5. A Different View

A DIFFERENT VIEW

S itting at her vanity, Melanie didn’t respond to the knock at her door. It would be either Eloisa returning to finish cleaning up the bath, or Josie or her mother, whom she’d heard return half an hour earlier. Melanie continued pulling a brush through her long, loose hair, struggling to untangle her curls, at the same time she watched the door behind her through the mirror. When the handle turned, it was Josie who stepped inside.

“I think there is nothing worse than a garden party in the rain,” her younger sister exclaimed, throwing herself sideways onto Melanie’s bed.

Melanie smiled in answer, but then tilted her head.

Throughout her encounter with the Duke of Malum, she’d spoken more words than she had in months. It had been utterly exhausting.

But she could listen. She would always listen to what Josie had to say.

Rolling onto her back, the younger girl sighed. “The baroness had tents set up, but the wind blew them down. I felt sorry for her servants; she blamed them, of course—for the weather! The food was ruined, and everything was soaked: the tablecloths, the decorations. Lord Bigly and Miss Blythe were stranded on the lake. I can only assume that he intended to row her to shore, but he just kept turning them in circles. Her mother was beside herself. If it were me, personally, I’d have stripped down to my chemise, jumped out, and made my own way back long before it ever got to that point. Really, how do these ladies grow up without learning to swim?”

Melanie shook her head, smiling despite poor Miss Blythe’s unfortunate predicament.

Josie took the next few minutes to regale her older sister with other comical scenarios from today’s garden party, and when she was finished, she let out another gusty sigh.

“After the tent collapsed, they herded us like sheep into the baroness’s music room, and a few of the guests took turns playing the pianoforte and singing. It was atrocious! Honestly, I would have preferred to stay home catching up on my correspondence. Somebody has to, you know.” She shifted her pointed stare to Melanie’s writing desk, tucked under a stack of hatboxes and valises, more forgotten, even, than Melanie’s voice. “Mary and Phillipa have given up on hearing from you.” She rolled over. “They think you’ve stopped writing because Reed is Standish now, that you are too good for them. Of course, I tried explaining, but… I’ve stopped making excuses. I just… I just wish…”

Melanie looked away, wishing she understood as well.

They’d all suffered the same heartbreak; why was Melanie the only one who seemed… trapped by it?

A year had passed since the fire. Before that night, it had been unfathomable to even imagine the tragic combination of events under which Reed would come to possess the title.

And yet, everyone but Melanie had moved on. It didn’t make sense…

Melanie had been closer to her father than any of her siblings had been, especially after he, their brother Randall, their cousin Rupert, and Uncle Lucas had started to drift away from the rest of them. She knew she had been favored. She’d actually taken it for granted when she saw that glimmer of pride in her father’s eyes.

And now he was gone.

And that day, everything had changed.

Melanie didn’t know how to put all of this into words Josie would understand, let alone how to convey it without them. She couldn’t even explain it to herself.

All she could do was shrug helplessly.

“I know they weren’t your very best friends, but I’d have thought you’d want to keep in touch,” Josie said almost accusingly.

This wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion, and no doubt it wouldn’t be the last.

Once... Before... This wasn’t about her childhood friends, Mary or Phillipa, or anyone else, really…

Melanie made another shrug, to which Josie responded by sitting up and glancing around.

“I don’t suppose anything interesting happened here.” She rose from the bed and smoothed her skirts, and then grimaced. “Not that you’d actually tell me.”

Her sister’s unconcealed disappointment cracked something in the vicinity of Melanie’s heart. When her family had first noticed the changes in Melanie following the fire, they’d been concerned—sympathetic. After a few months, they’d pushed her to “get better.” And now, they only grudgingly accepted it.

“Josie,” Melanie began. But then, when she realized that whatever she’d been going to say to reassure her younger sister seemed too big to express, she twisted her mouth into an apologetic smile.

Josie waited, and then blew out a disappointed breath. “I’ll see you at dinner,” she said. “But after that, Mother and I are attending the Turnbridge Ball.”

Melanie pointed to her wrist with questioning eyes, and Josie knew what she was asking. “Two gentlemen have claimed sets with me. One of them is an earl!” Josie recovered her good spirits enough to toggle her eyebrows. “Lord Northwoods. The other is Mr. Huntington.”

“That’s good…” Melanie said, hating the heaviness she felt when she spoke. Otherwise, she’d ask her sister so many questions. She remembered being introduced to Mr. Huntington, a young and eager sort of gentleman, but knew little about this Northwoods fellow.

Was he handsome? Was he charming? Which of them did Josie prefer?

“I’ll see you downstairs, then…” Josie smiled weakly before quietly slipping out of the room, leaving Melanie alone in the fading light of her bedchamber.

An hour later, the three of them—Melanie, Josie, and their mother—sat at one end of the grand table. Their mother had ordered elaborate furnishings for the entire house following Reed’s inheritance, and the formal dining room was now an elegant testament to their new status. Intricate plaster moldings and heavy velvet drapes framed tall windows, and a gilded chandelier cast a warm, flickering light over the silver place settings. The food was served on delicate china plates, and the table, though capable of seating a dozen, felt almost cavernous with only the three of them gathered at its far end.

“Lord Northwoods would be quite the catch, Josephine,” their mother declared, her tone bright and buoyant, cutting through the clink of utensils against porcelain.

“Oh, I know, Mama,” Josie said quickly, eagerness creeping into her voice. “It’s really… something, isn’t it?” She straightened in her chair, her cheeks pinking as she glanced toward her mother, clearly hoping for approval.

Their mother placed her fork down with a satisfied clink. “Something? It’s everything, my dear. A connection like this would all but ensure our family’s position in Society. My own son, of course, but then two daughters, married to earls. Can you imagine?”

Melanie watched her mother warily. She would have thought having a son who was an earl—and one daughter already married to the Earl of Helton—would have been enough to satisfy her mother’s ambitions. But it wasn’t. It never was.

Josie, meanwhile, leaned into their mother’s enthusiasm, her smile widening as she gave a small, nervous laugh. “I can hardly believe it.”

“Fill my glass, will you, Kenny?” her mother added briskly, waving a hand toward the footman, though her attention never left Josie.

“Yes, my lady,” Kenny replied, stepping forward to comply.

Their father, as the second son of an earl, could have gone through life as a lord—Lord Roland, to be precise. But he’d never claimed that status, choosing to work alongside those who worked his land as Mr. Rutherford.

And their mother had been perfectly content to be called Mrs. Rutherford, Mistress of Breaker’s Cottage—until the weeks following her husband’s death. “ There will be less confusion if I’m addressed as Lady Roland ,” she’d insisted only after she’d learned that, although Reed was now the Earl of Standish, the circumstances of his inheritance didn’t allow his mother to suddenly become Lady Standish .

No one had argued.

And now, Lady Roland took every opportunity to manage her youngest daughter’s prospects, attending the best soirees and making friends with the most informative gossips.

Or trying to, anyway.

It seemed as though their mother would fill the emptiness left in the wake of her loss with all the benefits that had come with Reed’s title and status, something no one could blame her for.

“He is handsome, is he not?” Their mother wasn’t really asking.

“I suppose, Mother,” Josie said. “He isn’t bad-looking. You don’t think he’s too old?”

“Not really, darling, five and thirty, perhaps?”

“Or forty. He has a bald spot on the back of his head.”

“His hair is a little thin, perhaps. The lady he chooses to be his countess, however, shouldn’t be bothered by that. He seems a decent enough fellow, and pickings are slim this year.”

“Mr. Huntington has a very thick head of hair,” Josie said quietly, her head down. Melanie noticed a pink flush on her neck.

“He’s the third son of a baron, Josephine,” their mother pointed out.

Melanie scooped up a spoonful of pudding, listening to all the things Josie wasn’t saying.

It seemed obvious to Melanie that although Josie would have the approval of their mother, she much preferred the younger Mr. Huntington.

Their older sister Caroline had been fortunate to fall madly in love with a good man—one who was both titled and wealthy. But such a marriage was the exception, not the rule. Melanie wanted nothing less than that for Josie, who was too kind-hearted and na?ve for anything less.

And poor, na?ve Josie would likely do anything for their mother’s approval, a fact that troubled Melanie deeply. Their mother seemed blind to what Josie actually wanted—or needed—and Melanie feared her sister might sacrifice too much to please her. If Josie couldn’t make a love match, now that Reed was an earl, she’d do just as well to remain unmarried.

Melanie flicked a glance to the nearby empty chairs and forced herself to interject. “Write Reed,” she said, startling both of them. “Ask him.”

Reed really should be, if not here at Rutherford Place, in London, at the very least. As their only remaining brother, it was his duty to prevent disreputable rogues from taking advantage of his sisters. If he were here, their mother wouldn’t gush over every man remotely linked to a title. She might view them, even, with a smidge of healthy suspicion.

Furthermore, they shouldn’t be having conversations like this for at least another year. Josie was too young.

And that brought a stab of guilt, because their mother wouldn’t be pressuring Josie at all if Melanie was willing to participate in the marriage mart this spring.

Only… she couldn’t.

“You’ve had enough syllabub for now, Josephine. We need to prepare for this evening’s festivities.” Their mother gestured, and Kenny stepped forward to assist Lady Roland, and then Josie, out of their chairs.

Later that evening, long after Josephine and their mother had left for the ball—without so much as a word of farewell, which wasn’t surprising—the house fell quiet again.

Melanie sat in her bedchamber, the stillness pressing down around her. She wasn’t sure what was more unsettling—the absence of her family’s chatter, or the sound that did manage to break the silence.

She stilled, straining to hear it again. There it was—a distant, plaintive cry, high-pitched and unmistakable. A baby.

Rising from her chair, Melanie crossed to her window and pulled back the curtain. Her gaze fixed on the residence across the way—the duke’s home, Preston Hall.

The house, usually dark and quiet at this hour, was alive with flickering lights spilling from an upstairs window that had always been, as far as she’d known, firmly shuttered. She pressed her forehead to the cool glass, peering closer.

There. A shadow crossed the room.

And then it moved again.

Back and forth.

The shadow of a man.

The duke, she knew, would be at his club, that notorious place... the Domus Emporium . So who was it? One of the manservants, perhaps?

But where was the nurse? Was the child being properly cared for? Was the baby safe?

And then she heard it again—the faint, heartbreaking cry of an infant. When she cracked the window open, those cries sounded unusually close.

But as startling as that was, she was even more shocked when she got a glimpse of the face of the man holding that baby.

For it was, in fact, the duke.

He wasn’t nearly as composed as he had been earlier, and as a result, looked… almost approachable. As he crossed to the window, long strands of his dark hair, which had been so neatly combed back before, now tumbled forward, framing his chiseled cheekbones. Obviously frustrated, the sharp lines of his face seemed more striking, accentuated by the deep scowl etched across his brow.

Melanie’s breath hitched as her eyes trailed down.

The duke had shed his tailored black jacket, and the sight of his rolled-up shirtsleeves caught her off guard.

There was a rough elegance to him now, something raw beneath the polished exterior she'd seen earlier. He had one elegant hand supporting the baby’s tiny bottom, the other cradling its head with surprising gentleness.

Even from a distance, clear bewilderment shone from his eyes, and this unexpected juxtaposition released a fluttering sensation low in her belly.

Although the baby had been left at the duke’s home, Melanie would never, not in a million years, have expected the duke to have anything to do with its actual care.

And with good reason, because he didn’t seem to be having much success.

The baby inhaled, going silent for an amount of time that seemed far too long, and then let out the loudest cry so far.

The look on the duke’s face was nearly as alarming as the sounds coming from the infant in his arms.

Before she could duck behind the drapes, the duke lifted his gaze, and although their eyes only met for a few seconds, Melanie saw something unexpected.

Uncertainty.

Without thinking, she pushed the window wide open, leaned forward, and rested her elbows on the wooden ledge.

“What can he possibly want?” The duke’s mouth pinched into a tight line as he increased the bound to his jostling.

Melanie bit her lip. Was he asking rhetorically, or did he expect an answer?

“Has he eaten?” She knew the most basic needs a baby might have from having helped care for Mary’s youngest brother on a few occasions, but she wasn’t a trained nursemaid. She definitely wasn’t an expert.

The duke shook his head. “We managed to dribble an ounce of pap into his mouth.” Another frown, this one deeper than the last. “In between screams.”

“He might have air in his tummy,” Melanie suggested.

Another shake of the head. “And that matters because…?”

“Gas,” Melanie said. “He might need to… belch.”

The duke’s brow furrowed, and he looked askance at her. “So then, why doesn’t he?”

“He just needs a little help. Pat him on the back,” she instructed. Seeing the duke make a few tentative pats, she leaned a little farther out the window. “Harder, Your Grace. Harder.”

Those silver eyes flashed back up at her. “Excuse me?”

Melanie twisted her mouth into an encouraging smile. “Do it a little harder or it won’t work. He won’t break.”

Still staring into her window, he blinked and then nodded, moving his hand more deliberately. “Like this?”

“Yes, but not too—” The baby let out an impressive belch before she could finish answering, and even with the street between them, she could see the baby’s body relax.

The baby fell blessedly quiet, a silence so loud it echoed off the row of townhouses.

Resting her chin on her fist, Melanie imagined the entire neighborhood breathing a collective sigh of relief. Meanwhile, the duke stood frozen, as though he was afraid that if he moved, the baby would start up crying again.

But then he glanced back at Melanie, cocking one brow. “Well, I’m impressed. What other clever tricks do you have up your sleeve?”

Clever…

Her father had considered her clever. He’d bragged about her, saying she came up with the very best things to say… My clever daughter…

“Not all that clever,” she said, suddenly having to force the words out again. But she wanted to know…

“Where is the nursemaid?”

The duke had turned his back to the window, but just when she’d decided he was going to ignore her, his low voice floated across the night air.

“That’s an excellent question.” He spun around and paced toward her again.

Melanie licked her lips. “You have hired one, haven’t you?”

“Theoretically.” Melanie almost found herself smiling. Because, if she was correct, he seemed to be making a joke.

“Theoretical nursemaids are the worst. Not helpful at all…” And for the second time that day, she found herself saying more than one or two words at a time. The realization made her throat thicken and, lest he expect any more from her, she stepped back and hastily drew the drapes closed.

She hadn’t spoken so much in a single day in... well, not for a long time.

Melanie touched her fingers to her lips, afraid to hope it could mean anything…