Page 86 of In Bed with the Earl

Ignoring her, Malcom turned his back and let the idea fully flesh itself out in his mind.

She sought her position withThe Londoner.

He wanted nothing more than to be left alone by the peers seeking him out as a potential match to their bankrupt families.

It was madness, and yet ... Verity Lovelace, the woman who’d made him a mark amongst the peerage, ironically represented his path to freedom. Malcom turned back to face her. “I’ll agree to your story.”

Her eyes glowed, radiating a hope and brightness so mesmerizing he briefly looked away, steeling himself against its power. As soon as he returned his gaze to hers, a prudent degree of wariness had replaced that earlier light. “You wouldn’t simply do this from the goodness of your heart.”

“Nay.” Darkness or goodness was neither here nor there. He’d no heart. He never had. “I wouldn’t, Verity,” he murmured, stalking a circle around her nearly naked frame.

More than a foot shorter than Malcom, the minx comported herself as though she were an equal in height and strength. And mayhap she was the latter. “Just what would you expect in return, Lord Maxwell?”

She expected an indecent offer. It was the correct supposition any woman born outside the ranks of the nobility would make. And it spurred those earliest questions he’d carried about Verity Lovelace and her past. “Marriage.”

A lone early-summer wind whistling outside was the only sound.

“Marriage?” she echoed dumbly.

“A union between us, Verity. Husband and wife. Earl and countess.”

She backed away from him, and continued retreating until she had the porcelain bath between them. “You’rethe one who is mad.”

“Ah, but then, I’m not the one who risked life and limb by passing myself off as nobility, and invaded a Grosvenor Square townhouse,” he gleefully reminded her.

The color leached from her cheeks. And then she bolted. He tensed, prepared for her to bolt past him, making a beeline for the door. Except her flight didn’t take her to the door. Of course it didn’t. Clutching her towel close, she swiped a night wrapper from the vanity and raced across the plush Aubusson carpet. She disappeared behind a French screen. There was a soft flutter of the towel falling, and a rustle of fabric. A moment later, she emerged in a modest white cotton wrapper.

“Good God, what is that?”

She followed his horrified stare. “It is a nightgown and wrapper.”

He snorted. “It’s nothing of the sort.” With a high neckline, heavily adorned with ornate lace and flounced sleeves, the young woman couldn’t be any more covered up than had she been wearing a gown and cloak, and yet, with her toes peeking out, there was something entrancing in the ruffled display of innocence. He’d sooner cut his tongue out than admit as much.

Verity drew the belt at her waist tighter. “Given the circumstances, I trust what I’m wearing doesn’t truly matter.”

“Aside from the fact that you stole it,” he drolly reminded her.

“Er ... uh ... yes. Aside from that.”

“You’ve robbed much from me, Verity, and I’d have something in return. It seems a fair price, does it not?”

She wetted her lips. And he waited with bated breath for her to throw Bram and Fowler under the proverbial carriage. Yet she continued to remain steadfast, claiming ownership of her decision. “Marriage,” she repeated as if tasting the sound and feel of that word on her tongue.

And by the paroxysm of revulsion, the minx felt the same way he did about the state. Malcom drew the moment on, taking a savage delight in her horror.

Verity drew a deep breath, and swiftly exhaled her words. “You’ll gift me the story in exchange for marriage.”

“Of a sort.” Malcom wandered over to the vanity the young woman had made her own. “All these comforts you’ve enjoyed. The bedding.” As he spoke, he gestured to the respective items in question. “The bath.” He picked up an enameled looking glass. “The—” His gaze locked on the gold rose at the top of the soft-green, painted piece. A buzzing swarmed in his ears. A tinkling song played, tinny in his head. Malcom twisted the loose rose until it could not be tightened any further. The clever mechanical opened, springing forth a songbird.

Hmm-mmm—hm-mm—Dadadadadad—

You look like a princess.

If I am a princess, you shall be my prince. Now shall we dance, Percy?

Laughter echoed in the halls of his memory, rusty from the cobwebs of time. A child’s high-pitched squeals and the brighter, fulsome, joyous expression belonging to a woman.

The mirror slipped from his grip; the ornate piece fell with a loud clatter and crack as the glass shattered. That tinny, discordant tune continued playing.

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