In Bed with the Earl (Lost Lords of London #1) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,110
selling it,” she said, not missing a beat. Goodness, he was obstinate. “Why—”
“Let it be,” he said sharply, a vein bulging at the corner of his temple. With that, he resumed his frantic writing, the staccato tap of the pen flying across the pages punctuating the quiet.
As he worked on, Verity studied his bent head. The lone blond tress that had escaped his queue lent an almost . . . vulnerability . . . to the stoic figure he presented to the world.
Malcom might not recall the specifics of what had happened to him in the earliest part of his life, but there was an inherent remembrance of having, and then . . . not. Her heart squeezed. If, however, he simply gave away these items, then he’d lose those pieces that linked him to the parents who’d died. The parents who’d undoubtedly loved him. With the losses of those items, so, too, went items that might jog any memory.
And mayhap that is what he wishes for, too. Whether deliberate or inadvertent, perhaps he was doing all he could to shut out everything except for the hardships.
As she exchanged the leather tome in one hand for another, he continued working, but she felt him tense. Saw his gaze creep briefly over to her hand as she gripped that book and pulled it to her.
He’d not acknowledge her actions, but he was aware of her and what she did.
More leisurely, Verity paged through the catalog. Unlike the previous volume of masculine possessions, these ones were—
She slammed her finger down in the middle of the page.
Ladies’ boots
Gowns
Day dresses
Bonnets
Aprons
Pearl brooches
Ruby tiaras
Sevres box
Ribbons
Slippers
Queen Ann wooden peg doll
Verity didn’t move. Her heart pulled, and then splintered. “These belonged to a young woman,” she murmured. She recalled the story of Lord Bolingbroke and his siblings. “Three of them.”
When he said nothing, she looked up.
At some point, he’d ceased his writing and openly studied her.
“These belong to them, do they not?” The earl . . . Except that wasn’t quite right. “Lord Bolingbroke’s three sisters?” She needed him to say it.
“I suspect,” he said with a casual shrug.
“What need have you of”—she glanced down at the three items which had ultimately given her pause—“worn slippers, ribbons, and a . . . wooden peg doll?”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t.”
That was all he’d say? “But they did, Malcom.” Just as Verity had desperately needed the dresses and slippers and boots she’d been forced to sell at her father’s passing. But this time, for these women, it had been Malcom who had been the one to see all that taken.
“Why don’t you say what it is you’re thinking?” he snapped.
It was a challenge. If he expected her to back down, however, he was to be disappointed. “Very well,” she said slowly, resting the book on her lap. “They are no more responsible for the decisions of their parents than you are responsible for what happened to you that night.” The night he didn’t speak of . . . or remember. The one shrouded in mystery.
“You care so much for people you’ve never met?”
Verity angrily flipped through the book and stopped at the back. “And you should hate—” She froze. Her gaze landed at the center of the page. Her mind slowed as she struggled through those annotations.
“I did it because I hate them,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Don’t make more of it than there is.”
And yet . . . how could she not? Her eyes scoured the pages, making sense of the numbers and details written there. “You didn’t intend to simply take their belongings,” she said softly, stroking a finger over the words. Understanding at last dawned.
“Don’t, Verity,” he snapped.
“You were giving it all away.”
A stiff silence met that revelation.
Verity fell back in her seat. Here she’d been berating him. Believing the worst. Accusing him of wrongly directing his anger at the wrong people. When all along, he’d been diverting those resources to others. Ones who were deserving in an altogether different light. “Malcom,” she said softly.
He wiped a hand down his face. “As I said, do not make more of it than there is.”
Only, what else was there to make of it?
Salvation Foundling Hospital
Ladies of Hope
London Hospital
The list went on. He was so very determined that the world see him in the darkest possible light. He was content to be seen as ruthless, and yet at every moment, with every decision he made and every person he saved, he revealed himself to be one of great honor.