In Bed with the Earl (Lost Lords of London #1) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,76

lip in a way so very similar to Verity’s telltale gesture of unease. “It is a love match, is it not?”

That was an assumption Livvie had formed on her own. One that had been lent credence by the damned gossip pages. One that Verity had known, at the first utterance of it, would one day have to be explained for the lie it was. Later. Eventually. When they were gone. And yet . . .

Feeling Bertha’s eyes on her, Verity joined her sister at the mahogany bed. Drawing herself up, she sat beside Livvie. “I . . . My arrangement with Malcom is more a matter of convenience.” There, that much was true. It was a matter of convenience . . . for Livvie anyway.

Her sister’s eyes were stricken. “You don’t love him, then?”

“I . . . We are”—mortal enemies—“friends.” Verity nearly strangled on that admission. Liar. He’d happily cut you down if you came around when he discovered the truth of your deception. Need he discover it, though? When he was so very determined to live a life of separate existence in the seediest streets in England?

Disappointment brimmed in Livvie’s bright eyes. “I still expected that I’d have met him by now.”

“Aye, me too,” Bertha drawled.

Verity shot her a sharp look before shifting her focus to her sister. “He . . . Malcom”—because even fictional husbands required a name—“is merely finalizing matters in East London, and when they are complete, he’ll join us.” At which point, she’d have to craft some also-fictional accident that left her widowed, and hope that her sister never again asked about the missing Lord Maxwell.

Her sister yawned.

“You should go rest, Livvie. I have to speak with Bertha, and tomorrow we can talk more about Malcom.” They wouldn’t. Come the morn, she’d have altogether different reasons and distractions that precluded Verity from answering anything about her make-believe husband.

The moment Livvie had gone, Bertha faced her.

Her silence proved more damning than any words she might utter.

“What?” Verity groused.

“Oh, you tell me, gel. You’re the one who has us living here with you as a pretend countess.”

“I didn’t make up that lie,” she said defensively. “Society did that all on their own.”

“I’m sure when His Lordship learns what you’ve been up to, he’ll see it that way, too.”

Aye, Verity had been besieged by those worries as well. That, however, had been before the comfortable beds. And the full bellies. And the untattered garments. And the soap and the lack of mice.

And by the fourth day, when servants had begun to flit around the household, removing the coverings from portraits and windows, and none had still yet called Verity and her family out for the lies they perpetuated, it had become increasingly harder to pack up, slip out, and simply move on to . . . Lord knew where. “He stated he had no intention to move to Grosvenor Square, and his . . . friends thought it was just fine that we remained.”

“Aye, and by your own words and that fine research, he’d no intention of keeping on staff, but here we are.”

“Shh,” Verity warned, stealing a frantic look at the front of the room. There’d been eager maids and footmen about, grateful for their posts and determined to please.

“This is madness, gel.”

“I know,” she muttered, struggling with the row of buttons along her borrowed dress. Another borrowed dress from the armoires of the former ladies who’d inhabited this household. This one was of fine silk, the hem several inches too long so that it dragged, and even so, the crystal beadwork along the hemline and neckline and the lace overlay skirt were finer than anything she’d worn now . . . or when her father had been living. “Will you help me?”

“No,” Bertha said bluntly.

Verity glanced over her shoulder.

“Fine,” the other woman muttered, and set to work on the row of buttons. “You’re playing with fire, gel. And because you’re playing with fire, I am, too. And if that doesn’t mean anything to you, then Livvie’s life and future should.”

Verity frowned. “Is that what you believe?” Was her opinion of Verity truly so low? That she somehow thought that this was a game and Verity merely sought to play at blue blood? “All of this is because of you and Livvie.”

Bertha grunted. “Is it, though?”

Wasn’t it? Even as Verity spent her days searching for work at other scandal sheets and newspapers, she returned in the early-afternoon hours with a greater relief than she’d ever known to