In Bed with the Earl (Lost Lords of London #1) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,38
cleaned the soap from her hair, and emerged from the water.
Even as the pull of regret was strong, Verity forced herself from the bath. Limping over to the neatly folded towel, she dried herself off, and then mindful Mr. North would return, she reached for the undergarments—and a blush instantly scorched her red as she took note of the details that had escaped her while Mr. North had been here and she’d clung to her gown to keep herself shielded from that piercing stare.
Midnight-black lace—she turned the article over in her hands—delicate lace of the finest quality. A quality befitting one of means, and yet—her cheeks warmed—scandalous for the color . . . and the cut of the neckline. When presented with the option of donning the outrageous article or stepping into the filthy garments resting at the foot of the bath, she chose the former. Hurriedly, Verity tugged the chemise on. She smoothed it into place, taking in the ornamental crimson tie that wrapped about the middle, and ended in a bow at the juncture of her legs.
Her stomach muscles tightened, bunching the fabric of the piece North had given her to wear. And just like that . . . all the reservations flooded to the surface. The reminder that he was a stranger. That she’d entered not only his household but also his bedrooms, and now, now wore shameful numbers only ever worn by a mistress.
It was an understanding Verity had from being the daughter of a woman who’d filled that very role for a man of power and influence.
Once again, questions whirred and swirled about the identity of this man—she could not determine whether he was friend or foe.
No man who put a blade to your chest would ever be considered friend.
She shivered, the dread tripping along her spine having nothing to do with the cold. The same fear to grip her in the sewers found its way to the surface. For fine baths and soap and garments aside, there could be no doubting the man who went by the name North was dangerous. And along with that revelation, something else grounded her . . . those questions she carried about her unlikely savior.
With hands that shook, Verity hurried into the dress and drew it overhead. It clung slightly to her bosom, but as she slid the garment into place, it proved an otherwise remarkable fit that one might have believed had been designed specifically for her.
If gowns were designed for her.
Which they had been . . . once upon a lifetime ago, when she’d been the cherished daughter of a lord, who’d lavished her with fancy ribbons and fineries. And slippers. Her eyes went to that luxury. She lunged for them, ignoring the pain that shot along her scraped feet, and scrambled into the delicate scraps. Her eyes slid closed at the bliss of the satin cushioning within.
A quiet knock sounded at the door, and Verity jumped. “J-just a moment.” She made her legs move to the oak panel, and against all better judgment, she turned the lock to let the stranger . . . North . . . into his rooms.
Framed in the doorway, he made no immediate move to enter. Rather, he eyed her through thick, dark lashes that obscured his gaze, and yet somehow she still managed to be seared by the directness of it. “May I?” It was a slightly mocking request, one that sought to illustrate the ridiculousness in him asking permission to enter his own chambers.
And yet, they were his chambers, the place he slept. With an enormous bed situated in the center of the room. Verity’s fingers clenched and unclenched on the panel.
Reluctantly, she stepped aside.
Mr. North swept in. His keen eyes missed nothing. He touched that assessing gaze on every part of the room. As though he searched for a hint that his kingdom had been somehow set askew. And then he focused on her.
Verity felt the blush stealing up her chest and neck, and then setting her face awash in color. “Thank you for the garments,” she said lamely. “I’m ready to take my leave.”
“Close the door, Miss Lovelace,” he said flatly.
All the moisture evaporated from her mouth, leaving her tongue heavy, and as she spoke, her words came out slightly garbled. “Am I a prisoner?”
“Trust me, had I wished to hurt you, it would have happened in the sewers, where I’d have left you, and none would have been any the wiser that we’d met.”