35. Sweet Whispers

SWEET WHISPERS

M elanie leaned forward, and when she saw a shadow moving in the window directly across from hers, her heart skipped a beat.

“Harry?” she answered.

His features, though partially obscured by shadow, were unmistakable—sharp, commanding, and wholly arresting. Standing there, his dark hair gleamed faintly in the moonlight, and for a moment, all was right with the world.

“You weren’t expecting someone else, were you?”

“Of course not.” He was teasing her. “What are you doing?” Her voice, though barely more than a whisper, still sounded loud in the quiet night.

“Waiting for you,” he replied.

Her pulse quickened, a thrill coursing through her.

“What if I hadn’t come to the window?”

“Then I would’ve continued waiting,” he said simply, his tone dropping just enough to make her heart beat a little faster. “But I knew you wouldn’t leave me waiting for long.”

“You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

“Not of myself,” he murmured. “Of you.”

The words hung between them, and Melanie’s senses filled up with images, sensations—feelings—from just a few hours earlier. For a moment, they just gazed at one another, the space between their windows seeming to narrow, as if the street wasn’t really there at all.

“What do you mean by that?”

Even in shadow, she saw the faint curve of his lips—a not-quite smile. It was strange, and yet not, to see him like this, lighter, almost playful. This man, so very committed to being in control, was now leaning out his open window, possibly even flirting with her from across the road.

“I knew you’d come eventually. You’ve haunted those windows for nearly a year.” Looking back, she had spent a lot of time watching the street. Her family had constantly asked her how she could spend so much idle time staring out the window, criticizing, unable to hide their frustration. She had never been able to provide them with a satisfying answer.

And although he didn’t question her—perhaps because he didn’t question her—she tried explaining why.

“It was comforting,” she said. “Watching people do everyday things, go out and then return home. And do it all again the next day. I appreciated the reminder that things change, but that they also stay the same, despite…” Her throat threatened to close up, and she swallowed hard.

“I know.” Those two words had an oddly healing effect. “But change can be good, you know.”

“Even change you didn’t think you wanted?” It was as close as she could get to asking him about what, exactly, was going to change between the two of them.

He fell silent then, staring down the street and then back at her.

“I wanted to make sure you hadn’t been grilled by your siblings.” And then he added, “After you returned inside.”

“No. In fact, everyone was perfectly polite. Almost too polite.”

He studied her for a moment, his silver gaze making her feel… protected, even from this distance. “Are you sure? Would you tell me? If you had trouble because of me…”

“I would tell you.” A small smile touched her lips. She was tempted to admit that she’d tell him anything. She’d likely pour out her heart if he asked her to. But she decided to show some restraint. She was English, after all.

“You seem awfully concerned for someone who’s only pretending to be betrothed.” It was her turn to tease.

“And you’re awfully calm for someone who just…” He trailed off, a rare flicker of discomfort passing over his face.

All right, then.

Melanie tilted her head, studying him from across the distance. “Are we going to have this conversation with Regent Street between us?”

He huffed softly, his gaze flicking down before returning to her. “It’s more convenient than climbing the trellis.” His eyes glinted as he nodded toward the rickety structures loaded with honeysuckle vines climbing up the side of her mother’s house. “Neither of them look particularly sturdy.”

Melanie let out a startled laugh. “You would fall to your doom, you know.” She relaxed against the windowsill. “Goldie’s sister escaped from her father’s house using a trellis, and I believe it gave way, but Lord Westcott saved her.”

“Quite the charmer, that Westcott,” Harry said.

Pleasure trickled through her, because they weren’t talking about her family’s ruin, or scandal, or greedy earls, but just talking… about people they both knew, almost as though they were any other couple…

Her smile widened and the cool breeze caressed her face. “I think it’s romantic.”

And again, they simply looked at each other.

“That almost sounds like a challenge,” he said eventually, breaking the heavy silence.

But she was already shaking her head. “It isn’t.” Neither trellis could hold her, let alone him. “Please, please don’t try it.”

“You don’t think it would be romantic if I snuck into your chamber?”

Melanie’s heart stuttered. For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. “I—I?—”

“Forget I said that. I didn’t mean?—”

“No. Of course not.” She hated that she felt awkward. Nothing should feel awkward between the two of them. Especially after tonight…

Still, she could see that his mouth was pressed into a firm line, and a shadow passed over his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, surprising her.

“It’s fine, really.”

“Not about…” He gestured toward the trellis—toward her window. “But about everything else.”

Melanie frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“For…” He coughed into his hand. “Decisions I made—that affected you. If I hadn’t told Helton about your visit to the Domus , you wouldn’t have been forced to attend that ball. I wouldn’t have felt compelled to find you there, and…” He shook his head, his demeanor rueful. “None of this would’ve happened.”

Her throat tightened. “So, you’re sorry for… all of it?” Was he sorry about their drive through the park? Those moments by the lake?

For making love to me?

His gaze flicked up to hers, and something in his expression made her chest ache. “Yes.”

Her heart sank. “Really.”

He didn’t answer.

“Are you sorry because you regret it,” she asked, “or because you think you’ve hurt me somehow?”

He paused, his jaw flexing. “Both,” he admitted finally, the single word heavier than she expected. But what if she wasn’t—hurt or sorry?

Of course, he would finally make a real, heartfelt apology—now that she didn’t want him to.

Well.

Melanie looked down, fiddling with the sleeve of her dress.

If he didn’t want to talk about it in a meaningful way, she wouldn’t either.

She blinked away the stinging in her eyes, reluctant to walk away from the window just yet, wanting to keep on hearing his voice.

“I spoke with Josie—about Northwoods,” she blurted out.

“Good.” But he was frowning. At the same time, he looked relieved that she’d changed the subject. Which made her heart even heavier. “If she doesn’t break it off, your brother will do it for her.”

“Perhaps...” Melanie winced. Reed had seemed distracted lately, and Josie… “She’s stubborn, though. And she’s enjoying having an earl’s attention.”

“She’ll have to find a different earl, then.” Malum’s confidence was firmly in place again. “Because he’ll stop sniffing around her, one way or another.”

“How do you know that?”

There was that familiar smirk, both charming and maddening. Then he shrugged. “I’ll take care of it.”

“That’s not an answer,” she said. He was very adept at doing that.

He didn’t reply right away, searching her expression before seemingly coming to a decision of some sort. “I… have some leverage. But please, just promise me you won’t say anything to him yourself. I’m…” But then he trailed off.

“You’re what?”

“I’m concerned about you.” He spoke haltingly, and she got the feeling he didn’t want to admit it.

“But why?” she pressed. Because he cared about her? But he was shaking his head again.

He leaned out the window, glancing up and down the street, as though he expected someone to be listening to their conversation.

“Because,” he finally answered, “I think you might know something that could put you in danger.”

“Danger?” She frowned. “From whom?” One minute they were discussing their relationship, and then the next, she was in danger? For what possible reason?

“I can’t say,” he answered. “But this is serious. Be careful of who you trust, who you speak to. Especially if you saw something—or someone—at the hunting lodge.”

Her heart dropped.

Why, oh why, did everything lead her back to that night at the hunting lodge?

She could feel her chest tighten and dreaded the thought that her voice might fail her again. “I’ve already told you—I don’t remember. I don’t know anything.”

“Shhh, it’s alright.” Malum held out one hand. The last thing he wanted was for her to shut down. Not with him. “I believe you. I’m… probably worrying over nothing.” But he knew he wasn’t.

The street was eerily quiet. Even so, they ought to be having this conversation somewhere private. Unfortunately, Standish would have a conniption if he discovered Malum had made his way into her chambers at this ungodly hour.

He glanced at the trellis, wishing it was even close to being sturdy enough to hold his weight, at the same time thinking it was best that it wasn’t.

“I just want…” She faltered, and Malum waited. This woman—she had him all twisted up inside.

“What do you want, sweetheart?”

“I feel like I’m… in the dark. I’m just so tired of being in the dark.”

Malum rested his forearms on the windowsill. “What are you in the dark about?” He’d shed some light for her, if he could. The thought came unbidden that he’d move the sun and earth for her.

She licked those lovely lips, and even from across the street, Malum was viscerally aware of the little gesture. Because he’d tasted those lips. And, God help him, he wanted more.

Greedy bastard.

“I—there’s just so much I don’t know—about the fire, about my father.” She looked up at the stars, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “About you.”

And then her gaze dropped and met his. “About…us.”

Us.

A chilly breeze swept in, carrying that single word straight to him, a piercing arrow, a flying bullet. He welcomed it—treasured it, even, but couldn’t accept.

Us.

Malum was accustomed to having answers, to knowing how to handle anything that came his way. But this was different.

She deserved to know everything, and yet, the more she knew, the greater the danger. And this bloody public engagement had only made it worse.

It placed her in a dangerous position—in the center of his life. And that, well, that was probably the most selfish, careless decision he’d ever made.

Crossings was getting desperate. The fire at the Domus made that clear—the villain was brazen enough to strike at anything Malum valued. Anything he cared about. And now, this convoluted betrothal was center stage, a target painted for all to see.

A flicker of movement on the street caught his attention—a shadow—and although he couldn’t make out who it was, a trail of ice slithered down his spine.

He’d seen that shadow before, hovering outside of the Domus .

But of course, Crossings would have spies watching him… He had suspected this.

What the devil was he doing? Practically serenading Melanie from his bloody window? He’d put her in danger, and now, he needed to do something that would actually protect her. So, setting all that romantic sentiment aside, he made a snap decision.

“There is no us.” He spoke more loudly than before, more deliberately. The knowledge that they were being watched only reinforced the truth of what had to be done.

If there was even a chance that doing so would shield her from danger, he had to push her away.

“But—” Her little brows furrowed. “What about?—”

“We agreed this was only temporary,” he cut her off. “Fake. Nothing more.” He made his voice hard. He had to be convincing. Even as he spoke, however, he promised himself he’d make this up to her.

If she let him.

But not until Crossings was well and truly locked away—when the danger was gone.

“I thought—” She shook her head in disbelief. “I lo?—”

“Don’t make this into more than it is.” And then, in case Crossings’ hired thug needed more convincing, he added, “In fact, let’s just end it now, shall we?”

Melanie looked positively frantic now. “But I don’t understand!”

Disbelief and hurt flashed in her expression, and Malum had to force himself not to take it all back. Hanging on by a thread, but also because one or both of them might give away too much if this went on much longer, Malum grabbed the handle on the window. “Good night, Melanie,” he said.

And then, he very deliberately pulled the window shut.

His heart felt sick.

Tonight, he’d abandoned all pretense of resisting her. And in spite of what he’d told her, part of him could never regret it. Regret… her.

Us.

She’d been wanting reassurances and he’d given her the opposite.

She’d asked him about tonight, if he was sorry…

He’d thought he could justify his emotional lapse by labeling it regret or duty or guilt. But the truth was far less tidy.

He wasn’t sorry for tonight.

Not for the way she’d looked at him, her eyes wide with trust and something he dared not name. Not for the feel of her against him, her warmth imprinted on his skin. And certainly not for the way she’d made him feel—like a man who still had something to offer, something worth protecting.

No, he wasn’t sorry for any of that.

He rubbed the back of his neck and stepped back.

Malum stood in the nursery, moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting long shadows across the floor. Ernest stirred in his crib, and a small, contented sigh broke the silence. But Malum didn’t feel content—not in the slightest.

He braced his hands against the edge of the cradle, his head bowing forward as an icy chill rolled through him. His own cruel words echoed in his mind, hard and unfeeling. He’d done it to protect her, he reminded himself. To keep her safe.

And yet…

The memory of her face—wide-eyed, searching—clawed at him. He’d hurt her. That much was undeniable. But he’d done what was necessary.

This wasn’t just about glossing over a ridiculous scandal anymore.

Damn it all. Malum straightened, his hands clenching at his sides. This couldn’t go on. He was sick of the endless investigation, sick of waiting, sick of hoping for some damning piece of evidence to simply fall into his lap. Crossings had slipped through his fingers too many times. Malum had been patient, cautious, deliberate—but patience had its limits.

His jaw tightened as he cast one last glance at Ernest before striding toward the door. The time for hesitation was over. It was time to act.

Tomorrow, when he met with the rest of the Rakes of Rotten Row, they would finalize a plan. Crossings was desperate, paranoid, his funds running dry. They needed to push him now, while his erratic behavior and dwindling resources worked to their advantage.

With this resolve driving him, Malum sat down at his desk to make preparations. But before he could even begin, a knock at the door interrupted him. He glanced at the clock—ten minutes past three in the morning.

Raising an eyebrow, he called for the visitor to enter.

Tipton, looking a little bleary-eyed, ducked his head through the door. “Pardon the late hour, my lord, but there’s a gentleman here to see you. Mr. Leopold Beckworth.”