book, and smiled coldly. “And just what makes you think that ours need be passed off as a love match?”
Verity opened her mouth. No words came out. She tried again. “I . . . just assumed that would be easiest, to explain our hasty union.”
“It doesn’t matter what they believe or don’t believe. Mayhap I wanted an heir. Mayhap I wanted a wife to oversee my properties when I go live my life. Perhaps we’ve had a falling-out.”
Verity was already shaking her head. “The papers have already written of your rescue. They’re going to be looking for signs of fissures. Of deception. They’ll expect it of us.” Certainly with Verity’s origins . . .
“Us?”
Even as she’d built her life off words, the ease with which he wrapped a whole host of hatred and mockery around that one syllable still managed to stun her.
“You were . . . raised on the streets,” she said needlessly. “I . . .” I’m a bastard. Her tongue grew thick in her mouth. It was only a matter of time before her own identity came to light. She’d long ago come to terms with who she was . . . what she was. But that had been different. That had been when she lived on the fringe of Polite Society, dipping her toes into their existence, solely for the purpose of earning a living. This? This would be different.
She was . . . what? This woman who’d deceived him, whom he’d entered into an agreement with, clung to her secrets with a greater tenacity than even Malcom himself.
She didn’t want to share her history. And mayhap that was why he wished to know.
Liar. He’d been as eager for Verity Lovelace’s secrets as she’d been for his. Only his motives had never been driven by anything but a need to know about her.
Which is what grates so much . . . , that voice jeered.
“And what of you, Verity?” Either way, turnabout was fair play.
“Me?” Her shoulders came up in a little shrug that another, less astute person might have taken for nonchalant. “What of me?” She was hedging. Searching for time, and her mind, for answers that would satisfy his curiosity.
Curiosity? He balked. It was more a need to know what there was about the woman he’d entered into a pretend lifelong arrangement with. Malcom brought his arms up and clasped them behind his head. “You expect me to lay myself out for you, then I should know something of the woman I’m married to.”
She plucked at her skirts. Several moments passed before it became clear—she had no intention of saying anything else on the matter. In fact . . . saying nothing on the matter.
Malcom stood and circled the desk.
There was a mystery to the woman before him. And he yearned to draw forth the hidden details that made Verity Lovelace the woman she was. Malcom stopped behind her chair, and Verity stiffened. Lowering his head, he positioned his mouth close to the shell of her ear. She did not pull away. Her body only curved closer. “How . . . very interesting,” he murmured. “Surely the woman determined to have me spill every part of my life that I’ve no wish to share would at the very least be equally forthright?”
An entrancing blush spilled over her décolletage and climbed to the long, graceful column of her neck. That damnable desire pulsed all the stronger. “It is . . . not at all the same.”
Reaching around the back of her chair, Malcom rested his palms along its arms, and framed her. “Oh?” he whispered, so close that as he spoke, his lips brushed the curve of her ear in a fleeting kiss. One made all the more arousing for its evanescence. “And how is it different, Verity?”
Her breath caught. Or was that his? In this moment, it was all jumbled. “You never expressed a desire to know anything about me, Malcom. For you, my purpose being here, the role I serve . . . is singular. To fool. To deceive.”
It was a fair rebuttal. And not even a day ago, she would have been correct. Some seismic shift, however, had occurred. One born of madness. One that required he know this woman he’d tied himself to in a devil’s deal. He straightened. “Indulge me, then.”
Standing, Verity grabbed her bag and strode around the chair with a strength the fiercest street warrior wouldn’t have as effectively mustered. She stopped so abruptly her satchel was set