Page 36 of In Bed with the Earl

Even knowing that, even silently chastising himself for being ten times the fool, he released the soaked article and left it dripping. He turned his attention to his boots, and was in the midst of divesting himself of them when Fowler reappeared with another two buckets. While he poured them, Malcom started for the armoire at the corner of the room. Yanking the doors open, he fished around and then tugged out a black garment. “Here,” he said, returning to the woman. He tossed the muslin article at Verity Lovelace, and she reflexively released her hold on her wet gown and caught the clean article to her chest.

She eyed it like she’d never before seen a dress ... but said nothing. Her clear, wary stare continued to take in everything, alternating between Malcom and Fowler, until the older man left and all her energies were trained once again on Malcom. “What is this?” Her nose began to again bleed, trickling down her nostril.

“I think it should be obvious.” He stalked over to the steaming bath and grabbed one of the white cloths Fowler had set out. Malcom soaked the article and then twisted it. Droplets plinked upon the smooth surface, rippling the water. He twisted the cloth several times, until he’d squeezed out the residual moisture. Wordlessly, he returned to hisguestand handed the garment over.

The young woman hesitated, and not taking her gaze from Malcom, she ripped the cloth from his unresisting fingers and backed away until she had placed his bed between them. She stopped abruptly, glancing down at the mattress.

Her brows shot to her hairline as she tripped over herself in her haste to be away from him.

As he came around the bed, she continued backing away, until the backs of her legs collided with his wall. The sharp thump jarred the painting above her head, and the young woman shot her gaze up to that pastoral landscape of pale-blue skies and emerald-green earth, and then she whipped her focus over to Malcom once more.

The gown she clutched slipped and revealed a far more bounteous display of flesh.

Unbidden, his gaze lingered on that tantalizing cream-white flesh.

Verity Lovelace gasped. “Donotcome any closer.” She held her fists up, positioning herself in an awkward pugilist’s stance.

Malcom slowed his steps. And for the first time since he’d come upon her in his sewers, he found himself smiling—arealsmile. The muscles of his mouth protested that foreign movement. It was an expression he’d never managed but only ever manufactured—to intimidate. To mock. To threaten. This was ... different, and unnerving for it.

“Do you find this amusing?” she spat, and all her impressive bravado ended on a squeak as he closed the remaining space between them.

Abandoning her dress for a right hook, Miss Lovelace brought her arm back.

Alas, the hellcat had revealed her penchant for a well-timed blow too many times before this to ever land another.

Catching her wrist in a firm grip, he brought her arm back to her side.

“Please,” she whispered, her eyes sliding closed.

“Please” had long been the word he had heard and preferred to hear from the mouths of the women he’d bedded over the years. Never, however, had it been uttered in fear.

Still, he had less experience in assuaging the fears of any person, let alone those born outside the rougher set he’d kept company with through the years. “Here,” he said gruffly. Relieving her of the damp cloth, he swiped at her face.

She flinched, and he gentled his touch.

The woman’s earlier bravery appeared restored as her lashes swept up; still, she regarded him with weariness spilling from the spellbinding, purple-blue depths of her eyes.

Resting the damp rag, now stained crimson, over his shoulder, he stretched a hand between them.

She shot her hands up protectively once more.

“Stay calm. Nervousness makes it worse.”

“And you know because you’ve h-had so many?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” Even in the sewer, when he’d had a knife at her person and demanded answers, she’d met them with queries. It was another foreign experience for him; people in the rookeries didn’t ask questions ... unless retribution or revenge waited at the end of that query. “Don’t lean your head on the wall. Tilt it forward.” He reached and angled her head slightly. “Otherwise you’re going to choke on your blood.”

She blanched.

Malcom caught her pert little nose between his thumb and forefinger and pressed.

The young woman resumed thrashing.

“I’m not trying to suffocate you,” he said curtly. It was foolish to be offended by her continued fear—bloody hell, he should relish her unease, for it would make it easier to have answers to the questions he sought. “If I wanted to, I’d squeeze your neck.”

“Is that meant to reassure me?” she countered, with some of the strength restored to her voice.

“Breathe through your mouth.”

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