The maid stepped back, admiring her handiwork. “You look beautiful, my lady. Like yourself again.”
Melanie dropped her gaze and winced a little at the reminder of the past year.
For all her attempts to rally her spirits, the ache in her heart remained. Was she just fooling herself? Was it folly to imagine he might truly care for her?
She drew in a slow, steadying breath. Encouragement—whether from herself or others—could only take her so far. If she meant to follow through on her intentions, she would need to face this day head-on, one step at a time.
One breath at a time.
First, tea. Perhaps some toast—something light to settle her nerves. And then… theDomus.
Again.
The very thought of it almost made her feel a little dizzy, a confusing mix of emotions she didn’t quite understand.
TheDomuswas still, in her mind, a gilded facade masking unspeakable things. The first time she’d gone there, her steps had been driven by adrenaline-fueled desperation—fear for Ernest. She hadn’t thought—she hadn’t allowed herself to think until it was far too late. Then the truth of the place had sunk in, leaving her stunned, and a little—not dirty—but wicked, and more confused than ever.
Because, how could she care for the man who had built it?
Somehow, that persistent reality didn’t outweigh everything else she knew about him.
Her cheeks burned at the memory of the private parlor. The moment Malum had pulled her inside—just the two of them—she’d known the true stirring of desire.
She’d gained a sense of the potency of passion.
Excitement.
And last night, she’d felt…alive in ways she never had before.
With Harry…
Her thoughts lingered on him as she descended to the lower floor, her steps slow as she trailed one hand down the wooden banister. The house felt unusually quiet, and the empty seats in the breakfast room, where her mother and Josie usually sat, only amplified the silence.
Taking her usual seat at the long table, she found the simple act of pouring a cup of tea steadied her nerves. The warm, fragrant aroma wrapped around her, offering a faint sense of comfort.
But just as she lifted the cup to her lips, the door creaked open, and Mr. Chesterfield stepped inside. His expression was composed, yet tinged with an air of quiet urgency.
“My lady,” he announced. “You have a visitor.”
Melanie’s hands trembled slightly as she set the cup down.
Harry is here.
He had come! Who else would visit her at this hour?
Unexpected tears burned in her eyes, though she quickly blinked them away. “The duke?” she asked, trying to mask the excitement bubbling up inside her.
He could only be here for one of two reasons. Either to apologize, to explain himself and take it all back—or to discuss the terms of the dissolution of their engagement. She pressed her hands together to keep them still.
“Yes, my lady,” Chesterfield confirmed, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face—surprise, perhaps.
Relief and anticipation surged through her in equal measure, chasing away the ache that had gripped her since the previous night. Apology or explanation, it didn’t matter—he was here.
Melanie rose, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands. “Thank you, Chesterfield. I’ll see him now,” she murmured, already moving to follow him. Her steps were brisk, though her mind whirled with questions, with emotions she was just beginning to understand.
As they reached the drawing room door, she hesitated only a moment before pushing it open.
Disappointment hit her like a physical blow.
