In Bed with the Earl (Lost Lords of London #1) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,100
Verity said before she could call the quiet words back.
Malcom briefly sharpened his gaze on her face. “There’s long been greatness buried underground and in water, there for the taking. Have you ever heard of Decebalus?”
Who?
“Who?” Livvie gave voice to Verity’s own question.
“He was king of a small kingdom in the Danube. He ordered the slaves to bury gold and silver in the riverbed Sargetia. Afterward, to keep concealed the treasures that dwelled below, he ordered the men executed.”
If Verity were a proper lady and caregiver to her sister, there would have been horror at the story Malcom even now told. And Verity was filled with something unexpected . . . shame. She’d been so fixed on providing for Livvie she’d not thought of the education her sister was deserving of.
“Why would he do that?” Livvie piped up.
With a flair, he tossed his arms wide. “Why, to ensure that no one knew what was buried below.”
This was another side of Malcom North. A new side of him. Kind and patient with an artless young woman, and God help Verity, that tenderness sent her heart into somersaults.
“And did anyone discover it?” The question tumbled out, and her cheeks instantly warmed as Malcom swung his attention back to her.
“Years later, one of his nobles revealed its location to the Romans, and it was uncovered.”
And then it hit her . . . “They were pirates,” she blurted.
Malcom pointed a finger in her direction, confirming her supposition.
“And that is how you see yourself,” Livvie ventured slowly, as one puzzling through a riddle. “As a pirate of the sewers?”
“I see myself as one who came about a fortune by fair means. When people are forced to steal and . . . worse, there are those who dig deeper and find greater wealth than had by many noblemen.”
And one more piece fell into the puzzle that was Malcom North. This gentleman who looked after crippled toshers and street urchins was the same man who’d refused to filch pockets, and instead had made his fortune as honestly as the fates had enabled him to.
And Verity was sure a corner of her heart would forever belong to him for it.
“Livvie, run along now,” she said quietly. “There’ll be time aplenty to speak with Lord Maxwell.”
This time, her sister must have heard something in her tone that marked the end of the games she’d played. With a beleaguered sigh, Livvie hopped up. “Very well.” She dropped another curtsy, this one smoother and more relaxed than the previous one. “My lord.”
“No need for fancy titles.” He bowed his head. “Malcom will suffice.” His melodious voice came in crisp, refined tones that raised no question as to the gentleman’s identity. He was noble born, in every way. And in every way that Verity wasn’t.
It was a reminder that she’d not truly considered . . . all the ways in which they were . . . different. Why should that cause this peculiar tightening in her chest? After all, it didn’t matter whether she was wholly unsuitable for the role of his actual bride; their arrangement was one forged of mutual necessity, insisted upon by a man who, if he didn’t hate her, carried an immense dislike for her.
Chapter 21
THE LONDON GAZETTE
All Polite Society is aware that the more servants gossip, the less regard they have for their employers. Given the absolute silence from Lord and Lady Maxwell’s staff, it is apparent that the earl and countess are very much respected by a staff determined to protect the family’s secrets . . .
E. Daubin
Malcom didn’t want to be here.
In fact, he wanted to be here even less than he’d wanted to be on display before the ton. Nor did his apprehension have anything to do with the woman standing across from him, and everything to do with what she sought.
Buying time for himself, steeling himself against the slew of questions she’d ask, Malcom closed the door behind her sister, shutting him and Verity away. Alone.
I don’t want to do this . . .
Moisture slicked his palms and dampened the bronze handle.
Stop. You’ve faced head-on the threat of death and danger since you were a boy on your own . . . How difficult can an interview with Verity Lovelace be?
Why did it merely feel as if he sought to reassure himself?
To give his fingers something to do, he loosened the buttons of his jacket, and turned to face Verity. The slightly mocking words he intended were interrupted, but not with a question.