23. To the Park

TO THE PARK

M alum tugged at his sleeve and glanced up the staircase. Rutherford Place, although smaller, had a similar layout as Preston Hall.

The foyer in this townhouse, however, had a softness to it, with floral wallpaper faded from years of sunlight and delicate vases filled with flowers. Fringed cushions adorned the single bench, and a faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. Though a touch too busy, the house exuded a feminine charm that was entirely absent from his own.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some tea?” the butler asked tentatively. Lady Roland had asked him once already, but Malum was simply anxious to get on with the business at hand—that of acting like a besotted fool.

“ When you take my arm, draw me closer than necessary,” she had said. “When I speak, you’ll want to lean down, as though you are hungry to hear every word I say.”

She was correct in that people would be watching even when it felt like they weren’t. He clasped his hands behind his back, his feet planted firmly on the floor. In any other circumstances, he wouldn’t mind giving his attention to Melanie. He just hated that, in order to satisfy the ton , it was required of him.

Just then, footsteps sounded on the landing above, and looking up, his breath caught.

Long before she’d appeared on his doorstep, Malum had noticed the little bird who lingered by the window across the street. After opening his door and finding her on his front step, he’d been struck by how exceptionally pretty she was.

But this afternoon? She was more than that.

Stunningly lovely. The words slipped into his mind unbidden.

Perhaps it was her gown, an elaborate and fashionable piece that perfectly emphasized her best features, the color a pale, silvery blue that matched that of her eyes and brightened her skin. Or perhaps it was the artful arrangement of her hair, the curls softer than he remembered. Beyond her physical appearance, there was something intangible…

Whatever it was, the effect was undeniable.

“Your Grace,” she murmured, dipping her chin in greeting before descending the stairs… looking oh, so very brave.

And when she sent him a vague smile, it struck him.

She had dressed for battle. Her gown was her suit of armor, her chignon a helmet, and that enigmatic smile—her weapon.

Everyone who knew her had seen her retreat after the fire at her uncle’s hunting lodge, and they’d marked her as frail, delicate, even weak. And yes, she was vulnerable. Standing before him now, barely reaching his chin, she looked it.

But she was not weak.

“Melanie,” he said, inclining his head in reply.

“Here she is, your betrothed, Your Grace,” her mother all but sang. “As pretty as a picture for your drive in the park.”

Melanie’s smile faltered—so briefly that he almost missed it. Her tongue flicked across her lips, and when her gaze met his, there was a flash of something in her eyes—nerves, perhaps.

“Harry,” she said, her voice warm and deliberately casual as she stretched her smile wider.

The name landed like a cannonball, drawing noticeable shock from everyone within earshot. But Melanie, seemingly unbothered, descended the last few steps and crossed directly to his side, slipping her hand through his arm.

Malum raised his brows, masking his surprise with a faint smirk. It seemed she was setting the tone for how this game would be played.

His usual response to the casual use of his given name would have been a scowl so withering that the speaker would have instinctively fumbled through an apology.

For the sake of their own self-preservation.

Malum had specifically not given her permission to call him by that name. Even calling him Harold in front of a servant would have been extremely forward on her part.

But, he supposed, forward was normal when a couple was meant to be in love. So instead, Malum took her arm, ironically appreciating the boldness of her act.

It seemed Melanie was determined to maintain their facade, even here, within the supposed privacy of her mother’s townhouse. He supposed it made sense, considering he’d told her he didn’t trust her family to keep their secret.

Malum raised his hand to her shoulder, his movement slow and deliberate. And as he traced a line down her sleeve, found himself oddly affected by the warmth radiating through the fabric. When he reached the inch of bare skin just above her elbow, he paused, lingering there before gliding over the silk of her glove.

A shiver ran through her, almost imperceptible, but he felt it.

Just as he’d intended.

Then, with quiet assurance, he bowed over her hand, taking longer than what would have been deemed appropriate.

Imagining her rosebud mouth, his thoughts drifted to that moment in the private parlor—the way she’d parted her lips, an unspoken invitation. He’d been tempted, a rare enough occurrence. But even with the privacy surrounding them, he hadn’t allowed himself that pleasure.

She was innocent, and he… quite the opposite.

And with Melanie, things were already far too complicated.

Yet, as he replayed the moment in his mind, a stubborn part of him couldn’t shake the faint, almost haunting regret… that he’d not seized the opportunity.

Upon rising, he turned her so they both faced her family, guiding her hand to rest on his arm.

“Shall we go?”

“Yes.” She sounded breathless.

But of course, escaping her mother wouldn’t be that easy…

Lady Roland approached, her smile a little too candid as her gaze flicked between Melanie and Malum. “Take all the time you wish,” she encouraged. “Hyde Park is sure to be lively at this hour, and you’ll want everyone to see the two of you.”

“Mother.” His fiancée spoke through clenched teeth.

Lady Roland’s brows shot up in feigned injury. “What? You’re marrying a duke, why wouldn’t you want everyone to see you?” Her eyes glimmered, and her smile turned almost hard. “Especially Lady Varley. Remember how she disparaged Caroline when she landed Lord Helton? At the onset of the Season, you know, she confided to Lady Hubble her doubts that either you or Josie would be able to land a husband at all. And if you did, she said, he’d have pockets to let. So, if you do cross paths with the baroness, tell her I said hello, will you?”

“Oh, Mother, I doubt we’ll?—"

“But of course,” Malum replied smoothly. “Your daughter will be sufficiently paraded, so that all of Society takes note that her betrothed is indeed besotted.” The older woman stared back at him, still smiling but with a hint of uncertainty. Malum turned his attention back to Melanie. “Is there anything you need before we go out? A wrap?”

“Oh…” Before she could answer, her sister rushed across to hand her a lacy parasol and an almost gossamer shawl. “Thank you, Josie.”

Melanie was definitely eager to leave; the second she secured her accessories, her eyes darted toward the door.

Not bothering with further niceties, Malum allowed her to all but drag him outside and down the front steps.

“ Harry?” he demanded just as the door closed behind them.

She glanced up at him, her eyes dancing with a hint of mischief, and Malum couldn’t help but notice the sudden change in her demeanor.

“You gave me permission, did you not?”

They both knew he had not, but before he could respond, she turned her attention to the vehicle awaiting them at the curb, her bravado faltering as she eyed the sleek black, very tall curricle. “I expected… well, a barouche. Don’t most ladies ride in something more… sedate?”

“This is better,” Malum replied. He then dismissed the groom with a brief nod and offered Melanie a hand. Only hesitating a moment, she lifted her skirts and stepped onto the wheel, and then the floor of the box, perching herself on the high bench seat.

“We’ll have the advantage of looking down on the others as we go,” he said, walking around to the opposite side. “And when we’ve had our fill of idle chatter, we can make a swift escape.”

A subtle, almost wicked smile tugged at her lips and he knew she wouldn’t argue with his reasoning. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she murmured.

He climbed up, settling beside her and reaching for the reins. The quiet hum of the city surrounded them, a reminder that, for the first time, they would intentionally face the ton together.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” he asked, leaning down slightly, his voice low, trying to maintain their act even now.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. And then, looking a little more certain, she nodded.

With a flick of the reins, the horses started forward, and the curricle rolled along Regent Street, where tailors, milliners, and jewelers stood in neat rows, windows filled with all manner of displays hoping to lure shoppers inside.

“I forgot to mention, when I came to your—when we spoke in the…earlier,” she, Lady Melanie Rutherford, was practically babbling.

“Yes?”

“Right. What I need to tell you is that, although we agreed to feign affection for the ton , we’ll have to do it for my family as well…”

“So I gathered.”

“You did, didn’t you?” She gave him a surprised look before turning back to stare ahead. “Yes. Anyway, it’s only fair that you know that, er… I’ve told my family that we are… that we are in love.”

He paused to consider her words. “If you really think it’s necessary.”

“I do. It is.” Melanie nodded. “After reading the article in the paper, my brother, Reed—he was ready to insist I leave London. In order to prevent that, I had to find a way to convince him that this is what I really want.”

Malum turned onto Oxford Street. “So Standish was willing to send you away, at his own peril, and be the martyr, then.”

“Yes. He said…” When she trailed off, Malum glanced over. She was frowning. “He said I’ve suffered enough for this family.”

Feeling a twinge of respect, but also annoyance with her brother, Malum flicked the reins casually.

If this engagement had been a real one…

As the wife of a brothel owner, she would have endured her share of humiliation. No matter the extent of his power, Malum wasn’t deluded to imagine he could silence what was said behind closed doors. Gossip was a force unto itself—unpredictable, insidious. The most anyone could do was manage the fallout it left in its wake.

She’d been right to turn him down.

“Standish isn’t wrong, you know,” Malum said.

“I’ll be fine.” She shook her head. “But Reed stands to suffer far more. I can’t… He can’t…”

Malum swallowed hard. She’d endured the deaths of multiple beloved family members, followed by the threats to her brother. Of course, that pain lingered with her still.

She was so damn brave.

And yet… “Helton says you were the only person present when the fire began,” he said.

“Yes.”

“But you haven’t been able to give an account of what happened.”

“… No.” Her answer was quiet, the wavering in her voice apparent in that single syllable. Malum looked at her then, and he immediately registered the strained lines around her eyes, the stiff tension in her lips, her neck.

He could almost see it spreading, and in its wake… her speech was retreating again.

It was as he suspected, then. Her difficulties with speech—and their seeming disappearance in his presence—likely had little to do with himself as a person and more to do with the typical subjects of their conversations. The lack of reminders, the distraction from the tragedy that had upended her world.

Melanie had never stepped forward to prove her brother’s innocence, even in those initial days after his ascension to the title, when the consequences for not proving his innocence were verging on dire.

She would have been an invaluable witness—had she not been so devastated—wounded in a way that affected her speech and most likely her memory.

Out of necessity, no doubt, in the days and weeks following the fire, her family would have pressured her to tell her account of that night—to exonerate her brother once and for all.

And Malum remembered… by the time Standish had come to the Domus looking for help, the possibility of the earl’s younger sister coming forward hadn’t been a viable option at all.

While quietly organizing his thoughts, Malum steered his horses around a broken farmer’s cart.

If, however, she could convey what she saw that night, Standish could be closer to putting those accusations to rest—accusations involving opium, murder, and very powerful men…

Malum’s instincts stirred. Was it possible that whatever it was that she saw might be more important than Standish’s innocence?

But as they approached Park Lane, he shelved the possibility.

This wasn’t the time or place for that conversation. Revisiting the fire would leave her vulnerable, and their current plan hinged on their ability to appear calm—and convincingly in love.

That aside, she’d kept herself to that window for a reason. The ton was unforgiving, often cruel, and Melanie was at her most defenseless when words failed her.

Malum found himself caught between wanting to press her to speak about the one thing that might save her family—and a surprisingly powerful urge to protect her from it entirely.

The horses’ hooves clacked in a soothing rhythm as they rolled over the cobblestone.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t wish to,” Malum said, his tone deliberately casual, his shrug effortless.

He flicked his gaze to her, lingering just a moment too long. She sat stiffly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her vulnerability tugged at something so deep in him that he couldn’t even name it.

“My father came to me, just before the fire,” she murmured, barely above a whisper, as if speaking more to herself than to him.

Malum stayed silent, his grip tightening slightly on the reins.

“He gave me something…” Her voice choked off, trembling with the weight of memory. Gathering the reins in one hand, Malum reached over with the other, clasping her slender wrist with a steadying grasp. What might her father have given her?

The opium connection wasn’t common knowledge, but from what Malum knew, her uncle, the former Earl of Standish, her cousin, father, and eldest brother had all fallen prey to its lure. The hunting lodge had been their den of escape, a place cloaked in secrecy and ruin. When the lodge burned, the investigation had revealed signs of arson, fueling suspicions that pointed to Standish—the sole person who had benefited from the tragedy.

What the devil had her father given her?

She straightened beside him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It doesn’t matter, really. Not today, anyway.” Her cheerfulness was forced.

“It matters if you think it does.” He moved his hand lower from her wrist, and her fingers wrapped around his tightly.

Hyde Park was coming into view, the greenery now visible through the trees lining the street. They were passing Apsley House, the grand residence of the Duke of Wellington.

Malum cast a sideways glance at her, noticing the lingering tension in her jaw as they joined dozens of other carriages, riders, and fashionable pedestrians gathered along the main routes.

She was looking just a little too pale.

“Brace yourself,” he murmured, “For the finest display of staged superiority—a parade of peacocks, if you will.”

She swung around to look up at him, and he was pleased to see a hint of surprise and then genuine amusement spark in her eyes.

“Peacocks?”

“Indeed,” he answered, the corners of his mouth curving in a wry smile. “See the barouche turning into the park just ahead?” He gestured with a slight tilt of his chin and leaned closer, a jolt of intimacy sparking as a trace of lemon and roses teased his senses.

“The blue one?”

“With the white horses.” Dropping his voice, he prepared to break one of his cardinal rules from the Domus . “They are Lord and Lady Beasley. Did you see his speech in the papers last week?”

She tilted her head to meet his gaze, curiosity brightening her eyes. “The one about the dangers of novels and theater?”

“And the licentious forces corrupting our poor, innocent youth,” he added, feigning a solemn tone. “Proper, eh? Or so he’d have you believe…”

A flash of intrigue flickered in her gaze, her earlier pallor giving way to color. “He’s a member at your club?”

Malum let out a low chuckle. “He is.”

“Really?” Her brows shot up.

“Very active, actually,” he said, watching her expression with satisfaction.

“So… he is a hypocrite,” she said, with a touch of relish.

“Quite,” he agreed, finding himself damn near delighted by the edge in her tone. It was far too easy, he knew from his younger days, to feel diminished by the arrogance of people like the Beasleys.

He could have gone on, pointing out member after member, revealing the hidden duplicity behind their polished facades. But no—he’d already achieved what he’d intended. Her shoulders were more relaxed, and the color had returned to her cheeks as she sat beside him, her gaze brighter, more spirited.

Malum steered them toward the row, following behind those who’d arrived earlier, and eased their pace to little more than a crawl. Already, eyes landed on the pair of them, curious and judging and entertained alike. It was just as they’d intended.

From here on out, they could not falter.