In Bed with the Earl

by Caldwell, Christi

  That was . . . it? “No?”

  “Aye.” There was that natural, sultry husk to her reply. Slightly guttural in her acknowledgment. “That wasn’t part of our arrangement.”

  Malcom ignored her latter words. “Aye,” he repeated, a clue, and yet a mystery of Verity Lovelace’s identity. “You’ve Scottish roots to you, Verity. Or Irish.” There was no brogue, otherwise subtle or distinct.

  She went close-lipped, and then: “My mum was Scottish. Her family owned a tavern in Fife, just between the Firth of Tay and the Firth of Forth, and my mum worked there.” There was a finality to that admission, one that indicated that she intended to volunteer nothing more about herself.

  “Scottish?” he repeated dumbly.

  Verity’s narrow shoulders drew back. “Aye. Is there a problem with that, my lord?”

  Her question came as from a long tunnel, her clear English tones fading in and out of clarity, melding with another voice. A brogue that lilted, and a song that whispered forward.

  GOOD lord of the land, will you stay thane

  About my faither’s house,

  And walk into these gardines green,

  In my arms I’ll the embraice.

  Ten thousand times I’ll kiss thy face;

  Make sport, and let’s be mery:

  I thank you, lady, fore your kindness;

  Trust me, I may not stay with the.

  For I have kil’d the laird Johnston . . .

  A tentative palm touched his sleeve. “Malcom?”

  It was, however, Verity’s insistent question that brought him jolting back to the moment.

  Malcom swiped the edge of his sleeve over the damning moisture that had beaded at his brow.

  Those clever eyes took in all. “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

  Nay. “Fine.” He was losing his damned mind, and he’d be damned if he did so before her.

  “What of your father?” he urged, impatient to move them back to talk of her, and to draw himself out of the mire of his memory.

  Verity drew her satchel close, the gesture a protective one. Her bag revealed watermarks upon the faded leather, and bits of the fabric having long peeled off. “My father was a man my mother was better off without,” she finally settled for.

  Malcom’s stomach muscles tensed. She’d been hurt. Her pain didn’t matter to him. Except if that was true, why did a bloodlust pump through his veins, along with a hungering to rip the entrails from the bastard’s mouth? “He was cruel?”

  Surprise lit her expressive features. “On the contrary. He was kind and loving. He was, however, not one meant for my mother.” She briefly dipped her gaze to her bag. “He was an earl.”

  She’d been born the daughter of a nobleman. Even being illegitimate, with her regal bearing and grace, she was more of this world than Malcom had ever been.

  Misunderstanding the reason for his silence, Verity’s cheeks flushed. “I’m a bastard.” Verity lifted her bold, unapologetic eyes to his in that show of spirit he so admired her for. “Therefore, if knowing that, you’d rather extricate yourself from our contract?”

  He puzzled his brow. Extricate himself from their contract? What . . . ? And then it hit him. “You expect me to condemn you for your birthright,” he murmured. It was there in the challenge that blazed in her eyes.

  She shrugged. “You would not be the first. However, you will be expected to have a wife who is above reproach and—”

  “I don’t give a damn that you’re a bastard, or what Polite Society expects or doesn’t expect me to have.”

  Her lips parted. Her eyes softened. “Thank you,” she said softly. So much adoration spilled from those expressive eyes, Malcom shifted on his feet. He didn’t want her admiration or those damned doe eyes. Because, in short, he didn’t know what in hell to do with all that emotion.

  There was no place or room to let his guard down around the woman who’d pilfered his secrets and fed him to the members of both impolite and Polite Society as if his past and future were nothing more than a tasty morsel to be devoured.

  That safe, burning anger stirred once more, kicking ash on any weakness about Verity Lovelace.

  He was the one to break that connection. “Let us get on with it. What have you planned for us, madam?” he asked, returning them to the task at hand.

  Verity reached inside the ridiculously ancient bag she carried about. “I’ve brainstormed a number of ideas,” she explained, handing him a sheet.

  “What is this?” He made no move to take it.

  She waved it at him. “It is a list.”

  “And what do you have first at the top of it, madam?”

  “Gunter’s,” she said, not missing a beat. Verity tucked her—their—plans back inside the satchel.

  “Gunter’s?” he repeated dumbly. That incessant throbbing in his head returned, and he fought the urge to jam his fingertips into his temples in a bid to rid himself of the sensation.

  Verity looked up. “They sell ices. Lords and ladies sit in curricles outside. This way, we’ll be on full disp—”

  “I know what Gunter’s is,” he bit out.

  “Unless you have another suggestion, my lord?” she asked in even tones that didn’t fool him one damn.

  He narrowed his eyes. The minx was “my lord-ing” him. She knew precisely what to do to get under his skin. “Very well. Let’s get on with this.” The sooner they deceived, the sooner he might continue on with his life, and she, hers.

  “Of course,” she murmured, and together in silence, they started from the rooms.

  So they were doing this . . .

  Chapter 19

  THE LONDONER

  SPOTTED!

  The elusive Earl and Countess of Maxwell have been spied amongst Polite Society. Witnesses say there were many stretches of silence between them. All the ton is then left to wonder at the circumstances surrounding Lord Maxwell’s marriage to the mystery woman. Extortion? Bribery? Worse?

  M. Fairpoint

  As a girl, Verity had heard tales of Gunter’s. The stories had fallen from her father’s lips as he’d regaled her with talk of London and all the places to see and all the things to do there. Peppered within each of those tales, there’d been the promise to one day take her there himself and allow her to try every flavor of ice.

  Of course, as a small child, Verity had believed those promises. It hadn’t been until the years dropped away that she’d learned her father would never bring her to Gunter’s and all those wonderful places. That he’d never intended to, and all of it had been no different from the story he’d read to her from the fairy-tale book when he had come around.

  As such, Verity had eventually come to accept that she’d never go to that illustrious place on Berkeley Square. Or taste those ices he’d spoken so excitedly of.

  And yet, she was here now. Seated atop a curricle with a crystal glass of jasmine-rose ice, and she couldn’t so much as muster a smile. All the muscles of her belly remained knotted and twisted. Survival had earned her immediate capitulation to Malcom’s proposal. Now, the ramifications of living here, amongst her father’s people . . . and his legitimate family? Verity clasped her hands tightly around her crystal cup.

  I have every right to be here . . .

  She may not wish to be here in this capacity, but she needn’t be hidden away like a dirty secret. Why did it feel like she only sought to convince herself? Nor did it help matters that she was seated beside a man who despised her, and who hadn’t uttered a single word to her since he’d all but tossed her atop the curricle.

  “I’ll have you know this is never going to work,” Verity said from the side of her mouth.

  For a long while she expected Malcom wouldn’t even respond to that utterance. He scoured the streets, openly glaring at both onlookers and passersby. No one was spared his wrath. Not even her. Especially not her.

  “What?”

  “This.” Careful to keep her palm low and out of visibility in the carriage, with he
r spare hand, Verity motioned between them. “Us. This ruse. None of it will ever work as long as you carry on as you are.” The ease of their banter over chess was a distant memory made by two very different people, ones not divided over betrayal. A pang struck at that fleeting time she’d had with him. When they’d been two people hiding from a shared danger.

  Suddenly, Malcom dropped an arm around her shoulders, wringing a gasp from her. “And tell me, dear heart, just how should I present myself?” he whispered against her ear. “Devoted? In love?”

  Her body, traitor that it was, tingled where he held her. It knew nothing of pride, or of the mockery Malcom sought to make of her. “I’d settle for ‘human,’” she muttered, and when faced with the option of her ice melting over the rim of her glass or taking a bite, Verity dipped her spoon and tasted the flowery-sweet confection. “You might at least smile.”

  “I don’t smile,” he said tersely. As if to accentuate that very point, Malcom glowered at a puce-clad dandy who stepped too close to the curricle.

  The young man bolted off in the opposite direction with such alacrity his crimson silk Empire top hat tumbled to the ground. And the gentleman continued running, without so much as glancing back for the costly article.

  Verity sighed. This was going to be a good deal harder than she’d anticipated.

  “What now?” he demanded, that harsh question so hushed it barely reached her ears. At her side, Malcom tensed, his sinewy thighs tightening. The muslin fabric of her day dress did little to conceal the heat of him pressed against her. Or the weight of that heavily muscled limb.

  Her breath quickened, and words escaped her. What had he said? It had been a question? Hadn’t it? She took several frantic bites of her ice, shoveling the treat into her mouth. To keep from openly gazing at his splendid physique, impressively displayed within his tight-fitting black trousers and double-breasted coat.

  “I suggest you say whatever it is you intend to say.” His was a command that would never be confused for a question, and it also proved sobering, cutting across her pathetic musings of him.

  “Actually, I do have something to say.” You’re a damned fool . . . going weak-kneed over a man who despises you. Who if he hadn’t a need for her, would sooner turn her over to Newgate than talk to her . . . “You’re not making any of this easy.”

  “And do you expect I should make it easy for you, Verity?”

  She thought about that for a moment. “Well, no,” she conceded. “But I’m not so much speaking of myself as you.” Verity opened her mouth to explain when she caught a trio walking in neat precision, locked in step, with a bevy of maids following several paces behind.

  Oh, blast and damn.

  Sliding closer to Malcom, Verity slipped her arm through his, and favored him with her best I-adore-you-and-cannot-live-without-you expression.

  “What in hell is that?”

  Or her best attempt at an adoring smile.

  “I’m besotted.”

  “You look foxed,” he said bluntly.

  Verity trilled a laugh and angled herself even closer to her make-believe husband. “Do you know who they are?” she whispered out the side of her mouth.

  Had she not been studying him so closely, she’d have missed the slight shifting of his eyes over the top of her head to that trio who now lingered. “Should I?”

  “The lovely one with dark hair is known as Queen Sarah. Also known as Lady Jersey,” she murmured. “She is one of the patronesses of Almack’s Assembly Rooms.” Verity carefully positioned her spoon close to her mouth so her lips could not be read as she spoke. “One time, she denied entry to the Duke of Wellington himself because he arrived just seven minutes late.”

  “Horrific,” he drawled.

  “Hush.” Except her heart thumped slowly in her chest. She preferred this version of Malcom. As he’d been in his East London residence, slightly droll, teasing. And not dripping with malice and loathing. “Well, the one to the left of her is another hostess of Almack’s, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell. She is by far the greatest stickler.” Verity stole a peek over at the trio, who gave no indication that they intended to leave. “And the other, that is Lady Cowper. Captain Gronow has called her the most popular of the hostesses.”

  “Should I be impressed?” His cool tones indicated anything but.

  “Well, given that he landed himself in debtors’ prison, many are of the opinion that his word is not . . .” Malcom gave her a look. “Oh,” she blurted. “You were being sarcastic.”

  “Aye. I was being sarcastic.”

  Her cheeks warmed, and just then, the matrons unabashedly watching on erupted into a flurry of murmurs.

  Undoubtedly they’d taken that blush for something more than the embarrassment it was.

  “Be dismissive all you want, Malcom,” she warned. “They are, however, the ones who will carry stories back to other members of the ton. Therefore, anything you . . . we . . . say or do is being observed and mentally recorded by them so they might in turn report to Polite Society.” Scraping some of her ice onto the spoon, she held it to Malcom’s lips.

  “What are you—”

  She shoved the small silver utensil inside, silencing the remainder of that question. Aye, he was terrible at this. “I’m being devoted.”

  “By f-feeding me?” he sputtered around the mouthful. “Give me that,” he snapped, yanking the spoon from her fingers. “That’s the act of a bloody nursemaid. Not a blasted spouse.”

  Malcom had known at an early juncture in his life that he was going to hell.

  No older than eight years, he’d followed an emaciated street urchin down an alley that had served as the boy’s home. Malcom had nicked the smaller, younger child’s sack of goods, the refuse from a bakery. He’d made off with it and ate heartily—a rarity in those darkest of days.

  The next night, Malcom had come across that same lad, in that same alley, dead, his eyes sightless, pointed up toward the starless St. Giles sky. And not a wound upon him. Dead of hunger, and in the name of self-survival, Malcom had been the one to send the small stranger on to the hereafter.

  Aye, as such, Malcom had known hell was the eternal fate one day awaiting him. He’d accepted it. At times, when the weight of life’s struggles became insurmountable, he’d even welcomed it.

  This, however? This was a special hell.

  Attired in fine garments, out before Polite Society.

  The Devil had a rich sense of humor, indeed.

  He’d rather be wading through shite with an army of hungry rats bearing down on him than be where he was.

  At least those discomforts and dangers were familiar. Ones he’d faced countless times, and survived to thrive from.

  This? Being on display before fancily clad gents in ridiculously high hats and the ladies on their arms was a special kind of hell.

  “It could always be worse,” Verity whispered, unerringly following his thoughts. It was an uncanny ability she possessed, and proved continually unsettling.

  “Oh, and just how do you figure that, dear heart?”

  “Well, they could be seeking an audience with us,” she rightly pointed out.

  Malcom shuddered. “You are correct on that score.”

  She beamed, that luminescent smile wreathing her face, radiating her joy. His heart caught oddly in his chest. It was an all-too-foreign expression of unguarded emotion, and even as he should find himself only horrified by that candidness, he found himself . . . captivated against all his best judgment.

  Her smile slipped. “What is it?”

  “You smile like you mean it,” he said flatly. And he didn’t know what to do with or make of it . . .

  Setting down her nearly empty cup of frozen ice, Verity dabbed at the corners of her lips. “And why shouldn’t I?” With that, she closed her eyes and tipped her face up to the sun. Those rays bathed her cheeks in a soft glow, illuminating the details he’d not noted until now: a dusting of freckles along the sides of her nose. A cream-white quality o
f skin so soft to the touch that his fingers twitched with the desire to explore it once more . . . as he’d done a fortnight ago.

  Resisting her quixotic pull, Malcom nudged her foot with his. Her already-wide violet eyes went all the rounder. “You find nothing disconcerting in this.” He gave a discreet wave of his hand, gesturing out to the opposite end of the lake, where morning visitors to the park guided their curricles about.

  “Oh, on the contrary.” Verity gathered up her parasol from the bench. “I find everything disconcerting in it.” Snapping open the frilly article, she angled it, putting up that slight barrier as though they were two lovers who sought to steal a moment of privacy from society’s prying eyes. “I no more wish to be here than you. And yet . . . for the first time in more years than I can remember, I have no worries about where I’ll live or whether there’s enough food. Even this . . .” She tipped her parasol back so the sun’s rays bathed their faces, and her eyes slid closed. “I’ve not had the freedom to so much as feel the sun on my face in the middle of a spring day.”

  Neither had Malcom, and yet, his had been a decision bred of preference. Verity’s had been a product of the work she’d had to do. The same need for work that found her in a deal with his own devilish self. He forced his gaze away from her face, looking out, unwilling . . . and unable to meet her eyes. Because he didn’t want to think of how Verity Lovelace’s ruthless pursuit of him had been an act born of desperation. How there had been . . . was still, in fact, a younger sister with innocent eyes, a smaller, younger version of the woman who now sat before him. Because Malcom didn’t want it to matter.

  He didn’t want her to matter, in any way. Unnerved, he settled his gaze on the crowded Berkeley Square streets.

  “You should eat it.”

  He blinked slowly.

  Verity motioned to the crystal glass of untouched ice. “If for no other reasons than because: one, you won’t have to talk to me, and two, our terseness might be passed off as your enjoyment of the sweet treat.” Her eyes twinkled. “And because you’re very close to ending up with sticky fingers.”