“Looking for paper.” She directed that reply at the contents of his desk. She rustled through it a moment, and then paused briefly to glance up. “So that I might record your responses.” With that, she resumed her search.
Record his responses . . .
She’d sought him out, and then invaded his belongings, all with the intention of sharing his story with the world. That was the price to be paid for his misstep . . . and a reminder served to never again falter.
“The world knows you as Percival Northrop,” she was saying. “And yet you refer to yourself as North. How did you come by your new name, my lord? And do you have any intentions of adopting your rightful name?”
A growl started low in his belly. It made it no farther than his chest, trapped there. A rumble that managed to penetrate the harebrained minx’s efforts. Slowly, she picked her head up.
Her already impossibly round eyes formed a perfect circle as he stalked over.
Snatching the pencil from her long fingers, he snapped it in half, and let the scraps fall to the floor.
She scowled. God, he should have anticipated that insolence. “You’ve gone and ruined a perfectly good pen—” Her words withered.
“I don’t believe you’ve any idea of the peril you’re in, Miss Lovelace. No idea at all.”
Chapter 11
THE LONDONER
QUESTIONS . . .
Questions remain surrounding the Earl of Maxwell’s past . . . and present. But only one is begging to be asked: Where is he?
V. Lovelace
Verity had a million and one questions for the man known as the Earl of Maxwell, but only one word surfaced through them all:
Flee.
That urging snaked around her mind.
She should leave.
In fact, the moment he’d stepped inside and caught her reading through his artifacts, she should have made a beeline for the door.
Even if she couldn’t have made it past his powerful frame.
Even if he would have ultimately stayed her and played the game of cat and mouse that he did in that moment.
Mr. North . . . or the Earl of Maxwell or whatever name he went by . . . was a man in possession of secrets, with no desire to share.
And worse, ruthlessly determined to hold them tight.
She had experience with surly subjects, those who’d caught her about their properties, seeking out servants and invariably finding ones willing to share the family’s darkest secrets. This, however, was different. This was Verity, trapped away with a feral monster of a man, with no one aware of her whereabouts.
His silence proved stark, more terrifying than any bellow or previous sharp retort. That quiet sent her unease ratcheting up, twisting in her chest. And suddenly, the desperation to uncover the story of the Lost Earl and secure her post at The Londoner seemed a good deal less important than preserving her own life.
Forcing a smile that stretched the muscles of her cheeks painfully, she dipped a curtsy. “I see that I’ve offended you. That was not my intention. If you’ll excuse me . . .” She made it no farther than two steps—one and three-quarters of a step if one wished to be truly accurate—to the doorway.
The earl placed himself before her, blocking her path to freedom.
North—nay, she’d think of him as Northrop. It was a good deal easier facing an adversary if one thought of them by their given name. It humanized them. “Now you’d rush to leave?” he jeered.
He moved with stealth. From the moment he’d come upon her unannounced in the sewers, to his bedroom doorway. That was a detail she’d gathered in her time with the man.
The earl.
You’ve made the mistake of confusing me with someone who is safe . . . Because you take me for an earl?
Only survival mattered.
Mr. North moved a hand close to her face, and she drew a breath in sharply. But he merely stroked his knuckles along the length of her cheek, a touch that was unexpectedly gentle for the roughness of his skin. It was madness. He was a stranger. And yet, his touch mesmerized. Her eyelashes fluttered.
“I’m not opposed to staying.”
Interest flared in his eyes. “Oh?” he purred.
Verity’s face flamed, and she resisted the urge to press her palms to her burning cheeks. “Now you’re being crude, and I’d have you know, it’s uncalled for. All of this.”
“All of this?” he repeated.
“The whispers, the rasping breath, the growling. You’re making all this very uncomfortable when it needn’t be.”
He eyed her like she’d sprung a second head, which, though annoying, was vastly safer than the previous he-wanted-to-remove-her-head look.
“Now,” she went on. “I . . . see that I’ve upset you. That was not my intention.”
“And what was your intention?” He didn’t allow her a chance to answer. “To gather up my secrets as your own? To share them with the world?”
Verity frowned. When he put it that way, she could certainly appreciate how he—or anyone—might take offense with her work. “I’m only willing to share that which you are willing to share with me.”
Pure, unadulterated masculine interest glinted in his eyes. “Oh?”
The air crackled; the suggestive utterance robbed her of a suitable response. Needing space between her and this man whom she could not figure out, Verity made to draw away from him and his tantalizing caress.
His eyes mocked. “Never tell me you’re afraid?” he murmured, resuming his gentle stroking. Refusing to allow her that distance. “I’m disappointed. I’d expect more from a woman on her own, darting around the sewers of London, Verity.”
He laid ownership to her name with an ease better suited to one who’d been speaking it for years. That theft undoubtedly as much a part of the fabric of his person as the hard set to his scarred features. “Sh-should I be afraid?” she whispered, latching on to the mocking question he’d put to her. Fear, of course, was the suitable response. And there was something inherently wrong in her lack of that proper, justified reaction to this man.
“Oh, yes,” he murmured. “Very much so.”
The fact that he sought to rouse that sentiment in her was in and of itself reason enough to fear him, and yet, everything tunneled on that back-and-forth glide of his fingertips. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said quietly, and then his fingers ceased their distracted caressing.
North rotated his palm and cupped her cheek. He lowered his head close to hers. Closer still. His dark eyes pierced her, running her through with the intensity in them. And more.
Desire.
“You should be.” Their breath mingled as he spoke. The faintest hint of brandy wafted over her senses, more dangerously intoxicating than the actual spirits themselves.
“I—I should be what?” she managed, her voice thick even to her own ears. What had he been saying? What had they been talking about?
A slow, faintly mocking grin curled his hard lips up in that all-too-pleased, feral masculine grin. He was a man who knew the effect he was having on her. “Afraid.”
With that, his mouth covered hers.
And she was very much her mother’s daughter, for as he devoured her with his kiss, it was not fear or indignant outrage at this stranger who dared to embrace her that she felt, but a searing, gripping need.
There was an almost violence to the bold slash of his lips. He slanted his mouth over hers. Again and again. It was her first kiss. And as heat sang through her veins, she at last had an answer to why women threw away reputations and honor for fleeting moments of passion.
Verity gripped his shirtfront and drew herself closer. Heat poured from him, and she moaned against his mouth like the wanton she’d become. Or mayhap had always been.
He slipped his tongue past her parted lips, and Verity met each bold lash. He mated his mouth to hers, this man a stranger. This embrace forbidden. And mayhap it was the thrill of that wickedness. Or mayhap it was the fact that she was thirty and had nev
er experienced, nor understood, the temptation of carnality. But she wanted this moment to stretch on. She wanted the desire battering at her senses to continue to drag her under.
He cupped her buttocks in his impossibly large hands, and drew her close. The feel of him—steel and heat burnt through her skirts, and moisture pooled between her legs, the desire to be closer still. Of their own volition, her hips rolled against him.
With a primitive growl, he plunged his tongue more violently, and she whimpered; her body bowed to that melding of fear and desire his embrace stoked.
And then he released her.
Her body sagged, even as she silently cried out at the sudden loss. Verity forced her eyes open, and struggled to push back the desire blanketing her senses. And ignore the agonizing ache at her center.
Oh, God.
What had he done? What had she done?
Verity took a lurching step forward, making a beeline for the door, but he caught her in a lazy grip. Looping an arm around her middle and anchoring her to him.
“Found your fear at last,” he breathed against her ear.
Little shivers raced along the small shell, trickling down the sensitive skin of her neck, and she resisted the reflexive breathless giggle. “You’ve prevented me from leaving and continue to do so.” Except he didn’t truly hold her captive with anything more than the loosest of holds.
“Is that what I did before, love? And here my chest bears the marks of your nails from where you gripped me.”
She gasped. Mortification chased away whatever maddening spell he’d woven. Verity spun out of his arms. “You are no gentleman, my lord.”
He smiled again. “Ah, given our recent familiarity, Malcom should suffice.”
Recent familiarity, indeed.
“You’d run off without gathering the information you sought about me . . . unless”—he gave her a suggestive look—“this was the information you—”
Her outraged gasp drowned out the rest of that shameful charge. “You’re incorrigible.” Her weak insult merely earned another of those mocking smiles. “And here all I sought was information about you, my lord.”
“Malcom,” he dared.
“Malcom,” she ground out between clenched teeth.
His gaze worked over her. “All you sought was information?” he asked quietly.
The absolute lack of mockery and ice in those golden eyes gave her pause. Mayhap she’d reached him. She nodded slowly. “That is all.” For her. For her sister. For Bertha. For her employment at The Londoner.
“You’ve your pencil ready?”
A pencil? It took a moment for that question to register, and when it did, along with what he offered, Verity sprang into action. He’d help her. She scrambled to retrieve a remnant of pencil she could still write with. “I do,” she said quickly, cursing the fact that she was without her journal. Glancing hurriedly about, she slid into a seat at his desk, and stared expectantly at Malcom North, the Earl of Maxwell.
“Society, Polite and otherwise, with their interest in me and my life, can go hang, Miss Lovelace.” He dropped his hands on his desk and leaned across the stretch of surface. His lip peeled back in a black snarl. “Write that on your paper. Now, lest you wish to see what I’m truly capable of, I suggest you leave,” he whispered. There was a beat of silence while she sat there, frozen, numbed by all the original terror she’d faced in this man’s presence. “Now,” he thundered.
Verity jumped to her feet with such speed her chair flew backward, landing with a heavy crash. Her heart pounding, she raced across the room and scrabbled with the door handle.
Locked.
Verity’s neck prickled with the heat of his approach. Her clumsy fingers struggled with the lock, and as it gave with a satisfying twist, she tossed the door open and raced out.
The hulking figure who’d greeted them at the back of the earl’s residence waited in the hall. Gathering her skirts, Verity darted around him. Waiting for him to shoot a hand out and catch the back of her skirts. Braced for it.
But it did not come.
Hurrying down the narrow stairwell, she followed the same path Malcom North had carried her down. An hour ago? A lifetime ago. As soon as she reached the outside, she lengthened her strides. And she didn’t stop running. She ran until her breath came in great, heaving spurts. Painful ones. And a stitch formed in her side.
Verity’s steps slowed, and she forced herself to continue on. Knowing he was close.
She felt him and his presence.
Mayhap he’d been correct and she was mad, after all. For no sane woman would have ventured into the lair of Lord Maxwell.
But she’d not known what had awaited her there . . . who had awaited her.
At last, the bakery that had come to be home pulled into focus, and a relief so great swept through her she was nearly dizzy from the power of it. Verity forced her screaming muscles to move the remaining way to the bakery and the small stairwell that led to her apartments. The moment she reached the landing, the door exploded open.
“Verity,” her younger sister cried out. She burst through the doorway and tossed herself into Verity’s arms.
With a grunt, Verity staggered under that slight weight, and managed to keep them both from tumbling back down the stairs.
She folded her arms around her younger sister.
“Bertha came back and you didn’t, and she didn’t know where you were.” Her sister’s words rolled together, muffled against the fabric of her dress.
Nay, this wasn’t her dress. This belonged to another.
She glanced over her shoulder, more than half-fearing that Malcom would even now be there, waiting. Watching.
“Come,” she said, setting her sister aside. “We should go inside.”
Bertha stood wringing her hands. “Oh, saints preserve, gel.” The old woman’s eyes closed. “You made it.”
The moment Verity closed and locked the door, the questions came flying.
“Where were you?” Livvie demanded.
“You said you’d return in thirty minutes, gel,” Bertha chided, slapping a palm on the table. “Thirty minutes. It’s been hours, and—”
“What are you wearing?” Livvie blurted, silencing the room of all further questions.
Verity smoothed the fine muslin skirts. “A dress . . .”
Her sister frowned. “Don’t be obtuse. Of course it’s a dress. It’s not, however, your dress.”
Bertha came forward and stroked her fingers along the puffed sleeve. She whistled softly. “Fine garment. Finest you’ve ever worn.”
The pair stepped back, and lining up, they directed accusatory stares at Verity.
“I can explain . . .” And then she proceeded to do just that; in her telling, she took care to avoid the details that would most alarm her sister: The perils in the tunnels. The stranger who’d carried her to safety and then to his lair. And who’d then kissed her. “I lost your slippers, Livvie,” she said, her voice breaking. Those finest of articles her young sister had cherished.
There were several beats of silence.
“You found him,” Livvie whispered. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “You did it.”
“Yes, I found him.” Avoiding their eyes, Verity made her way to the kitchens. She picked up the copper kettle and proceeded to make a cup of tea.
“That’s it?” Bertha asked flatly.
Verity gave thanks that her back was to the older woman. With her sharp gaze and nearly six decades of life on this earth, she was savvy enough to detect the details Verity sought to conceal.
“This fine gent brought you back to his household, bathed you, and gave you a fancy garment, and that’s all there is to the story?”
Verity made herself face her former nursemaid, damning the blush that scorched her cheeks. “He didn’t”—she glanced pointedly at her ingenuous sister—“bathe me.”
Confusion lit Livvie’s eyes. Of course, she was clever enough to know that she was missing out on the unde
rcurrents of a conversation, but still innocent enough to not be able to identify what those undercurrents, in fact, were.
“Men don’t simply give fancy articles from the goodness of their hearts,” Bertha persisted. “And certainly not a filthy tosher.”
“He’s not—” Verity made herself go silent.
“Oh?” Bertha prodded.
“Dirty,” she settled for, the simplest and easiest truth about Malcom North, the Earl of Maxwell. Regal and chiseled, with a hint of sandalwood clinging to his frame, he was nothing like what Bertha expected him to be . . . Nor, for that matter, what Verity had expected.
“Hmph,” Bertha muttered as Verity, in a show of calm, settled into one of the kitchen chairs and proceeded to sip her tea.
Livvie climbed into the opposite seat. Scrambling onto her knees the way she had as a young girl, eager for the mints Verity would sometimes bring home after work, she leaned across the oak slab. “Your work is saved, then?”
Guilt assailed her, an all-too-familiar emotion.
At the fact that Livvie carried the worries she did.
At herself for having fled instead of demanding answers from Malcom.
Though she’d wager her soul to Satan on a Sunday that Malcom North wasn’t one who’d have given over those answers to Verity . . . or anyone.
“Verity?” her sister prodded, impatiently.
“I . . .” She studied the tea leaves at the bottom of her glass. Which left Verity and her sister and Bertha where? The muscles of her stomach knotted.
Livvie fell back on her haunches. “You don’t have the information.”
God, how intuitive she was.
“I have enough. Some,” she allowed the lie. An address. An address was all she had.
And the taste of his mouth on yours still. Unbidden, she touched her fingertips to her lips.
“Why are you touching your mouth like that?” Livvie blurted. “Have you hurt it?” Then her golden eyebrows went shooting up. “Did he hurt you?”
“No!” Verity hurriedly dropped her hand to the table, and took another sip of her drink to avoid Bertha’s knowing eyes. “He didn’t hurt me.”
“And if he didn’t give you the story, then neither did he help you.”
In Bed with the Earl Page 14