In Bed with the Earl (Lost Lords of London #1) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,49
you’re with one of those vaunted lords?” Malcom twisted the lock once more. “You believe the title ‘earl’ affixed to a man’s name somehow erases who he is.” Who I am. Malcom lowered his head until their brows touched and their eyes were aligned. “What he is.” He placed his mouth close to hers; their breath mingled and danced. “Well, if that is the case, you’re about to be disappointed, Verity.”
They remained locked in silence, warring with one another.
Malcom’s gaze dipped to her mouth. To those provocative lips that existed in a perpetual pout and, because of it, flayed his logic. Desire took on a lifelike energy, crackling and hissing like ten thousand embers that burnt in a hearth.
Then she darted the pink tip of her tongue out, hers a siren’s temptation. “Are you the Earl of Maxwell?” she repeated.
“And if I am?” he countered, unable to look away.
“Then I’ve been searching for you.” There was a lilting quality to her words as she spoke, a lyrical singsong, pure and unsullied by the dirt-clogged streets, and it heightened the reminder of all the ways in which this woman, this stranger, was different. And it was because of that maddening pull she had over him that it took a moment for him to hear that admission.
“You’ve been searching for me?” All his defenses went up, swiftly dousing the maddening haze of lust that had clogged his damned senses.
She gave a hesitant nod.
Oh, the bloody fucking irony! He tossed his head back and erupted into a harsh, guttural laugh. He’d stumbled upon one of those bastards seeking him and his story. At numerous points, he could have been on his way and free of her. But not once but twice, he’d gone back to the blasted termagant’s side, and then brought her into his residence.
And at last, the minx edged away from him, displaying a belated but justified fear.
“What do you want?” he asked flatly, unfurling so that he towered over her more diminutive frame.
She backed up another several steps.
Did fear send her retreating? Or the need to look him directly in the eyes? He’d known the minx for barely four hours, and he’d wager the life he’d built as a tosher that it was, in fact, the latter.
“My name is Verity Lovelace,” she began.
“You said as much,” he said icily. “What were you in search of? Handouts?”
She sputtered, “Of course I didn’t come looking for charity. I work for The Londoner.”
“The Londoner,” he echoed, dumbly. Oh, God in the heaven he didn’t believe in.
This time, they are reporters with newspapers . . . And according to the people talking, they’ve begun searching the sewers for you . . .
Impossible. She couldn’t—
“It is a newspaper.”
“I know what The Londoner is, Miss Lovelace,” he snapped. “And I’d hardly call it a newspaper. It’s nothing more than a gossip column.”
By the slight pout of her lips, she took umbrage with his opinion, and yet this time, the damned virago managed to retain control of her usual obstinacy. She cleared her throat. “Although I disagree—”
“You have two minutes.” And then he was tossing her out on her deliciously rounded buttocks.
Verity cleared her throat again. “Yes. As I was saying, I work for The Londoner.”
“What manner of work do you do there?”
The woman bristled. “Do you find it so hard to believe that a woman would have honest employment?”
“A fine one like you?” He flicked a finger at the puffed sleeve of the gown he’d given her. “With your fine speech and lily-white, unblemished skin, I’ve you marked as a lady.”
She swatted at his hand. “First, my garments should not factor into any assessment of me. I’m merely wearing them because you destroyed mine and provided these. Secondly . . .” A pretty blush blossomed on her cheeks. “I’m not a lady.”
“Some fancy lord’s by-blow, then?”
The color flamed several shades of red brighter. “We’re not talking about my past, my lord,” she said between her teeth.
Ah, he’d struck a nerve. Invariably, he discovered his opponent’s vulnerabilities. Verity Lovelace was no different. Not in the ways that mattered. “So that is it, then? Hmm?” And the gaze she leveled this time upon his chest was so direct it ran through Malcom. Sightless, unseeing.
She held her mouth with such tension, white lines formed at the corners of her lips.
“Tell me this, Miss Verity Lovelace,” he whispered. “What makes you think you’ve the right to probe into my life, and yet insist on privacy and secrets for yourself?”