“Bram,” Mr. North snapped, and the older man instantly scuttled off, but not before flashing her an apologetic look.
“It is really not Mr. Bram’s fault. He’s not done anything wrong. You really shouldn’t take your . . .”
Not taking his eyes from her person, he reached behind him with an agonizing slowness and drew the door shut. Click. That soft but decisive snap that served as a seal of her fate.
Just like that, Verity’s bravado flagged. She clutched at the fabric of her skirts. Wanting to be the composed reporter gathering her research, and undaunted in the face of peril.
And she came up . . . pathetically empty.
That cold smile affixed to hard lips remained in place, a grin that no person would dare mistake for anything but the feral threat it was. He pushed away from the door and started a languid stroll toward her.
Had she truly been relieved about determining the identity of her savior and captor?
It was now all muddled.
“Now, Miss Lovelace? If that is your name?”
“M-my name?” Wasn’t it? Even her name eluded her in that moment. “Of course it is.” Her voice ended on a croak as he drew ever closer; the ice that frosted his gaze sprang her to the reality now facing her, the menace that spilled from his broad frame. Mayhap she’d been wrong. Because she’d experience with earls—was, in fact, the daughter of one. They were nothing like the predatory devil who stalked her now. “I am Miss Verity Lovelace. What grounds would I have to lie?” She hurried to place the chair of his desk between them as another barrier.
He stopped his pursuit. “And how may I help you?”
Ironically, the stranger—the gentleman—could have uttered no truer words than those.
They fortified her, and sent resolve creeping into her spine as she brought her shoulders back. Verity met his gaze squarely. “Are you the Earl of Maxwell?”
Except she already knew as much . . . she simply sought the confirmation from the gentleman’s mouth.
His eyes grew shuttered, but not before she caught the flash of horror in their depths.
He was a man unaccustomed to being challenged. And his unsettledness eased away further frissons of fear. Verity slid out from behind his desk chair and glided slowly across the room. She stopped when only a handful of steps separated her from the very stranger who’d put a knife to her earlier that night.
“Do I look like an earl?” he countered, belated with that reply—that deliberately evasive one.
Taking that as an invitation to study him, Verity peered at Mr. North.
That slightly hooked nose, which had been broken one or more times, did little to conceal the aquiline appendage that served as a signal of his birthright. The small white nicks and scars merely marred a canvas of otherwise flawless high, chiseled cheeks and a hard, square jawline.
Glorious. Her pulse throbbed a beat harder. His features, melded with those flaws, only served to mark him beautiful in his masculinity.
His mouth crept up in a tight, one-sided smile that didn’t meet pitiless eyes. “Did you have a good look, Miss Lovelace?”
He’d noted her appreciation. Verity’s cheeks burnt, and she curled her toes into the soles of her borrowed slippers. He merely sought to disconcert her. It was a familiar state she’d found herself in many times before, with many men before him. Feigning nonchalance, Verity gave her head a little toss. “You have the look and the tones of an earl,” she pointed out. “And more . . .” She gestured to those private missives she’d availed herself of. “You have letters written regarding Baron Bolingbroke.” Verity stretched up on her tiptoes so she could at least hold his gaze and not be peered down at. “Therefore, Mr. North, I would say you are, in fact, the Earl of Maxwell, after all.”
Chapter 10
THE LONDONER
INVISIBLE
The Earl of Maxwell remains a specter . . . lurking. Hiding. Waiting to show himself to the world. When will he decide it is time? All society—polite and otherwise—holds its collective breath . . . for now.
M. Fairpoint
What a goddamned fool he was.
He, who kept all out, had fallen prey to Verity Lovelace’s indomitable spirit and strength.
And those same damned traits that had made him lower his guard remained on full display even now. The moment he’d caught the hellion snooping in his desk, he’d anticipated a rightful fear from the young woman. Certainly, he’d expected tears. At the very least, pleas for forgiveness as she’d blubbered on useless excuses.
He’d hand it to her. She’d offered none of the likely responses, and unsettled him by going on the offensive, boldly unapologetic.
And damnably accurate in the conclusions she’d reached.
Damn Bram.
Except as soon as that thought was given life, Malcom killed the blame.
Malcom was the one who was responsible for this. He had brought the chit here. He had let her into his rooms. He had only himself to blame.
For all the good that self-acknowledgment did.
Unnerved, Malcom called on every shred of control he’d mastered through the years to keep those sentiments concealed. To give himself something to do, he stepped around her, brushing her shoulder as he passed. Coming close enough to detect the steel that infused her spine.
She stood proudly erect, that imperceptible stiffening a mark of the expected terror. She did not, however, back away.
Malcom made a show of folding the damning page she’d availed herself of. Her eyes followed his every movement as he ran his thumb and forefinger along the crease.
All the while he silently cursed himself for falling lax. Good God, he’d sat down and played chess with her.
He’d been careless, an all-too-unfamiliar misstep on his part. One he hadn’t before made.
Until her.
Malcom made a bid to reclaim his footing. “Tsk, tsk. That was a mistake, Verity.” He didn’t want to notice the long graceful glide of her throat as she swallowed. The lone bead of water from her bath that clung to her still, lingering persistently there, a crystalline drop as stubborn as the woman herself. Malcom placed the note inside his desk, and then brought the lid closed with a quiet snap. “I do not take to having anyone go through my belongings, Miss Lovelace,” he whispered, starting a path around her.
Once again, she didn’t make apologies or excuses. She just lifted her chin another fraction. “You are the Earl of Maxwell.”
His neck went hot. God, she was tenacious, her spirit a confusing mix of breathtaking and infuriating, and blast if he didn’t know what in hell to do with her . . . or more, with his response to her. “I’ve already told you; I’m not the man you think I am.”
Which wasn’t a lie, but rather a deliberate stretch of the truth.
“Actually,” she said with a gentle smile, “you’ve not already told me that. Rather, you’ve called me out for—” Those rosebud lips immediately compressed into a silencing line.
“For?” he purred, stalking a circle around the minx. “Hmm? Going through my possessions?” She remained silent, her gaze suitably wary, following the path he walked about her.
“I wasn’t going through anything.” She scrunched her face up. “Not intentionally anyway. I was searching for a pencil.”