Many changes, many plans.
As promised, he hadn’t truly changed—not in the ways that mattered. He remained a little bossy, more than a little arrogant, and entirely unrepentant about either. Yet, for all his swagger, he was always moving forward, smoothing the way for her and her family with an almost maddening efficiency. And, as she’d learned, Harry was a man who reveled in challenging convention—often to the point of scandal.
He had agreed to leave theDomusbehind, but that didn’t mean he’d suddenly start bending to all the expectations of theton. Even now, when Society seemed eager to embrace him as a prodigal son returned to the fold, there was an irreverence in his manner that said he’d never truly belong to them. He didn’t court their approval, didn’t care for their rules, and if the way he’d flirted with her in full view of their guests was any indication, he had no intention of ever being entirely proper.
And Melanie wouldn’t have him any other way.
As another guest moved past, Melanie found her gaze drifting to Harry once more. He was her anchor in a storm, the man who’d turned her world upside down, helping her feel alive again.
“You’re staring,” he said, his lips twitching.
“I like staring at you.” She kept her voice quiet enough not to be overheard.
“Careful,” he teased. “You’ll make me fall in love with you all over again.”
She laughed, her heart full. This was her life now—unexpected, extraordinary, and entirely hers.
Watching the first guests, Melanie caught sight of Mr. Beckworth, his arm looped casually through that of an elegant blonde woman as they moved along from greeting Lord Helton.
One of the things Melanie had learned was that her fiancé did, in fact, have more than a few friends.
“You’re looking well, my lady,” Mr. Beckworth said as he approached with Amelia. His grin was easy, but his sharp gaze missed nothing. “And, if my wife’s shopping habits are anything to go by, I know you are fully recovered.” He gestured lazily between them.
Amelia, now Mrs. Beckworth, was the daughter of a marquess and had almost become a victim of Lord Northwoods herself. The refined young woman had been wise enough to choose a simpler life, leaving behind theton’ssuffocating expectations to marry Mr. Beckworth. They spent most of their time on the southern coast, where Mr. Beckworth engaged in... activities that might not strictly adhere to the letter of the law.
Melanie found herself grinning. “I am feeling well, thank you, and I’m very glad for it. Though I suspect the shops of Bond Street will easily recover from our outings.”
Amelia tilted her head toward her husband with mock exasperation. “Someone has to keep London’s economy thriving. Consider it a public service.”
Beckworth merely shook his head. “A public service, indeed.” But then he looked back to Harry with a faintly sardonic smile. “You clean up well… Harry.”
Ever since hearing Melanie call Malum by his given name, Beckworth had taken to occasionally teasing him with it. He turned his attention to his friend. “Every inch the devoted fiancé. I never thought I’d see the day.”
Harry smirked but said nothing, those sterling eyes of his narrowing just slightly in silent retaliation.
Amelia arched an elegant brow at her husband. “Let’s move along, Leo. We don’t want to embarrass Melanie’s groom-to-be.”
“Perish the thought,” Beckworth said, laughing as he took Amelia’s hand and guided her forward.
Right behind them, Melanie recognized Amelia’s cousin, Lady Winterhope, who had insisted Melanie call her by her given name, Clementine. The Marquess of Winterhope, an incredibly flamboyantly-dressed gentleman, was another one of Harry’s Rotten Rakes.
Clementine, by contrast, was charming in her simplicity, her smile bright and her violet eyes wide with pleasure.
She and the marquess, like Amelia and Mr. Beckworth, were still essentially newlyweds. And although Clementine and Amelia were cousins, they’d had wildly different upbringings. Amelia in a castle, Clementine, for all intents and purposes, in a stable.
“How many days until the wedding now?” Clementine asked.
“Four,” Melanie answered automatically. And she could hardly wait. The engagement ball tonight was to be their grand celebration, whereas their actual wedding would be a small family affair at St. George’s—not far from Reed’s townhouse.
“I am so happy for you!” The marchioness squeezed Melanie’s wrist.
“Winterhope,” Harry greeted the marquess with his half-smile. It was his public smile, hardly anything like the one he reserved for Melanie.
“All black?” Winterhope indicated Malum’s clothing, shaking his head in mock despair.
“My waistcoat is silver,” Harry defended, pulling his jacket open a little to display it.
“And his cravat is charcoal-gray,” Melanie added helpfully. She had picked it out herself, actually—with a little input from Harry’s valet, that was. Regardless, she more than approved of his signature look. The stark, monochromatic clothing was striking against his equally dark hair and steely eyes.
