Page 61 of In Bed with the Earl

Because she had none.

There was nothing.

And what was worse ... there wasnowhere. Nowhere for them.

A humming filled Verity’s ears. The rush of blood pumping from the panic threatening to pull her under.

Her life had been upended before. After her mother’s passing, Verity had been forced to leave behind her small cottage. She’d moved to London and settled into a newhome—those sorry apartments.

There’d always been a roof. There’d always been walls. There’d been a loss of the comforts once enjoyed, but still, security.

This? This was—

There was a light tug on her sleeve, and Verity jumped.

Livvie drew her hand away. “Perhaps you might ... speak to the Lost Earl again?” her eternal optimist of a sister ventured.

“The Lost Earl,” she echoed dumbly.

I’m not the gentleman you take me for ...

The ragged retort still echoed in her mind, his voice husked by desire, his callused hands upon her, searching her body in a touch that had bordered tender and rough. And ... no. There was no gentleness in him. He’d been clear with his words and every action that he’d cede nothing over to her. “No,” Verity said, making herself look back at Livvie and Bertha. “I’m not speaking to him.” Never again.

“But hemightbe able to help?” Livvie pushed with a persistence that could come only from innocence. “After all, he saved you. Or you can speak to Mr. Lowery—”

“Mr. Lowery’s not going to change his mind,” she cried, frustration bringing her words rolling forth. “He’s not some kindhearted gentleman.” And neither was Malcom. She opened her mouth to say as much, but the words would not come. For Malcom wished to keep his secrets, and he should be entitled to that privacy.

A rebellious glimmer sparked to life in her sister’s eyes. “Well, if Mr. Lowery won’t, I’m certain the earl and—”

“And you blindly trust that someone is good because they are born to the nobility?” She gripped her sister by the shoulders. “For the love of God, Livvie, our father was an earl.” That reminder whitewashed her sister’s cheeks, and still, Verity couldn’t bring herself to stop. “Our father was an earl, and what did he do? He married another woman because she was a lady, while all the while—”

“Stop,” Livvie whispered.

“Making our mother his mistress. And have you ever known any comfort in life because of him?” She didn’t allow for an answer. “I’ll tell you, we did not.” They’d not because the extent of the security he’d offered had come in the form of securing work for the twelve-year-old girl Verity had been. Releasing Livvie, Verity slammed a hand against her chest. “I’m the one who has kept you safe and secure and provided for. Me.Me.Not him. Not some damned gentleman.” Not their father. Not Malcom, the Earl of Maxwell. “Not some bloody earl.” Her shrill cry echoed in the rooms empty of furnishings.

No one spoke.

No one so much as moved.

In the end, it was not Verity who slid into the role of comforter, but rather the unlikeliest of their trio. “Here, now,” Bertha murmured, showing traces of the once warm nursemaid she’d been. She rested a hand on Livvie’s arm.

Her lower lip atremble, Livvie ripped away and stalked off to the lone room that had served as the sisters’ shared bedchambers as long as they’d lived here. And then she closed the door behind her with a soft click more powerful than had she slammed the oak slab.

Verity briefly closed her eyes. Good God, what had she become?

Bertha frowned. “It’s not the gel’s fault.”

“I know.”

“And she certainly shouldn’t have you yelling at her for it. She’s scared, too.”

“I know. I know.” Restless, Verity pressed her palms over her face, when Bertha caught her hands and brought them back to her sides.

“It is all right to be scared yourself, but it’s not all right for you to be taking that out on Livvie.”

The older woman was correct. Fear over their future or not, Verity had no place lashing out at her sister. When she’d been the same age that Livvie was now, Verity had been caring for her baby sister. From that moment on, Verity had committed herself to taking care of her sister, and ensuring she didn’t know the strife Verity herself had. It was no state she’d ever want her sister to find herself in. No position that any child had to be in: grown up too soon. Employed. Supporting one’s family. And yet, that was the way of the world. Nay, not the world. The peerage knew nothing of children becoming caregivers. “You’re right,” she said quietly, absently; she wandered through the barren room, over to the window that looked down on the streets below.

Her sister truly believed Malcom North was the man to help them.

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