She was so innocent, she had no idea of the image she presented. Malum studied her closely. There was a trusting light in her eyes, yet her lush mouth hinted at untapped sensuality.
But she had been raised in the country, sheltered from the depravity that lurked in London’s shadows.
…you don’t really want to marry me, do you?
Of course she’d be reluctant to marry a man who ran a brothel. Any sane woman would be.
As the Duchess of Malum, she and her family would be protected from scandal, but they’d also carry a stigma that, until now, had belonged solely to him.
“You can’t really think marriage would be easier,” she pressed.
“For me, it would.” But it wouldn’t be for her.
She narrowed her eyes. “If marriage is the best solution, why did it take Reed and Lord Helton over two hours to convince you to make your offer?”
Malum shook his head. “No one convinced me of anything.”
His gaze lingered on her hair—rich chocolate curls with hints of caramel where the sunlight caught them. Today, her tresses were swept into a more intricate chignon than the night before, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if they were as soft as they looked.
Shaking off the thought, he let his eyes drift downward, taking in the way her gown accentuated a figure he’d only begun to truly notice when she had landed in his lap the night before.
Although… that wasn’t entirely true. He’d noticed. He just hadn’t allowed himself to appreciate it. Until now.
But she was watching him. “You can’t really want to marry me—you don’t even know me.”
“Don’t I?” he countered, touching the back of his thumb to his chin.
“What can you possibly know?”
“I know,” he spoke softly, “that you are curious and compassionate—quieter than most, and perhaps a little clumsy, but you are not afraid to stand your ground.”
She blinked. “I haven’t always been quiet.”
Her voice was rich, with a warm edge that lingered pleasantly in his ears. He found it curious, really, how easily she was using it, considering Helton’s insistence that she’d struggled with speech ever since the deaths of damn near half her family.
And yet, here she was, conversing freely.
“Your struggles began after the fire?”
She nodded.
“You witnessed it?”
Another nod. “I… was there.”
Malum stilled, feeling as though she was peeling back a secret layer of herself, something she hadn’t been able to share with others. If she had seen the fire, and her brother had come under suspicion for starting it, then, logically, she ought to be able to confirm his innocence.
But she hadn’t.
And there must have been enormous pressure for her to do so. Could the fact that Malum, and Ernest for that matter, had no stake in any of it, explain why she could speak around him?
But she was already changing the subject. “Even if you think you know me, I hardly know you.”
She was reluctant to marry him, understandably. Marriage certainly hadn’t been in his plans. The only reason he’d argue the point was the promise he’d made to her damn brother.
“I am exactly who you think I am,” he said, the words clipped and deliberate. He paused, letting them hang in the air between them. She’d once said she expected him to be a monster—only to admit he wasn’t what she imagined. That memory lingered, tugging at something he couldn’t quite name.
He tightened his mouth. For reasons he didn’t entirely understand, he felt compelled to give her something in return. She had shared something of herself, after all.
