“But, sir, you’ve an appointment with Lord Helton this evening,” he said.
Melanie's eyes widened at the reminder that, while Caroline’s husband did not frequent theDomus, he did associate with the Duke of Malum—in business matters.
Which was why, when she glanced around, she half-expected to see her brother-in-law lurking in the hallway.
“Tell Helton we can meet at Preston Hall,” the duke ordered, unyielding.
The duke’s assistant or secretary looked like he might argue, but then thought better of it.
“Right, Your Grace.”
Melanie was lucky, indeed, not to have run into Lord Helton. Because of course, he would have told Caroline—who in turn would have told Reed and their mother.
“She’s from an agency, the nursemaid,” the duke explained as he led her in the opposite direction from where she’d come. “Supposedly, the best in the country. There were references, dammit. Just who did those people send?”
“But you interviewed her yourself, surely?”
“There were references.” His tone was clipped.
Melanie pressed her lips together. Still, she couldn’t help but think he ought to have met with the woman himself, regardless of these so-called “references.” This was about the wellbeing of his own newly born child after all.
And although he was finally taking some action, she could only hope it wasn’t too late.
She needed to see with her own eyes that the baby was safe. All morning, she’d itched to hold the little thing; by now, that itch had turned into an ache.
Melanie lifted her skirts so she could walk faster. “Oh, please, let’s hurry.”
The duke merely nodded, and a few seconds later, they stepped outside where a sleek black carriage sat waiting, already harnessed to a matching set of black horses.
A rough-looking man immediately stepped around from the back of the vehicle, and in a single smooth motion, set down the step and opened the door for them.
“To the townhouse, Jensen,” the duke informed his driver while Melanie ducked her head to clamber inside.
“I hope there isn’t much traffic…” Melanie murmured.
But the duke waved off her concerns. “It won’t be a problem.”
Seconds later, she understood why.
There was no backwards-facing bench, and the carriage’s small frame gave the distinct impression that it had been built for maneuverability—quite the contrast to her mother’s spacious coach, which could easily accommodate six and seemed designed more for appearances than efficiency.
Within seconds, the coach was rumbling towards Regent Street.
Inside, she was near frantic. What if she’d waited too long to find help? Had the nursemaid even tried feeding the baby?
The only thing that rivaled her anxiety was an overwhelming awareness of the duke’s presence.
“You’re right. Of course. I should have met with her myself. What the devil was I thinking?” He ran a hand through his hair, only to grimace as his elbow bumped her arm.
He didn’t apologize, and Melanie didn’t answer his question, which she assumed was rhetorical. Yet, despite her discomfort, a strange sense of accord settled between them, as if, for this moment, they were working toward the same end.
Still, she couldn’t ignore the tingling all along her side. He was too near, and the intimacy of it wasn’t awkward, exactly, but… certainly not proper. She made herself as small as possible and turned to stare out the window.
They’d only been driving for a few minutes, however, when the coach came to a halt. The duke snapped open the driver’s window. “What’s the problem?”
“A farmer’s cart tipped over.” The driver’s answer came immediately. “Shall I take measures?”
Measures?
