12. The Apology

THE APOLOGY

C losing the door behind her, Melanie wandered into the quiet, dragging her fingertips along the back of a leather settee, only vaguely aware of the crackling fire in the hearth and the towering shelves filled with endless books.

Instead of finding comfort, however, she felt jumpy inside.

She’d only been interested in the duke because of the baby—nothing more. But seeing him surrounded by all those women, fluttering and fawning over him… It shouldn’t have bothered her. It didn’t bother her. Not really.

She shook off the feeling, forcing herself to focus on the stillness. She should be grateful to be alone in such a lovely place before having to return to her mother’s side. A brief reprieve from the ball she’d been forced to attend.

A tremor shook her small form, and she moved closer to the hearth. Covering her face with both hands, she blew out a heavy sigh. I cannot continue like this.

That was as far as she got into her little breakdown, however, before the sharp click of the library door jolted her upright.

Her hands dropped, clasping nervously below her chin as she tensed. Then a figure emerged from the shadows—a familiar one—and her breath caught.

“It’s you,” she said.

The moment she recognized him, her whole body started to relax. Her fists and her jaw unclenched; even the muscles around her eyes loosened. She hadn’t noticed it the previous times she’d been in the duke’s presence, but now that she was paying attention, it was impossible to ignore. There was something about… him—that put her at ease.

Laughing softly, his silver gaze met hers. He didn't seem at all surprised to find her here. Rather than march into the room, he paused, as though waiting for permission.

She gave a subtle nod and then watched him stride inside. Although he took a few seconds to take in their surroundings, most of his attention was on her.

“Society missed you. Clearly,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady.

Her words made him pause. One corner of his mouth quirked—not quite a smile, but close. “Shocking, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” Melanie replied. Her eyes darted to the door, in the general direction of the ballroom. “And I don’t suppose they’ll leave you alone for long, now that you’ve returned.”

“No. Likely not.” But he didn’t look concerned. “I was looking for you, actually. I have a few questions.” He tilted his head and gestured toward the settee. “Sit with me?”

Only after she lowered herself onto the cushion did she realize that there was something about his voice that brushed over her nerves like a soothing balm.

She found herself staring at him boldly. He was the reason she’d been forced to endure Society again. And he’d only helped Reed after he’d first blackmailed him.

She couldn’t trust him.

She shouldn’t trust him.

But the nervousness she’d felt with others didn't come. "How is Ernest?” she asked.

“Much better, and well cared for now… thanks to you.” The duke looked away then and cleared his throat.

She wasn’t sure what to say to that.

“I’m glad,” she finally managed, and curious as to what questions he might have, lifted her chin. “You said you had questions for me…”

“Yes.” Seated in the chair adjacent to her, the duke raised one hand and thoughtfully stroked his chin. “You don’t really want to be here.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No.” Melanie rolled her lips together. She wouldn’t have to be here if not for him.

His wince surprised her, and then he sighed. “I won’t apologize for telling Helton about your visit to the Domus . What you did was reckless— dangerous —and your family needed to be informed.” He paused, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “I am sorry, however, that you’ve been punished for your act of kindness.”

It was a rather poor apology in Melanie’s opinion, and part of her wanted to argue that her safety wasn’t any of his business. But arguing wouldn’t be worth the effort. Besides, she’d sensed that her family would have demanded more of her eventually even without his meddling.

Still…

“It isn’t fair,” she said.

“It isn’t,” he agreed, his eyes never leaving hers. "For what it’s worth, I am grateful for the actions you took that day, even if the execution was, perhaps, not ideal. Ernest is better off for it."

The duke had a strange way of showing his gratitude then, if these were his true thoughts on the matter.

Melanie searched his eyes, not sure if she ought to feel irritated or touched.

He was sorry, but he was not sorry; he thought she’d done something good but not in the right way, so her behavior needed correcting, but at the same time, her punishment was regrettable.

It would have sounded like a load of nonsense from anyone else but, strangely, she believed that he was being sincere.

“I do not regret going to the Domus that day. Ernest didn’t deserve to be neglected by that awful woman.”

Melanie had been aware of the risks when she’d made her decision. She knew that if she’d been seen, she’d have been ruined. It would have damaged her entire family’s reputation. But the way Ernest had been crying, ceaselessly and wretchedly for hours on end, and how that horrid nursemaid hadn’t cared one whit, had left her with no choice.

That woman had blocked her ears and fallen asleep, for heaven’s sake! If—if something had happened to him, no one would have known until… She shuddered to think of it.

Melanie had genuinely feared for that baby’s life.

Her gaze drifted to the fire in the hearth, drawn by the flickering light. In an instant, she was transported back to the hunting lodge at Seabridge Manor, flames licking through the windows where heat had shattered the glass…

Then she blinked, and the impression vanished as suddenly as it had come.

It took her a moment to remember where she was, when she was.

Melanie hadn’t experienced an episode like that in some time, sometimes provoked by the most mundane sort of thing.

She’d hoped they had stopped.

“What is it?” The duke’s voice cut through the haze.

Melanie pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth and then shook her head. “I… nothing, Your Grace.”

He arched a brow, waiting, as if expecting more. His face was unreadable—no hint of judgment, just patient curiosity.

She drew a shaky breath. “Is he eating? And sleeping?”

Another faint smile. “Yes, to both. And growing. He’ll have doubled his size in no time.” But then the duke seemed to catch himself. “But I’m no expert…”

“I don’t think one need be an expert to notice something like that.” She stared down at her lap, at her fingers plucking at the delicate fabric of her skirt. The next words slipped out before she could stop them. “Can I visit him?”

Her mother would be appalled if she did. But then again, her mother wasn’t here, and after all the missteps she made on a daily basis, Melanie found she didn’t much care.

The duke’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t look angry—just concerned. “I don’t know that that’s a good idea. Not because of you, but rather…” He hesitated. “I’ve sent for his mother. I’m not sure you should get attached.”

Ernest’s mother. The duke’s... lover.

It was for the best. Of course it was. “You found her, then?” she asked, her voice tight.

“I’m… in the process of finding her.”

“And then what will you do?”

He shrugged. “Provide for them.”

“You aren’t going to marry her?”

“Why would I do that?”

Melanie frowned. “You’re going to just send them away, then? Banish your own son?” It felt like every time she started to soften toward him, he managed to say or do something that snatched the feeling away.

She didn’t expect the dark look he sent her in response.

“Not that it’s your business,” he said. “But Ernest isn’t mine.”

Melanie rolled her eyes and scoffed. Of course Ernest was his, why else would that woman leave him at Preston Hall? “Right.”

“You think I’d bother to lie? For the sake of, what, my reputation? People can believe whatever they like, it makes no difference to me.”

That could not possibly be true, but then… Melanie bit her lip, recalling the way he’d walked into that ballroom earlier, expression stoic, almost cold, unbothered and utterly confident. All those guests knew only what the papers had written, along with what they saw during his brief appearance tonight.

They whispered, they judged—as they always did—and yet, none of it seemed to have bothered him.

His title and his sheer presence demanded some measure of respect, deference even, but did he truly not care about the rest of it?

And if he didn’t, if Ernest really wasn’t his… “Why would she leave him with you, then?”

“I don’t know,” he said simply, his tone devoid of emotion, but his gaze flickered—just for a moment—betraying the slightest hint of something else.

“You are caring for him now, though. You’ve hired a nursemaid.”

He cocked one brow. “What else am I supposed to do?”

She pondered his question in silence, until his voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Why is it,” he asked, his tone soft yet insistent, “that you can converse with me—rather freely, in fact…” He paused, waiting until her eyes lifted to meet his. “…but not with anyone else?”

His gaze, holding hers, made her heart stutter. The silence demanded an answer, and yet… “I don’t know.” Her voice sounded small, uncertain, and she doubted she appeared as composed as he did. But it was the truth. Wasn’t it?

Why could she speak to him, when her own family’s kindness left her practically mute?

Her thoughts spiraled, as though the question had been asked not by him, but by her mother, by Josie, by Caroline, by Reed—all of them echoing the same unspoken inquiry.

And this problem… It was so much more than an inconvenience. It was creating an almost insurmountable wedge between her and the people who loved her.

If she could uncover what it was about Malum—and perhaps the baby—that made her words come so easily, she would gladly seize it.

Yet, no answer came.

His silver eyes, piercing and searching, refused to release her.

Her breath hitched, and for a mad moment, she wondered if the duke could hear her heart beating.

But then, faintly at first, she registered the distant sounds of the ballroom—laughter, music, the hum of overlapping conversations—creeping back into her awareness.

They’d been away for too long.

No one would notice her absence; she might as well be invisible. But the Duke of Malum? That was another matter entirely.

Debutantes and their mothers, having had a taste of his rare presence, would soon begin tracking him down. And if they found her alone with him?

Her stomach twisted. His reputation would hardly suffer. As a duke—and a man—he would always be forgiven, tonight’s reception was proof enough of that. But hers? Hers would be another story entirely, and the scandal would taint not just her, but Josie, Reed… her entire family.

She shifted in her seat, fingers gripping the armrest in an effort to steady herself. In the time she’d been gone, her mother could have offended dozens of people.

“I need to go back to the ballroom…” she murmured, her voice quiet but resolute. There wasn’t enough time in the world—let alone this night—to delve into all the possible reasons behind her speech troubles—why they seemed to vanish around him.

It just didn’t make sense.

Melanie rose, determined to make yet another escape. His question felt like the reopening of an old wound.

When she rose to stand, however, the toe of her slipper caught on the hem of her gown. She felt the tugging even as she heard a sharp rip, but the sound barely registered before she stumbled, gravity pulling her forward.

The fireplace loomed closer, and her hands shot out instinctively, the faint scent of burning wood mingling with leather and parchment as she fought to regain her footing.

And just like that, she was no longer in the Fallbridge library, but dragged into the past.

Her lungs squeezed painfully.

The locked door—her father behind it. The woods. An explosion, followed by flames reaching for the sky….

Her throat burned, not from the fire, but from the screams she hadn’t been able to stop that day.

But then strong arms wrapped around her waist, twisting her in midair. Neither the ground nor the fire came up to meet her as she’d expected. Instead, a solid thud —and a body beneath her, absorbing the impact.

One hand landed flat on the hardwood, but the rest of her—surprised and quite undignified—landed on him.

She couldn’t move, too stunned by the tumble and the feel of a very masculine person beneath her. Her forehead was pressed to his chest, and through his coat, she could hear his heartbeat, steady and slow. Not like hers.

The duke.

His arms cradled her, one clasped firmly against the small of her back, the other cupping her side.

She was not in the fire. She was not at the lodge.

She was safe. The library, the ball—the duke.

Sprawled across him, his scent surrounded her, familiar from that day in the nursery, but also different. Spicier tonight.

“I’m sorry,” she finally gasped.

“Of course.” His voice rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest, the vibrations making her acutely aware of her position. “Are you?—”

“I’m fine,” she blurted, though her heart pounded in her ears. She tried to push herself up, her palms braced against his chest, but her gaze caught on his face. She couldn’t seem to look away—the rugged angles of his jaw, his lips, parted just enough for her to see the tip of his tongue, and his eyes…

“Fine?” Concern flickered in his gaze. “You nearly fell into the fire.”

Right.

“I—yes. But I?—”

“Wait… Give yourself a moment.” His arm tightened just enough to stop her, a small but deliberate pressure that sent a shiver down her spine.

And, even though she shouldn’t, she liked it.

It took a breathless moment for her to grasp her predicament.

She was on top of him , and when she’d stepped on her gown, she’d not only torn it, but dragged her bodice down…

"Better?" His voice brushed her skin like a caress.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Only her thoughts, wild and stammering.

Move. Now.

Her body jolted into motion, limbs tangling as she scrambled to lift herself.

Her knee jabbed his thigh. Her elbow grazed his ribs.

“Careful,” he bit out as her hand pressed—oh dear?—

He made a short, choking sound and by the time she realized how the two of them must appear, it was already too late.

“What the devil,” a furious voice demanded, “is going on in here?”

Melanie recognized that voice immediately.

And when she twisted around, a cold dread crept over her skin. Surely, it couldn’t be who she thought it was…

“Oh no...” she whispered, her breath dying in her throat as her gaze darted around the library.

There were faces—too many faces—staring back at them.

Her brother and his wife, who weren’t even supposed to be in London, stood in the doorway, their expressions a mixture of shock, anger, and disappointment. Their host and hostess loomed behind them, along with at least two other couples she didn’t recognize.

She was vaguely aware of the duke’s hand moving, his touch firm yet careful, as he adjusted her bodice with a swift, almost practiced efficiency. Heat surged through her, not just from his proximity but from the humiliating awareness of their tangled position on the floor.

With a sharp twist of his body, he rose to one knee, his arm curling around her to help her up as well. The intimate press of his chest as he steadied her was enough to make her pulse race, though mortification quickly smothered any other sensation.

Awkwardly, she pushed away, smoothing her skirts as she stood. Her gaze darted to him—his disheveled cravat, the way his hair had fallen slightly out of place—and then, with mounting horror, to the wide-eyed spectators who were still gaping at them.

Perhaps, she thought miserably, not talking for the rest of her life wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all…