he intend to take up his position in Society again?

And why was that such a repulsive idea?

Movement in the corner of her eye drew Melanie’s attention to a particular group of young ladies standing near the dance floor. Exchanging giggling glances, their fans fluttering, they seemed to be gathering the courage to approach him.

Of course they would.

Because. Well. He was, first and foremost, a duke.

Within seconds, the duke was surrounded, their feathered plumes obscuring everything but the top of his head.

With a quiet breath, Melanie shrunk back, feeling an unexpected ache. She shouldn’t, really, but it was just that… well…

For a fleeting moment there, she’d started to wonder whether he’d perhaps come because of her somehow.

It truly was a preposterous notion—to imagine he’d come hoping to speak to her—to tell her how Ernest was doing. Or even to apologize.

So why this feeling of disappointment?

She couldn’t stay here, watching him. Couldn’t watch those women crowd him with their simpering smiles. They saw a wealthy titled gentleman—someone who was mysterious and powerful—and they wanted him, but they had no idea who he really was.

And you do? a little voice inside her scoffed.

Frustrated with herself, Melanie slipped away from her hiding spot, her slippered feet carrying her toward the nearest exit. She needed air, needed space—needed to be away from the talking, the music...

Confident no one would notice her—certainly not after the duke’s arrival—Melanie slipped through the throng of guests and didn’t slow until she reached a dim hallway.

Away from the chatter of the ballroom, her thoughts began to settle, the frantic edge dulling with each step. She strolled aimlessly, letting her breath steady until she nearly missed it—a door, half-hidden behind a grand tapestry.

What caught her attention wasn’t the door itself but the faint scent of leather and parchment drifting from within.

The library.

Sending up a silent prayer of thanks, she slipped inside.