In Bed with the Earl (Lost Lords of London #1) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,37

she truly sought—nay, needed. So why was she unable to shake the countless questions tumbling around her mind?

Verity wandered over to an exotic green-and-pink embroidered chessboard. Intrigued, she gripped her towel in one hand, and with the other picked up the pink queen. She ran her thumb along the contoured ribbing of that most powerful piece before setting it down.

Verity did another sweep of the place she’d been brought to.

How did such a man come to be in possession of such wealth? Furthermore . . . who was he, this man who prowled the streets in fine garments and spoke flawless King’s English, but carried himself with the ruthless ease of any London street tough?

He’d gibed her at every turn, then tended to her injury. Granted, there’d been nothing warm about his ministrations; he’d been perfunctory, as methodical as a doctor tending a patient . . . And yet, he’d cared for her. And he’d not left her to fend for herself in the streets. Therefore, that surely said something about the stranger?

Or mayhap you’re merely telling yourself that. Mayhap that was far easier than considering the possibility that she’d, in fact, traded one threat for another.

Unable to shake those misgivings, Verity loosened her death grip on the dress North had given her and made her way to the bath.

“A bath.” She exhaled those two words for the reverent prayer they were.

Nay, not just any bath . . . not the tepid water at best, cold water at most, dunkings she suffered through in the name of cleanliness and hygiene. But rather, a bath that beckoned with steam that rose from the water like little puffs of white clouds.

Verity warred with herself in a shamefully short battle before shucking the borrowed dress aside, and her soaking undergarments. Before logic screamed at the folly of climbing into a stranger’s—a strange man’s—bath, she stepped in.

A blissful sigh spilled from her lips, and her eyes slid closed; the temperature of the water was so hot it nearly hurt. It did hurt. Her toes tingled, and those needlelike pricks radiated up the expanse of her legs. And she reveled in them. But it was the most glorious form of pain. The heat penetrated the chill left by the sewers.

Verity sank into the water until it covered her shoulders.

Then she closed her eyes and simply welcomed the warmth driving away the cold. The aches in her arms from descending into the tunnels eased.

And for a moment, she allowed herself to forget that she was, in fact, in the home of a stranger who wielded a weapon with dangerous ease.

Forget . . .

Cursing, Verity sat up so quickly water sloshed over the edge of the tub.

Bertha would be waiting.

If she’d even remained when Verity failed to return.

And Livvie would be beside herself.

But neither could Verity return to them as she’d been, her face bloodied and the stench of the sewers clinging to her garments and person.

And the man who’d sought to drag her off . . . and who undoubtedly would have if Mr. North had not intervened . . .

Taking a deep breath, Verity slipped under the surface of the tub and soaked the dirty strands of her hair. She ran her fingers through the mud caked upon the tresses, and emerged, gasping for air. Wiping the water from her eyes, Verity searched for a bar of soap amongst the items that the hulking figure who’d come carrying the water must have set down at some point.

Except . . .

Going up on her knees, Verity peered at the peculiar item atop the towel, and then grabbed—

“A bar of soap,” she whispered, sparing another glance at the door Mr. North had departed from, and then back once more to that finest of luxuries. She weighed the smooth item in her hand, turning it over. For not only was it a bar of soap, it was a clear one at that. Almost too glorious to use.

Almost.

Alas, the desire to scrub her body free of that filth overcame her reticence, and she dunked the soap and proceeded to lather herself from head to toe. The slightly bitter orange scent of the bergamot was crisply masculine, and yet so very preferable to London’s grime that streaked her skin and turned the white soap bubbles black. Returning the sudsy bar to the tray, Verity hurriedly rinsed. She inhaled deeply, then sank under the water; her ears immediately filled, the previous quiet becoming a muted, muffled ringing in her ears. She