In Bed with the Earl (Lost Lords of London #1) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,64

beating the empty nub where a hand should be against his open, callused palm. It was not, however, that menacing gesture that snagged her focus but rather the stretch of his vowels as he spoke, ones that glided from a high pitch to a low pitch, and whispered at a Welshness to his tonality.

“I do not need to be handled.”

“I have her,” Malcom advised, as though Verity hadn’t spoken, as though the two men were more than content to carry on their conversation about her as if she weren’t present.

She gnashed her teeth. “I’ll say it once more—”

They turned simultaneous stares upon her, withering the rest of that brave retort.

That black-haired Lucifer touched that nub to the brim of his cap and then, with one last look for Verity, let himself out. The London street sounds spilled inside before he closed the panel, swallowing the noise once more so that only an agonizingly thick silence fell upon the cramped foyer.

Verity wanted to be the one to break the quiet. She wanted to be brave in the face of bullying—even if it was veiled intimidation, and yet, fear sapped the moisture from her throat and mouth, making words impossible.

Malcom dropped a shoulder against the wall, and she jumped. “You next.”

Confusion settled in her already-muddled mind. “Me next?” she asked slowly, seeking clarification.

“The door, Miss Lovelace,” he said tightly. “See yourself out.”

He wanted her gone. Did you expect he’d want you to stay? “You’re displeased with me,” she murmured, getting to the heart of the matter.

He stilled, and then tossed his head back, bellowing a sharp, short bark of laughter that echoed from the ceiling. It ended as quickly as it burst from his hard lips. “Good God, mad or stupid—I can’t determine which you are.”

It was faintly similar to an insult he’d leveled at her a fortnight ago, and it stirred indignation. His ill opinion, on the heel of her firing and society’s disregard of all women, was too much. She snapped. “Does it make you feel good to bully a woman about?” She stalked over until the tips of their shoes brushed. “To go about shouting names and insulting me?”

“My charges have nothing to do with your gender,” he said coolly. “I know very many women who are plenty smart and capable.”

And oddly, that rankled even more, that insult that found her wanting, compared to the women he kept company with.

“And do you know, Miss Lovelace?” he whispered, dropping his face near hers, so near his breath fanned her lips.

All the earlier confidence that had sent her forward to confront him to his face flagged. “Wh-what?”

“Every one of those women would have the sense God gave a London sewer rat to not seek me out as you’ve done—again.”

She trembled, a never-ending shiver that rolled through her. One that should be ripples of fear. And yet her body’s awareness made a lie of sense and good reason. Verity wetted her lips. “Because of my column,” she ventured, her voice husky and breathless.

His brows came arching down, and his eyes went to her mouth.

Oh, God. He was going to kiss her again. And what was more . . . I want him to . . .

“Because of your column,” he seethed, banking the embers of that foolish haze of her desire. “Because you stole that which you’d no right to take. Because of no other reason than because I decreed it. Get out.”

“I am sorry for that,” she said softly. A memory slipped in of she and Malcom playing chess when they’d simply been strangers together in hiding and not adversaries at one another’s throats. A pang struck in her chest. “I am sorry for so much.” Where he was concerned. She’d had no other choice, however. Not when it had been his privacy versus Livvie and Bertha’s security.

Malcom peeled his lip in a hate-filled snarl. “As if your apology means shite to me.”

Verity winced. “I deserve that.” Her fingers shook, and to hide their quaking, she clasped them behind her back. “But I’m afraid I cannot leave.” Which was the absolute truth. “Not until we’ve spoken, and I’ve explained . . . my circumstances.”

Malcom cocked his head. “You’re refusing to leave?” Frost chiseled off that question into a curt, syllabic response.

Aye, no doubt he was one wholly unaccustomed to having his wishes gainsaid. Was that arrogance a product of his roots in the peerage? Or of the reputation he’d earned outside of it?

And this time, as questions whispered around her mind,