In Bed with the Earl

by Caldwell, Christi

  His rooms.

  It was all his.

  She’d merely taken it from him.

  Just as she’d taken his secrets and the privacy he’d so craved and turned it over to the world as if any of it had been hers to give. And what was more, that theft was the one that grated worst of all. The one that felt like a betrayal from the one person he’d let in—in any way.

  Those reminders proved sobering, restoring the rage that had sent him here. “Well?” he whispered.

  Her mouth parted just slightly enough to emit nothing more than a slight exhalation. A slice of pink flesh darted out, and she trailed that tip of her tongue along the seam of that full lower and narrow upper lip. “I trust you’re not happy about this.”

  She couched her words even still, carefully measuring the extent of his knowledge, no doubt to help in forming the next lie she’d feed him. “Oh?” Malcom folded his arms. “And which part might that be?”

  “Any of it?” she ventured, offering a sheepish smile. One that dimpled both her cheeks, flushed red from the still-steaming bath.

  Malcom narrowed his eyes and then slowly angled his face toward hers, so that only a handful of inches separated them. So that he could hear the audible intake of her breath. And see the ripple of her throat as it moved. From fear, or desire? No doubt the former. The chit was insolent in her gall, but she wasn’t gormless. “You think this is a game.”

  “No.” She was shaking her head. “I don’t believe that at all. About any of this. Mine was a desperate attempt at survival.” The young woman grimaced as though that price of her pride had physically hurt.

  Pride.

  It was a rare commodity in the streets of London. It was a gift most couldn’t afford, and one that was traded early on, all in the name of survival.

  And even with all that she’d taken, and the pleas she’d put to him, she clung to hers still.

  It was a bond he didn’t want to share with her.

  “What am I to do with you, Verity?” he murmured, speaking that question aloud as much for her as it was for him. Of their own volition, Malcom’s fingers caught her soaking plait from the water and squeezed the residual drops from those dark strands. “You’re clever enough to know the fate of one who lies and gains entry into an earl’s household. The resulting end for a thief”—her lower lip shook, and she caught it between pearl-white teeth. She knew, but he finished the reminder, anyway—“Newgate. A hanging.”

  “And is that what you intend? To turn me over to the constables?”

  Sliding to his knees, he positioned himself directly behind her. “What should I do with you, Verity?”

  Verity angled her head back so she might meet his gaze.

  This closeness to her in all her naked splendor had been a mistake. Placing himself so very near her, her body flushed with the heat of her bath. And a porcelain tub the only divide between them.

  Aye, it had been a mistake. He was weak. She was his weakness.

  He lowered his mouth to hers.

  The door exploded open. The moment was shattered, and he was already on his feet with a pistol drawn.

  “He is here,” a young girl exclaimed. “The earl . . .” And then her eyes rounded as she took in the gun pointed at her chest. “Oh,” she whispered.

  “Livvie,” Verity said sharply. The water splashed and rocked as droplets sprayed Malcom, indicating the young woman had stood. There was a faint snap of fabric, and then Verity rushed over to the silent, still, wide-eyed girl hovering at the open doorway.

  “I . . . was going to tell you he had arrived,” the girl—Livvie—whispered. She peeked out past Verity’s shoulder.

  “I know,” Verity said tightly.

  “I . . . Do you intend to introduce us?”

  So temerity ran between them, then.

  Verity opened her mouth to speak.

  Turning his gun, with the barrel toward the floor, Malcom returned it to the waistband of his trousers and dropped a bow. “Miss Lovelace, I gather?” he murmured, and two sets of near-identical eyes went to him. “Or rather, my sister-in-law?” He cast a jeering glance over the top of the girl’s head to her furiously blushing sister.

  The girl was either too innocent or too oblivious to note the mocking edge in his tone. She offered a hesitant curtsy.

  “I’ve heard so very much about you, Miss Lovelace.”

  The younger Miss Lovelace widened her eyes. “You’ve spoken about me with Verity?”

  Said sister closed the remaining distance between her and the girl. Verity’s frantic movements sent the towel she wore about her slender frame gaping. “Livvie,” Verity began warningly.

  “Oh, indeed,” Malcom continued on over her. “She spoke of the great sacrifice you made, giving over your slippers.” If looks could slay, he’d have been split in half from the one being cast by his wife.

  Darting out from behind her sister, Livvie Lovelace skipped over to Malcom. “My sister has spoken of you often, too.”

  His intrigue doubled. “Indeed?” he drawled, shooting another look over at the thorn in his side. “All wonderful, loving things, I take it, wife?”

  Verity gnashed her teeth hard enough that the grinding punctuated the quiet.

  “She spoke about how you rescued her.” Saved the foolish chit who’d taken her life into her hands, navigating an underground hell that only devils like Malcom managed to survive in. A wistful, far-off glimmer lit the girl’s eyes. “I told Verity she should come to you and try once more to sway you.”

  That struck somewhere in his chest, an uncomfortable pain that proved him . . . human. Her sister had put her up to it.

  Then, contrary to his own inner tumult, a wide smile wreathed the younger Miss Lovelace’s plump cheeks. “And look! Because of my guidance, you and Verity are now happily married.”

  “Happily married,” he echoed. This time, he favored his fictional wife with a mocking look. “The happiest, are we not, love?”

  If Verity’s cheeks went any redder, she was going to catch fire. “Livvie, we’ll continue introductions later,” Verity snapped.

  Hurt instantly flooded the young woman’s face, revealing eyes that displayed a child’s innocence that had no place in the streets where Malcom had grown up.

  And it left him more rattled than the many times he’d had a blade turned on him in the London sewers and streets.

  “Very well.” Livvie gave a toss of her head. “I trust you both have much to say after your time apart.”

  Oh, he had much to say to the chit, indeed. Even so, he wasn’t so much a monster that he’d deliberately scare a child. He dropped a short bow. “A pleasure, Miss Lovelace.”

  Verity’s sister started. Surprise rounded her eyes. “Did you see that, Verity?” She giggled. “He bowed to me like I’m a lady.”

  “I saw, Livvie.”

  At his back, Verity’s gaze bored into him.

  Aye, the chit was wary enough, however, to expect he was that beast. But not sufficiently fearful that she’d not cross him. Again and again.

  “My lord,” her sister murmured, dropping her head.

  When the girl had gone, Verity held her towel in place with one hand and turned the lock with the other. The makeshift covering draped over her frame placed her shapely legs on display. And yet, where there’d been a rash explosion of unwanted desire whenever he was near Miss Verity Lovelace, staring at the young woman with her back to him and shoulders slightly hunched painted her in a vulnerable light. And it killed any previous stirrings of lust.

  She cleared her throat. “That is my sister,” she said, directing that admission at the bronze hardware of the doorway. “As you obviously gathered.”

  “Aye.” The sister with the slippers and in possession of blonde curls and fulsome cheeks, she couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen. A mere girl. One who he’d previously taken as a fictional sibling created by Verity in order to rouse sympathies. However, that sister had proven real, lending credence to Verity’s claims
that she’d braved his presence and wrath for her. And he didn’t want that to matter. It was, simply put, easier to accept that everything had been a lie, and Verity’s motives ruthless.

  Turning to face him, Verity fiddled with the towel.

  “I expect you thought I made her up?” she ventured, accurately and eerily following his unspoken musings.

  “Aye.” She’d given him little reason to trust her and every reason to doubt.

  “Thank you for not being rude to her.”

  He stiffened. That expression of gratitude struck like an insult she hadn’t intended. It found its mark, unerringly. “I’m only a monster to those deserving of my wrath,” he said coolly.

  Her bare toes curled into the floor. “Fair enough.”

  “I see you’ve filled her head with the same romantic drivel you’ve written in the papers.”

  “I haven’t filled her head with anything. She’s simply artless.” In other words, her sister’s grasp on innocence was fleeting. Verity knew that. Accepted it, and still was hell-bent on preserving it anyway.

  Had there ever been anyone like that in Malcom’s own life? Had there ever been anyone who’d cared about him above everyone and everything . . . ?

  You’re going to get well, my boy. We are nothing without y—

  That distant voice faded into a cough so real he could hear it in this very room. Malcom didn’t move for several seconds. Or did minutes pass? When he opened his eyes, he found Verity’s wary gaze still upon him. She was safer. This, his deserved outrage, and not some obscure memories that might be nothing more than conjurings in his own head. He took a step toward Verity to better search her for shades of truth and lies. He’d fallen prey to this woman before. The candles flickered, casting her face in shadow. “And I take it you’ve shielded Miss Lovelace from the harsh realities of the world?”

  Verity’s jaw tensed. “As best as I’ve been able.”

  With that grudging admission, she proved yet again that she’d acted not for ruthless gains—at least, not solely. Unnerved, Malcom gave her his back and wandered around the fine chambers. The fine rooms she’d commandeered. It’d been far easier to storm here with the threat of Newgate and retribution when she’d been a ruthless schemer. It was altogether different, knowing she’d acted on behalf of another—the sister whose identity she’d spoken of since their first meeting in the sewers.

  How she lived her life, for another person, was as foreign to him as circling another planet. “You’re not unlike her, though, are you?” he murmured. Completing his turn about the rooms, he positioned himself at the center. “Romanticizing my actions in the streets that night.”

  “I didn’t romanticize them, Malcom. I wrote one article,” she said tersely. “One piece that conveyed the truth of how you treated me that night.” She smiled sadly. “You might take offense to my having written about you, but the facts remain: You did save me. You did provide me new slippers and a dress, and you did see me safely home.”

  He stiffened.

  “Yes, I knew that,” she said quietly, holding his gaze with her own.

  She’d known that he’d followed her to see no harm befell her on her return journey through St. Giles, and yet she’d not printed that in her damned gossip column. Why?

  “Everything I wrote about our first meeting was all true. The fanciful musings my sister has of what we . . . are . . . or shared . . . are ones that she created in her own mind.”

  Just as Polite Society had. For the world saw that which it wished, because they all wished to read a story of make-believe rather than see the rot that truly clung to a person’s soul.

  “I . . . suppose you wonder how I’ve come to be here,” she murmured, bringing him back to the moment. Verity stared down at her endearing pink toes. “In your household,” she added as if any clarification were needed.

  “No,” he said flatly. He didn’t want to know those details, the ones that undoubtedly bespoke desperation and threatened his resolve. Nor did he want any further stories about her sister. He also knew that Bram and Fowler were responsible for allowing her entry. The damned traitors. “I don’t wonder anything about you.”

  She elucidated anyway. “I happened to see your address and knew that you’d sacked your servants, and trusted the residence was empty. What harm would there be in staying, then?”

  And as she spoke, it didn’t escape his notice that she never mentioned Fowler or Bram. And resentment for the woman aside, he admired that loyalty. She didn’t explicitly or implicitly state that the old codgers had let her in and given her shelter. A fact he’d confirmed the moment he arrived . . . to a pair of toshers who’d been wholly unapologetic and put out with Malcom. With Malcom.

  “Except you didn’t sack them, though.” Her eyes softened, and she drifted closer. “You care about them, after all.”

  Oh, good God. He resisted the urge to yank at his collar. “No, Verity,” he repeated. “I don’t care why you’ve come to be here. I don’t care about the servants, or anyone.”

  “I . . . see.”

  How was it possible for her two words to make a liar of him?

  “There is, however, one question I do have . . .” Malcom caught his chin in his hand. “What to do with you?” He resumed another circle . . . only this one about the minx who’d single-handedly slayed his previously safe existence. “What to do with you?” he repeated.

  Verity stiffened and notched her chin up a defiant fraction.

  Did she believe he taunted her?

  Ironically, eyeing the young woman, this proved a time when Malcom hadn’t a bloody clue what he intended to do with her.

  The immediate and obvious answer should be to turn her over to the constables. Let the law deal with her and be done with the termagant who continually popped up in search of his secrets.

  Only he couldn’t. To admit as much, though, would mark him continually weak where Verity Lovelace and all her antics were concerned. For some unexplainable reason, even if it would mean he was done with her and her interfering, he could not have that freedom attained with her at the end of a hangman’s noose. And those reasons extended far beyond the doe-eyed sister who’d be left to fend on her own in these savage streets.

  Malcom abruptly stopped and faced Verity.

  Bloody hell. He hadn’t a damned clue.

  Verity lifted her right hand and waggled her fingers slowly, like an eager student currying favor with the instructor. “If I may?” she ventured. “You could provide me with the story I seek?”

  A sharp bark of laughter burst from him. “God, you’re mad.”

  “Then I’d be gone.” She snapped her fingers. “On my way.” When he remained motionless, she frowned and let her arm fall to her side. “It was an idea.”

  Aye, it was one at that. A bloody rotted one. “Tell me, what would I get out of that deal, hmm?” Nothing, was the immediate and correct answer. No good could come from revealing any part of how he’d lived these years. All that information would invariably trickle down from the ton to the dregs of East London, who’d in turn use that knowledge against him. Or they would try to anyway. “You’d have your story.” He caught her damp plait between his fingers, and rubbed those silken strands. “And I . . .” His was a bid to taunt her, and yet once again, he only proved tempted by the siren. Her hair contained the richest shades of auburn and chestnut and chocolate. “And I . . .” Once again he became entranced by those silken strands, tresses that were kissed by every blend of brown.

  “Th-there can be some good in that,” she murmured, her usual singsong voice husky . . . Good in what? What was she saying? It was all mixed up in his mind. “Sometimes,” she went on, “there is good in confronting one’s past, Malcom.”

  And then it hit him, exactly what she was saying. What she even now suggested. By God, did she take him for a fool? That pull was shattered. He released her. “And how do you figure that, Verity?” At best all he possessed were distant memories so murky they may as well have belon
ged to another.

  “Because it might prove healing.”

  “Do not make this about me, Miss Lovelace.” He hissed out her name.

  She recoiled but did not back down.

  “Do not pretend that you in any way care about my past or any part of me beyond how it serves you. If I let you write your column, the ton would continue to eat up the shite drivel that makes them feel better about a man who’s inherited a title in their ranks. I’ll end up with another stream of desperate ladies and their equally desperate fathers, who’d sell me their offspring as easily as a whore sells herself in St. Giles.” In that there was no disparity between the elite and the people under them. The parade of visitors he’d received since Verity had outed his whereabouts was proof enough of that. That reminder lit the wick of his fury once more. “No, there is nothing you can do for—”

  Except . . .

  “What is it?” she asked quietly.

  Ignoring her, Malcom turned his back and let the idea fully flesh itself out in his mind.

  She sought her position with The Londoner.

  He wanted nothing more than to be left alone by the peers seeking him out as a potential match to their bankrupt families.

  It was madness, and yet . . . Verity Lovelace, the woman who’d made him a mark amongst the peerage, ironically represented his path to freedom. Malcom turned back to face her. “I’ll agree to your story.”

  Her eyes glowed, radiating a hope and brightness so mesmerizing he briefly looked away, steeling himself against its power. As soon as he returned his gaze to hers, a prudent degree of wariness had replaced that earlier light. “You wouldn’t simply do this from the goodness of your heart.”

  “Nay.” Darkness or goodness was neither here nor there. He’d no heart. He never had. “I wouldn’t, Verity,” he murmured, stalking a circle around her nearly naked frame.

  More than a foot shorter than Malcom, the minx comported herself as though she were an equal in height and strength. And mayhap she was the latter. “Just what would you expect in return, Lord Maxwell?”