In Bed with the Earl (Lost Lords of London #1) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,78

on her face. “Hello, Verity.” That all-too-familiar, menacing grin that she’d come to recognize as patently false. “Or should I say . . . wife?”

Chapter 17

THE LONDON GAZETTE

THE HEART OF A GENTLEMAN . . .

So many have whispered with fear of the earl who will one day reclaim his rightful place amongst Polite Society. Now, however, with Lord Maxwell’s having saved a young woman from certain peril, there is no doubting that he is not the monster the ton initially expected he would be . . .

E. Daubin

Fury had driven Malcom to his Grosvenor Square properties. Just as that emotion had compelled him abovestairs to the fancy chambers in search of the bloody thief of his secrets and now his material possessions.

And yet, all that safer fury had left him the moment he’d slipped inside the room and found the interloper, Verity Lovelace, naked and soaking in a bath with a light dusting of bubbles her only covering.

And damn him for his weakness as primal lust burnt more palpable than any of the anger he carried for this woman.

Seated on the edge of the bath, Malcom shifted in a bid to hide the telltale evidence of his desire. A mere physical reaction, and yet he’d be damned if he revealed any weakness to her.

“You’ve gone quiet, Verity,” he said silkily. “How unlike you.”

With a squeak, she slammed the small slip of fabric protectively against her breasts; that careless movement merely parted the water like a filmy curtain being drawn back to reveal the tantalizing display below. Unbidden, he devoured her with his eyes.

She squeaked again and sank lower so the sudsy bubbles touched her earlobes. “Stop looking at me.”

“Do you know, I rather think I won’t, Miss Lovelace.” Pushing to his feet, Malcom glided around the curved porcelain bath until he reached her shoulder. “Or do I have that incorrect? Perhaps I should call you Lady Maxwell? Or is it Countess?”

“Perhaps we can continue our discussion after.” She gave him a pointed look. “When I’m properly dressed.”

Any other sane woman would have been blubbering with fear at having been caught in the deception that this one now carried out.

He grinned. “Oh, no. I rather prefer you precisely as you are, dear wife.”

The minx drew her knees close, fanning those bubbles once more, the suds parting to reveal the thatch of dark curls between her legs. Aye, if he were an honorable man, he’d look away. Alas, none of either East or West London would dare confuse Malcom North with anything other than he was.

Gasping, she buried a palm over that erotic sight. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

“Aye, at last you’ve come ’round to the way of it.” Only that taunting barb came out guttural, from a place of maddening hunger for the slip of a woman before him.

Verity lifted her chin, defiance in that slight uptilt. Gloriously breathtaking in her arrogance . . . and pride. And then, the young woman lowered her legs and returned to the casual repose she’d been in before he’d stormed her rooms.

His rooms.

It was all his.

She’d merely taken it from him.

Just as she’d taken his secrets and the privacy he’d so craved and turned it over to the world as if any of it had been hers to give. And what was more, that theft was the one that grated worst of all. The one that felt like a betrayal from the one person he’d let in—in any way.

Those reminders proved sobering, restoring the rage that had sent him here. “Well?” he whispered.

Her mouth parted just slightly enough to emit nothing more than a slight exhalation. A slice of pink flesh darted out, and she trailed that tip of her tongue along the seam of that full lower and narrow upper lip. “I trust you’re not happy about this.”

She couched her words even still, carefully measuring the extent of his knowledge, no doubt to help in forming the next lie she’d feed him. “Oh?” Malcom folded his arms. “And which part might that be?”

“Any of it?” she ventured, offering a sheepish smile. One that dimpled both her cheeks, flushed red from the still-steaming bath.

Malcom narrowed his eyes and then slowly angled his face toward hers, so that only a handful of inches separated them. So that he could hear the audible intake of her breath. And see the ripple of her throat as it moved. From fear, or desire? No doubt the former. The chit was insolent in her gall, but she wasn’t gormless.