Malum closed his eyes, just barely keeping his frustrations in check, and then exhaled through his nostrils. When he inhaled again, he immediately regretted it.
If anything was going to be done about this screeching little problem, Malum was going to have to address it himself.
Right.
“I’ll need a stack of clean linens, fresh water for the basin, and several washcloths.”
When the architect and designers had included a nursery in the renovation plans, Malum had allowed it simply because he had no other use for the space. In hindsight, the idiots ought to have had the sense to include modern plumbing.
Not that he’d ever imagined this particular scenario…
Although, in his line of business, perhaps he ought to have foreseen something like this.
“Perhaps it wants to eat,” Angus suggested.
“It’s a he, Angus,” Malum pointed out. “And currently, I’m more concerned with what’s coming out than what’s going in.”
God, the smell was rank. Some fresh air would be welcome...
"Open the window before you go," Malum added, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Angus's eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly masked his hesitation under the weight of the direct command. "Of course, Your Grace." The valet hurried to the window and, after fumbling with the closure, flung it open with the urgency of a man on a mission, letting a cool breeze sweep into the room. Task completed, he swiftly retreated toward the door as if something far more menacing than Malum's order was hot on his heels. "I’ll tend to the linens right away…"
And then he disappeared.
Lucky sod.
As long as Malum kept moving, the baby limited his cries to little hiccupping breaths, so Malum crossed to the hearth, and then to the window, grateful for the scent of honeysuckle floating in from the massive vines climbing the house across the street, and that the breeze was warm enough for him to leave the window open for more than a few minutes.
Movement across the way caught Malum’s eye, a reminder of the young woman he’d found kneeling on his doorstep that afternoon.
He’d have had to be dead not to notice how her rain-soaked gown had clung to her skin, the fabric teasingly molded to what was, in fact, a perfect hourglass figure—flared hips, cinched waist, and pleasantly full bosom.
And that there had been a single raindrop clinging to her lashes, catching the light before sliding down her cheek.
Over the past year, he’d been vaguely aware that one of Standish’s sisters spent an inordinate amount of time at her window, a shadowy figure watching the world go by.
But now, there was a face to the shadow—a heart-shaped one, framed by damp curls and adorned with sparkling blue eyes, a small, upturned nose, and lips as inviting as those hips…
She’d smiled at the baby—a crooked, fleeting thing that had vanished as quickly as it had come. If Malum were any other man, he supposed he might have found it oddly endearing.
But then she’d looked up at him. Behind those luminous eyes, he’d seen it all: disgust at the notion that he’d sired a child out of wedlock, doubt in his ability to manage the situation, and, most damning of all, the desire to escape him as quickly as possible.
Likely, a little fear as well, which explained the difficulty she’d had putting words together. No doubt, once she was around other ladies, she’d gleefully spread the news that the Duke of Malum had sired a little bastard.
If he was a proper duke, that might pose a problem. Since he was not, he didn’t really care.
Though he did find it annoying, something he dismissed with a scoff.
To hell with proper ladies. Malum flicked a glance toward the window across the way, his jaw tightening as he recognized her silhouette. His mind stilled for a fraction of a second, though his hands continued their steady, practiced rhythm, jostling Ernest to keep the baby calm.
And yet, she was in his thoughts again.
Her bedchamber was directly across the way.
Malum knew that there were three Rutherford sisters altogether. The oldest had married the Earl of Helton, but the two others were as of yet unmarried. So they’d be on the marriage mart, flitting from one boring event to another.
No wonder Standish had yet to return to London for the Season.
