Page 41 of In Bed with the Earl

He quit his place at the window, and took slow, sleek steps toward her. Verity found herself contemplating the doorway and the path to freedom.

“Would you like to leave, Verity?” he asked in that smooth, slightly-too-deep-to-be-considered-a-baritone voice.

“Would you allow it?” She answered his question with one of her own, more than half-afraid of the answer, because she suspected she already well knew the truth.

“I would,” he said surprisingly.

Verity started for the doorway.

“Although I should mention that the bloke who cornered you earlier is circling outside.”

That ominous warning jolted her midstep, and she made herself face him. She felt the color drain from her face; it left her dizzy and off-kilter. “You’re lying.”

Sweeping one arm toward the window, he wordlessly invited her to verify for herself. Verity was across the room in four long strides. Curtain in hand, she peeled it back a fraction to peer out.

Sure enough, that same stranger did a sweep of the streets. To what end would he be searching for her? Because she’d knocked him cold, no doubt.

“Do you still wish to leave?” North taunted.

Reluctantly, she let the curtain fall back into place. Nay. Not when there was a ruthless stranger bent on revenge for her bringing him down. “I don’t know him,” she repeated, carefully selecting her words, sharing that which she knew.

North snorted.

“I don’t.” She lifted her palms. “I’m not lying when I told you I don’t know.” Based on the work she’d done, earning the ire of thetonthrough the years, there could have been any number of people who’d sent the stranger to speak to her.

North hooded his eyes.

He stalked past her, and unlocking the door, he turned the handle and let the panel hang open. “That’s not sufficient enough for you to stay, Miss Lovelace.”

“Please, don’t send me out there. I can’t leave. Not yet. Not until ...”He’s gone.

Chapter 8

THE LONDONER

THE SEVEN DIALS

We’ve received reliable evidence confirming just where in London the Earl of Maxwell has called home ... the Seven Dials.

V. Lovelace

Everything about Verity Lovelace, from her presence in the sewers to the man circling for her now, screamed danger.

As such, he’d be wise to turn her out on her generously rounded buttocks.

In fact, he’d be a damned fool to let her stay.

And yet, he couldn’t very well send her outside and on her way. Not without assigning her to a death sentence.

Bloody hell. Malcom shoved the panel closed. “Fine.”

Verity’s eyes lit, transforming her from someone quite ordinary to someone ... who enthralled. “I can stay?”

Unnerved by his appreciation of Miss Lovelace, Malcom crossed to the mahogany drink trolley and poured two glasses of brandy. “Don’t get any ideas that you’re moving in.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t. I’ve a place, a family,” she prattled, garrulous in ways that gave him a damned megrim, and yet also intrigued. “So you needn’t—” The young woman caught the look he leveled on her. “You were being facetious.”

“Aye.”

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