In Bed with the Earl (Lost Lords of London #1) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,97
faded out of focus, as something vague stirred in the chambers of his mind. Another echo, this one in a gentleman’s voice.
“I know that story,” he said hoarsely, cutting into Verity’s telling.
And that is how the handshake has come to be, my boy . . .
Verity lowered her palm to her side.
Dark pinpricks flecked his vision.
She didn’t ask how. And he needed to hear her voice. He needed her to anchor him to this moment, and pull him back from the memories that wouldn’t come.
And then it came tumbling from her lips, her quietly spoken question, the mooring he needed. “Who?”
“My father. It was my father . . .” Only, that admission didn’t suck him into the abyss, trapping him with thoughts of who he’d been . . . before. Rather, there came with that acknowledgment an unexpected buoyancy as the blackness tugging at his vision receded. Malcom drew a breath in slowly through his teeth, filling his lungs with it.
In that moment . . . he felt . . . free . . .
Chapter 20
THE LONDON GAZETTE
The Earl and Countess of Maxwell were recently seen at Hyde Park. Despite the whispers and rumors of marital strife, witnesses maintain that the recently married couple appeared very much in love . . .
E. Daubin
For nearly twenty years, Verity’s life had been her work at The Londoner. For three of them, she had been a reporter. Her nights had been spent outlining stories, and then drafting interview questions for the subjects of her article.
She began with a mock title. An outline. And then came the questions she’d piece together that would fill in the details of the story that would ultimately be printed.
As such, she should be considering questions to ask and record for her upcoming meeting with Malcom.
Instead, her notebook lay open before her, blank.
Since their quiet but not tense return to Grosvenor Square, she’d been unable to think of anything but him and the last utterances to leave his lips.
My father. It was my father . . .
It had represented a deeply personal admission that, once coaxed into further details, would likely have been sufficient enough to garner her work with any newspaper office. But in the immediacy of that moment, and even now, it wasn’t her story or future employment she thought of.
She thought of him. Who Malcom had fleetingly been before he’d been forced to become someone else. The darkness he’d endured. And just as importantly, the point she’d never contemplated before now: What happiness had he known? The only son of an earl, he’d have been cherished for his role as heir.
And yet, he’d memories of Gunter’s ices. And tales of handshakes. Information that had been imparted to him, that echoed in his mind still, all these years later.
And you’d ask him to expose those most intimate parts of himself to slake the hunger of gossips who don’t truly care about the man Malcom North.
What alternative do you have, however?
Is his quest for privacy more precious than Livvie’s and Bertha’s survival?
Verity bit down hard on the end of her pencil, her teeth depressing the soft wood, leaving indentations upon it.
Footsteps sounded in the hall.
The pencil slipped from her mouth, and heart hammering, Verity jumped up. He was h—
Her sister slipped inside.
“Oh.” Of course it wasn’t Malcom. He’d mastered silence with a skill not even the dead of night could manage.
Livvie hovered at the entrance. “Is it all right if I join you?”
Forcing the cheerful smile she’d always donned for her only sister, even when Verity’s heart had been breaking and the world weighing down on her shoulders, Verity stooped to gather her pencil. “You can always join me.”
Leaving the door hanging ajar, with her hands tucked behind her back, Livvie walked hesitantly over. “What are you doing?” she asked as she climbed onto the leather button sofa alongside Verity.
Mindful of those recorded words about Malcom, Verity hurriedly closed her journal. “They’re notes.” She settled for vagueness.
“You’re . . . working?” Her sister had the tones of one puzzling through a complex riddle.
“And why shouldn’t I?” she countered.
“Because . . . you’re a countess. And married . . .”
Leaning over, Verity gave a tug of her sister’s plait. “And who says that a woman who is married should not be able to work?”
Livvie’s brow pulled. “I . . . suppose I’ve never considered it, either way. I just expected that ladies didn’t have to work.”
“Aye, but I’m choosing to work. That is altogether different.”