In Bed with the Earl (Lost Lords of London #1) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,82

immediate and correct answer. No good could come from revealing any part of how he’d lived these years. All that information would invariably trickle down from the ton to the dregs of East London, who’d in turn use that knowledge against him. Or they would try to anyway. “You’d have your story.” He caught her damp plait between his fingers, and rubbed those silken strands. “And I . . .” His was a bid to taunt her, and yet once again, he only proved tempted by the siren. Her hair contained the richest shades of auburn and chestnut and chocolate. “And I . . .” Once again he became entranced by those silken strands, tresses that were kissed by every blend of brown.

“Th-there can be some good in that,” she murmured, her usual singsong voice husky . . . Good in what? What was she saying? It was all mixed up in his mind. “Sometimes,” she went on, “there is good in confronting one’s past, Malcom.”

And then it hit him, exactly what she was saying. What she even now suggested. By God, did she take him for a fool? That pull was shattered. He released her. “And how do you figure that, Verity?” At best all he possessed were distant memories so murky they may as well have belonged to another.

“Because it might prove healing.”

“Do not make this about me, Miss Lovelace.” He hissed out her name.

She recoiled but did not back down.

“Do not pretend that you in any way care about my past or any part of me beyond how it serves you. If I let you write your column, the ton would continue to eat up the shite drivel that makes them feel better about a man who’s inherited a title in their ranks. I’ll end up with another stream of desperate ladies and their equally desperate fathers, who’d sell me their offspring as easily as a whore sells herself in St. Giles.” In that there was no disparity between the elite and the people under them. The parade of visitors he’d received since Verity had outed his whereabouts was proof enough of that. That reminder lit the wick of his fury once more. “No, there is nothing you can do for—”

Except . . .

“What is it?” she asked quietly.

Ignoring her, Malcom turned his back and let the idea fully flesh itself out in his mind.

She sought her position with The Londoner.

He wanted nothing more than to be left alone by the peers seeking him out as a potential match to their bankrupt families.

It was madness, and yet . . . Verity Lovelace, the woman who’d made him a mark amongst the peerage, ironically represented his path to freedom. Malcom turned back to face her. “I’ll agree to your story.”

Her eyes glowed, radiating a hope and brightness so mesmerizing he briefly looked away, steeling himself against its power. As soon as he returned his gaze to hers, a prudent degree of wariness had replaced that earlier light. “You wouldn’t simply do this from the goodness of your heart.”

“Nay.” Darkness or goodness was neither here nor there. He’d no heart. He never had. “I wouldn’t, Verity,” he murmured, stalking a circle around her nearly naked frame.

More than a foot shorter than Malcom, the minx comported herself as though she were an equal in height and strength. And mayhap she was the latter. “Just what would you expect in return, Lord Maxwell?”

She expected an indecent offer. It was the correct supposition any woman born outside the ranks of the nobility would make. And it spurred those earliest questions he’d carried about Verity Lovelace and her past. “Marriage.”

A lone early-summer wind whistling outside was the only sound.

“Marriage?” she echoed dumbly.

“A union between us, Verity. Husband and wife. Earl and countess.”

She backed away from him, and continued retreating until she had the porcelain bath between them. “You’re the one who is mad.”

“Ah, but then, I’m not the one who risked life and limb by passing myself off as nobility, and invaded a Grosvenor Square townhouse,” he gleefully reminded her.

The color leached from her cheeks. And then she bolted. He tensed, prepared for her to bolt past him, making a beeline for the door. Except her flight didn’t take her to the door. Of course it didn’t. Clutching her towel close, she swiped a night wrapper from the vanity and raced across the plush Aubusson carpet. She disappeared behind a French screen. There was a soft flutter of the towel falling, and a