Page 52 of In Bed with the Earl

“The Londoner,” he echoed, dumbly. Oh, God in the heaven he didn’t believe in.

This time, they are reporters with newspapers ... And according to the people talking, they’ve begun searching the sewers for you ...

Impossible.She couldn’t—

“It is a newspaper.”

“I know whatThe Londoneris, Miss Lovelace,” he snapped. “And I’d hardly call it a newspaper. It’s nothing more than a gossip column.”

By the slight pout of her lips, she took umbrage with his opinion, and yet this time, the damned virago managed to retain control of her usual obstinacy. She cleared her throat. “Although I disagree—”

“You have two minutes.” And then he was tossing her out on her deliciously rounded buttocks.

Verity cleared her throat again. “Yes. As I was saying, I work forThe Londoner.”

“What manner of work do you do there?”

The woman bristled. “Do you find it so hard to believe that a woman would have honest employment?”

“A fine one like you?” He flicked a finger at the puffed sleeve of the gown he’d given her. “With your fine speech and lily-white, unblemished skin, I’ve you marked as a lady.”

She swatted at his hand. “First, my garments should not factor into any assessment of me. I’m merely wearing them because you destroyed mine and provided these. Secondly ...” A pretty blush blossomed on her cheeks. “I’m not a lady.”

“Some fancy lord’s by-blow, then?”

The color flamed several shades of red brighter. “We’re not talking about my past, my lord,” she said between her teeth.

Ah, he’d struck a nerve. Invariably, he discovered his opponent’s vulnerabilities. Verity Lovelace was no different. Not in the ways that mattered. “So that is it, then?Hmm?” And the gaze she leveled this time upon his chest was so direct it ran through Malcom. Sightless, unseeing.

She held her mouth with such tension, white lines formed at the corners of her lips.

“Tell me this, Miss Verity Lovelace,” he whispered. “What makes you think you’ve the right to probe into my life, and yet insist on privacy and secrets for yourself?”

“My life is of no interest,” she said, her voice so hushed he had to lean close to make out what she said. “But yours? Yours is a tale of injustice and wrong and—”

“Do not presume to make your efforts out to be any sort of social crusade,” he hissed, and Miss Lovelace tripped over herself in her haste to move away from him. “What you are in search of is gossip, is it not?”

“No. Yes.” She wetted her lips again.

“Which is it?”

“Both,” she elaborated. “There is, of course, a desire for society to learn about your identity, and additionally, it would do well for the world to see that Polite Society is not so very—”

“Polite?” he taunted.

She gave another one of those nods. “Precisely.”

“I was being sarcastic,” he said coolly. “I take, by your choice of rather predictable words, you aren’t writing for the papers, Verity Lovelace.”

The young woman folded her arms at her chest; her eyes flashed with indignation. “How dare you?” The affront in her tone and body’s response merely confirmed ...

Malcom tossed his head back and bellowed a mirthless laugh. “That is it.” And then her name and why it was familiar hit him. “V. Lovelace ofThe Londoner.” The bloody huckster, peddling in the curious details of Malcom’s life, was no “he” but rather a “she.”

The lady brightened. “You’ve read my work?”

Her work.“Your rubbish column where you speculate about the Lost Earl? Aye.”

She beamed like he’d plucked a damned star from the sky. “The Lost Earl.I, too, felt that had a lovely sound to it.”

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