13. An Irate Brother

AN IRATE brOTHER

M alum closed his eyes for one second and exhaled a long-suffering sigh.

This. This sort of thing was precisely why he had avoided having anything to do with the ton for most of his adult life.

Well, one of the reasons.

Not that it really mattered now.

In the thirty seconds—which felt more like a lifetime—that it took Lady Melanie to climb off him, Malum had catalogued the pertinent details of his predicament.

He had been discovered lying on the floor in front of a romantic fire, with an unmarried lady.

Alone—just the two of them.

Behind closed doors.

By her brother, no less, who was a trusted and valuable associate.

Then there was Lady Melanie’s gown which, through no fault of his own, was torn at the hem and the bodice in such a way that it utterly failed to preserve her modesty.

And lastly, if he didn’t manage to steer his mind away from the all-too-vivid memory of her body pressed against his—and the entirely natural reaction that followed—the situation might slip from embarrassing to outright catastrophic.

Straightening his jacket with deliberate precision, Malum met Standish’s irate glare head-on, not allowing his expression to betray even a hint of unease.

“I wasn’t aware you’d returned to London,” he said, his tone as casual as if they were exchanging pleasantries over brandy rather than standing knee-deep in a mess guaranteed to make tomorrow’s gossip columns explode.

The Earl of Standish shared the same fair coloring as his siblings, though his eyes were sharper, colder—a trait Malum chalked up to their history. After all, Standish had once stood in the Domus , begging for help after inheriting his title under suspicious circumstances. Malum had obliged, in his own backhanded way. Not exactly the foundation for a warm alliance.

Still, none of that seemed to matter in this moment—not the lingering allegations of murder, not Standish’s questionable rise to the title, and certainly not their shared history. Not in light of these circumstances.

“Malum.” Standish’s voice was low, but the fury behind it was unmistakable. “I repeat: What the devil is going on in here?”

Malum slipped his hand from behind Lady Melanie’s waist. “No need for theatrics,” he said . “ This isn’t what it appears to be.” Just your sister sprawled on top of me in front of half the bloody guests.

Malum’s indifferent tone, unfortunately, only fanned Standish’s fury. “Then pray, enlighten me,” he bit out, fists curled at his sides as his gaze swept over his sister’s disheveled appearance.

Lady Melanie, flustered and flushed a deep crimson, opened her mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out.

And seeing her looking so vulnerable, guilt and—something else—rose up within Malum. Oh, hell.

It suddenly dawned on him that, perhaps, most unfortunately, extricating himself from this situation might not be as simple as he’d initially imagined.

Because, although his reputation could survive even the most salacious of scandals—might even be improved, in fact—hers…

Could not.

Bloody.

Fucking.

Hell.

The fix was an obvious one, but Malum wasn’t prepared to resort to it.

Not just yet.

With Lady Melanie still beside him, the faint quiver of her arm against his own was impossible to ignore. Even so, Malum kept his focus firmly on Standish, refusing to let the subtle, unsteady rhythm disturb his composure.

“Her gown snagged on something,” Malum said. “She stumbled. I merely caught her before she fell into the fire.”

Standish’s blue eyes darted to Lady Melanie’s dress, the visible rip, and the uneven angle of her bodice. His lips curled into a sneer. “And her gown just happened to tear so conveniently in the process, did it?” he snapped.

Malum resisted the urge to roll his shoulders, to dispel the tension coiling within him. “It was an accident,” he said evenly. “Nothing more.”

There was no guilt in his voice, though Malum knew what the scene must look like to someone with no context—especially to a protective older brother. He held Standish’s gaze, daring him to challenge the explanation, knowing full well that the man was balancing his outrage against their professional relationship.

Melanie, her voice small and hesitant, finally spoke. “It’s true,” she whispered, her hands twisting in front of her. “I tripped.”

Before Standish could speak again, his wife—the countess—stepped in, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Reed,” she murmured, her tone both soothing and pleading. “Perhaps we should hear them out in a more private setting.”

Malum noted the slight softening of Standish’s posture, though his eyes remained narrowed as they shifted around the room.

A room which was slowly filling with people, whose presence only made the situation more precarious. All of them were staring at Lady Melanie as though they’d stumbled upon a grisly crime scene.

Lord Fallbridge, a rotund man with thinning hair, surveyed the situation with feigned and exaggerated distaste. Lady Fallbridge, however, looked delighted. With her vibrant plum gown and a mass of almost lavender curls, her sharp, knowing eyes gleamed with amusement. “Well, this is quite the turn of events,” she cooed, her fan snapping open dramatically.

The comment was enough to make Malum’s blood boil, but he remained composed, his attention fixed on Standish.

“I’ll expect a visit, Malum. First thing tomorrow morning.” Standish’s voice was as threatening as Malum had ever heard it; he honestly hadn’t realized the man had it in him.

“What is there left to explain?” Malum kept his voice cool. “She fell. That’s all there is to it.”

“You expect me to believe?—”

“I don’t give a damn what you believe,” Malum cut him off, stepping forward with deliberate ease. He could feel the room shifting excitedly, the eyes of their audience rapt as they carefully followed the scene.

The calculation was clear in the earl’s eyes as he weighed whether to cede to Malum or escalate the situation further. For a moment, Malum thought Melanie’s brother might actually take a swing at him.

Malum raised his brows.

“Be that as it may,” Standish finally growled, “I’ll expect you at my home tomorrow morning.”

Ah, no. Malum lifted one corner of his mouth. “Preston Hall,” he corrected the earl coolly. “At noon.”

If it came to it—and it increasingly seemed like it would—Malum would make the bloody offer. But he would negotiate the terms in the comfort of his own home, at a time of his choosing.

Standish looked ready to argue, but Malum’s unwavering gaze seemed to give him pause. They would do this on Malum’s terms or not at all.

Standish gave a curt nod, his face tight with barely contained anger. “Very well,” he bit out, though the words seemed to cost him.

“Right,” Malum said, and then, having decided that he’d had quite enough of Society, he smoothed down his jacket and began making his way to the exit. As he passed him by, Malum clapped a hand on the earl’s shoulder for good measure. “It’s been a pleasure, Standish, as always.”

And then he was shouldering his way through the throngs of onlookers, purposefully ignoring their whispers.

Coming here tonight had been a mistake. He’d been an idiot to imagine he could slip into a ball, clear the air with Lady Melanie, and then slip out unnoticed.

He had considered simply crossing the street and knocking on her door, but any visit with him would have to have been chaperoned, so he’d dismissed the idea. But he couldn’t just leave things as they were, and so, impulsively, he’d decided to seek the lady out at a bloody ball instead.

Which, unsurprisingly, had been an utter failure on all counts. Even his apology—pitiful as it was—had fallen flat. The image of Lady Melanie’s wide, tear-brimmed eyes and flushed face stubbornly lingered in his mind, no matter how much distance he managed to put between them.

Because he was, in fact, at fault.

He had chosen to come here. He had chosen to follow her into the library. And when she’d teetered dangerously close to the fire, he’d chosen to intervene. Noble instincts, it turned out, had consequences.

Regretfully, he was staring down yet another impossible choice.

Allow an innocent woman and her family to be dragged to ruin—or enter the very institution he had spent his adult life skillfully avoiding.

Marriage.

The words sank in his gut like a stone. It wasn’t a part of his plans. Not now, not ever. But this wasn’t about love or romance or even duty.

Apparently, Malum did have a conscience, after all. A troublesome discovery, but one he couldn’t ignore—at least, not where Lady Melanie was concerned.