2. Watching…

WATCHING…

L ady Melanie Rutherford sat by the window, her gaze drifting over the familiar landscape outside. The world beyond seemed so steady—so unchanged—in contrast to the disquiet she couldn’t seem to shed.

“We won’t be back for several hours.” The sharp tone of her mother’s voice cut through the quiet of the drawing room. “I’ve informed Eloisa that she needn’t bother setting out tea.”

Melanie didn’t look up, but the faint scent of lavender told her that her mother had stepped inside.

“Melanie?” The single word was softer this time, almost tentative. A question unspoken but understood.

Melanie’s fingers curled into the folds of her skirt, her nails pressing into the fabric. Her throat constricted as if the air itself had thickened. Her mother knew better than to expect much of a response. And yet… the hesitation was there. It always was. A pause just long enough for hope to slide in.

“Fine,” Melanie whispered, the word brittle and barely audible. It scraped her throat, leaving behind a rawness she couldn’t explain.

Her mother stopped, the rustle of her gown punctuating the moment. “Fine,” she repeated, her tone caught somewhere between frustration and resignation. It wasn’t enough. It never was.

The silence stretched, taut and unyielding, until the click of the door behind her finally broke it.

Melanie let out a shaky exhale as she pulled her knees tighter to her chest, her focus drifting back to the scene outside the window. Clouds had gathered overhead, heavy with rain, casting a dull gray over the street. Right on time, two elderly ladies appeared, as they did every morning, taking their daily constitutional. Today, they shared an umbrella, their steps slow and cautious as they shuffled to the far side of the street, likely in an effort to avoid the impatient horses tethered to her mother’s carriage.

It was a wise decision, really. The horses had been waiting for the better part of half an hour, restless from standing in place. There would be droppings—fresh and steaming—that the rain wouldn’t quite wash away.

Melanie scrunched up her nose, pressing her forehead against the smooth glass as she watched the ladies waddle out of view.

This particular window seat was her favorite, far superior to the one in her private chamber. From here, she could watch the street below, the steady rhythm of carriages and the bustling variety of passersby along Regent Street offering her a glimpse into a world full of movement and life.

The window in her bedchamber, by contrast, offered little of interest. A flower box sat just below the sill, its blooms spilling over the edge, while two weathered trellises flanked the frame, thick with honeysuckle vines that obscured much of the view. Beyond them, the only thing visible was the closed shutters of an upstairs room in the townhouse across the street.

The door to the drawing room opened again, and this time she glanced over her shoulder.

Lady Josephine, Melanie’s younger sister, stood with her arms folded across her chest.

Dressed in a rose-colored gown with delicate lace trimming, Josie was undeniably pretty, her youthful charm shining despite the rebellious tendrils escaping her chignon.

At barely seven and ten, she radiated pure innocence, far too unguarded for the polished circles of Mayfair. Melanie knew she should say something, offer guidance—but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she stayed silent, watching her sister’s excitement with unease.

“Melanie, please,” she implored, her voice a little tight. “It’s just a garden party, please, won’t you come with us?”

Melanie stared into her sister’s blue eyes, which were filled with faint hope and gentle persistence.

I’m sorry. She didn’t speak the words but winced, hoping it was enough to convey her apology.

Melanie was all too aware that her decision not to take part in the Season had only made things harder for Josie. With Melanie no longer a prospect for Society’s marriage mart, their mother had turned all her ambitions toward her youngest daughter—even though Josie hadn’t truly been prepared for such a debut.

Caroline, their older sister, had married the Earl of Helton—a match that should have satisfied their mother’s aspirations. Instead, it had only fueled them, raising her expectations to impossible heights.

“Please?” Josie begged, but Melanie shook her head.

Josie made a little pouting sound and then—not so quietly—closed the door, leaving Melanie alone again.

When Melanie watched her mother’s very modern, very expensive carriage drive off a few minutes later, her chest loosened.

And she went back to watching.

Watching people walking their dogs.

Watching nannies pushing prams.

Watching romantic couples strolling, oblivious to their surroundings.

Just… watching.

A full year had passed since her brother uprooted them all to move to London—more specifically, Mayfair. Following a deadly fire, a tragedy no one could ever have predicted, Reed had inherited their uncle’s title. He hadn’t wanted it. In fact, for all its advantages, it had brought him even more troubles—in the form of whispered accusations and dangerous rumors.

From the outside, the circumstances did seem fairly suspicious, Melanie could admit that. Everyone who had stood between Reed and the title—their uncle, cousin, older brother, and their father—had all died that night. But the people who spoke ill of him, they didn’t know Reed. They didn’t see how he mourned their family along with the relatively carefree life he could no longer have.

Besides, questions of her brother’s character aside, Melanie knew for a fact that he was not responsible for what had happened.

Reed had never expected, nor wanted, to be Standish, but he’d stepped into the role anyway. He hadn’t much choice, really.

Luckily for them all, he’d met and married Goldie. She’d brought sunshine into his life again, and their match had distracted most of the ton from all those rumors.

Since then, they’d all gone on with their lives. Caroline had married the Earl of Helton, their mother had thrown herself into Society, and now Josie would likely make a match as well, pretty and sweet and charming as she was.

But not Melanie. She was… stuck.

Blinking away the unsettling feelings, Melanie pressed her forehead against the window again.

If she kept looking out, she needn’t look in.

This time, she spotted a young woman hurrying down the street, head bowed against the rain, a cumbersome basket clutched tightly in her arms.

Melanie recognized most of the people who walked along Regent Street, but not this one. Something about her didn’t… fit. The lady wore a long, gunmetal gray cape and had pulled the hood low so as to cover most of her face. Whenever she did look up, her eyes darted around in a way that was shifty, almost anxious. Even from a distance, Melanie couldn’t help but notice the vivid green color of the woman’s eyes.

And although the colors she wore were muted, the lady herself was not. A few strands of scarlet hair had escaped the hood. She wasn’t traditionally pretty but she was… striking.

Memorable.

Melanie shifted to get a better view, careful to stay mostly hidden behind one of the semi-transparent window coverings.

When the woman stopped in front of Number Seven, Regent Street—the house directly across from Rutherford Place—Melanie sat up a little straighter.

Preston Hall, home of the notorious Duke of Malum.

She only knew the house belonged to him because months ago, Caroline had pointed it out, her tone tinged with a mix of reluctant admiration and quiet reproach.

Melanie had spent countless hours at this window, observing the quiet comings and goings along the street. On occasion, she’d seen the duke himself—always from a distance. Dressed head to toe in black, from his perfectly tailored coat to his tall top hat, he moved with a deliberate air that set him apart. Yet, she had never gotten a proper look at his face, only the impression of a man cloaked in mystery.

More curious than usual, Melanie watched the woman closely.

Either she was at the wrong address, or she didn’t know to take her delivery to the servants’ entrance, which would be in the back of the house.

The woman shifted the basket into her opposite hand, as though to give the other a rest, and tilted her head back, looking up, up, up at the five-story townhouse.

It stood tall and splendid, its cream facade gleaming brighter—cleaner—than the neighboring townhouses. There were no trellises burdened with unruly vines, no signs of wear or weathering. Instead, the meticulously maintained exterior exuded the quiet opulence of wealth and power.

The woman paused briefly, then, with renewed purpose, marched past the wrought iron railings and up the steps to the entrance. Despite the rain, she was hesitant before carefully placing the basket on the stoop, as though its contents were easily broken.

Melanie leaned closer to the window, trying to make out the woman’s expression.

This was not a regular delivery.

The woman stood frozen, her gaze locked on the basket as though weighing its significance. The ticking of the mantel clock filled the silence, each second stretching unbearably long. Outside, the rain continued to fall, unrelenting, drenching the motionless figure.

Then, without warning, the woman knocked on the door. The sound echoed sharply, ricocheting down the empty street. She didn’t linger—not even for a moment.

Instead, she whirled around and bolted, her hood slipping back as she ran, revealing a cascade of dark, tangled hair that streamed behind her like a banner. Melanie’s breath caught as she watched the woman disappear into the downpour, leaving only the basket behind.

Melanie frowned and leaned forward.

What on earth?

With the woman out of sight, Melanie found herself clutching the cold stone of the windowsill, waiting…

The basket just sat there, looking vulnerable as raindrops steadily plopped onto the wicker.

A basket that size might contain something valuable, and if it did, why abandon it like that, where anyone could scoop it up?

Melanie couldn’t take her eyes off the basket as she listened to the thrumming staccato of the rain, occasionally interrupted by a rumble of thunder.

When the beats accelerated, matching themselves to the beating of her heart, it felt like an ancient call to action.

The door remained closed. Where was the duke’s butler?

Melanie’s fingers fluttered along the lace of her bodice.

The clouds had really opened up now. The contents of that basket would be drenched in a matter of minutes.

And the very real possibility that a passerby might nick it bothered her.

She could cross the narrow street and knock on the door again, louder this time.

Yes.

She could do that.

Even if it meant leaving her window.

She needn’t speak to anyone, really. She could just point down and then dash right back to the comfort of her own home.

Because her conscience wasn’t going to allow her to simply sit here doing nothing.

Just as she unfolded her limbs, which had grown stiff, a clap of thunder made her jump.

She stared down at her silk slippers, momentarily torn.

If she took the time to change into her half-boots and don a coat and gloves, she might as well not go at all. Knocking on the duke’s door should only take a few minutes. If she was quiet enough, she could avoid involving her mother’s butler, Mr. Chesterfield.

Not that she minded him. Mr. Chesterfield seemed to understand Melanie. He was one of the few people in her life who didn’t expect her to make conversation.

Still, given a choice, she’d avoid seeing anyone at all.

Less than a minute later, Melanie was ducking through the deluge in a mad dash to save whatever was inside of that basket.

Knock, wait, point, and then return home, she chanted in her head, matching the words to her steps.

Her heart raced nonetheless. This sort of thing, interfering in someone else’s business, wasn’t a part of her normal routine.

Going anywhere at all, really, wasn’t a part of her normal routine.

Skipping around a few puddles, Melanie was careful not to slip before climbing the three wide steps leading to the stoop. But just as she went to pound the knocker, movement in the basket caught her eye.

Puppies? Or kittens, maybe?

Another sound—a mewling little cry.

Her heart lodged in her throat as she crouched down.

It couldn’t be.

Please, she thought, be kittens!

But it was not kittens, nor was it puppies. When she pulled the flap away, she was staring at the tiniest face she’d ever seen.

Oh, no. No!

Dark green eyes, fringed with thick amber lashes, stared up at her, unblinking. Sweet rosebud lips and the most delicate upturned nose made Melanie wonder, just for a moment, if this was some beautifully crafted doll.

But then the tiny lips parted, releasing a halting, but very sorrowful cry.

Not a doll.

Melanie swallowed hard, hesitating until a single drop of rain landed on that perfect little face.

Falling to her knees, she didn’t care that her gown was going to be soaked.

“ Don’t cry.” Why did your mother leave you here, all alone? Why would anyone abandon a baby on the Duke of Malum’s doorstep?

But before the questions completely formed in her mind, she already knew the answer.

Even Melanie wasn’t that na?ve.

The baby cried out again, the sound tugging at her attention.

Before she could reach inside the basket, however, she felt the door open—not from any noise, but from the shift in the air, a shadow falling over the front step.

Lifting her gaze, she found herself staring at two stocking-clad feet—unmistakably a man’s. Her gaze tracked up and she had nowhere to look except for his powerful-looking thighs, on full display in perfectly fitted trousers.

Her breath hitched, and tilting her head back, she noticed that his waist was slim, his chest mesmerizing , and his shoulders wide.

Not so wide, however, that they lacked elegance.

The man was dressed almost entirely in black—from his stockings to his cravat. The pristine white of his shirt stood in stark contrast to his dark trousers, jacket, and waistcoat.

But it was his face that held her attention—a study in sharp angles, with a square jaw, a Grecian nose, and high cheekbones.

Not the butler.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

Melanie’s mouth snapped shut—only then did she realize it had been hanging open.

The Duke of Malum’s silver eyes glinted as he stared down at her, and she couldn’t have been more taken aback if she’d been staring at the devil himself.

Albeit, a handsome devil.

And if she was correct, an annoyed one.

She shook her head. He’d asked her a question, and, kneeling beside the baby that had been forsaken on his front step, she realized she was going to have to answer him.

“You are…” Her voice was thin, almost unfamiliar to her own ears from saying so little. She cleared her throat, trying again. “You are the duke,” she managed, and then flushed.

She didn’t normally stare into the eyes of strangers, but with this man, she couldn’t look anywhere else.

“Obviously.” He smirked.

The baby chose that moment to remind both of them of its existence.

And that they were all getting rained on.

The duke dropped his gaze to the basket and then looked right back up at her.

“I’ll ask you again.” His voice was low and steely. “What are you doing?”

Oh . Oh! Melanie swallowed hard, realizing what this must look like.

“It—it isn’t mine,” she finally managed.