“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 of The 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.”
He whistled. “Daft.” The lady was daft. “I just called your writing shite.”
Miss Lovelace wagged a finger at him. “Ah, yes, but you have heard of me.”
He’d entered some manner of upside-down universe. There was no other way of accounting for the facts: one, that he’d left a woman alone in his rooms; and two, that when presented with evidence of his fury and outrage, the chit before him responded with nothing more than a too-pleased smile and an insolent lift of those remarkably long digits.
As if to confirm that very truth, the young woman stalked with purposeful steps over to his desk and—
His brows shot up. “What in blazes are you doing?”
Verity froze, with the lid lifted in her fingers. “Uh . . . I require a pen. And you don’t use the designated tray for what it was intended.” Only a man who was deaf would have failed to note the subtle chastisement there . . . and even had the man been deaf, he would have seen with his very eyes the censure in her smile that wasn’t quite a smile. As it was, Verity Lovelace proceeded to fish around the inside of his desk, muttering to herself.
Nay. Not daft.
Mad. The chit was madder than the late King George himself.
“Ah, here.” Sounding entirely too pleased, the termagant withdrew a pencil and then set to work searching for something else. “This will do.”
More than half-dazed, Malcom shook his head. “What in hell are you doing?”
“Looking for paper.” She directed that reply at the contents of his desk. She rustled through it a moment, and then paused briefly to glance up. “So that I might record your responses.” With that, she resumed her search.
Record his responses . . .
She’d sought him out, and then invaded his belongings, all with the intention of sharing his story with the world. That was the price to be paid for his misstep . . . and a reminder served to never again falter.
“The world knows you as Percival Northrop,” she was saying. “And yet you refer to yourself as North. How did you come by your new name, my lord? And do you have any intentions of adopting your rightful name?”
A growl started low in his belly. It made it no farther than his chest, trapped there. A rumble that managed to penetrate the harebrained minx’s efforts. Slowly, she picked her head up.
Her already impossibly round eyes formed a perfect circle as he stalked over.
Snatching the pencil from her long fingers, he snapped it in half, and let the scraps fall to the floor.
She scowled. God, he should have anticipated that insolence. “You’ve gone and ruined a perfectly good pen—” Her words withered.
“I don’t believe you’ve any idea of the peril you’re in, Miss Lovelace. No idea at all.”
Chapter 11
THE LONDONER
QUESTIONS . . .
Questions remain surrounding the Earl of Maxwell’s past . . . and present. But only one is begging to be asked: Where is he?
V. Lovelace
Verity had a million and one questions for the man known as the Earl of Maxwell, but only one word surfaced through them all:
Flee.
That urging snaked around her mind.
She should leave.
In fact, the moment he’d stepped inside and caught her reading through his artifacts, she should have made a beeline for the door.
Even if she couldn’t have made it past his powerful frame.
Even if he would have ultimately stayed her and played the game of cat and mouse that he did in that moment.
Mr. North . . . or the Earl of Maxwell or whatever name he went by . . . was a man in possession of secrets, with no desire to share.
And worse, ruthlessly determined to hold them tight.
She had experience with surly subjects, those who’d caught her about their properties, seeking out servants and invariably finding ones willing to share the family’s darkest secrets. This, however, was different. This was Verity, trapped away with a feral monster of a man, with no one aware of her whereabouts.
His silence proved stark, more terrifying than any bellow or previous sharp retort. That quiet sent her unease ratcheting up, twisting in her chest. And suddenly, the desperation to uncover the story of the Lost Earl and secure her post at The Londoner seemed a good deal less important than preserving her own life.
Forcing a smile that stretched the muscles of her cheeks painfully, she dipped a curtsy. “I see that I’ve offended you. That was not my intention. If you’ll excuse me . . .” She made it no farther than two steps—one and three-quarters of a step if one wished to be truly accurate—to the doorway.
The earl placed himself before her, blocking her path to freedom.
North—nay, she’d think of him as Northrop. It was a good deal easier facing an adversary if one thought of them by their given name. It humanized them. “Now you’d rush to leave?” he jeered.
He moved with stealth. From the moment he’d come upon her unannounced in the sewers, to his bedroom doorway. That was a detail she’d gathered in her time with the man.
The earl.
You’ve made the mistake of confusing me with someone who is safe . . . Because you take me for an earl?
Only survival mattered.
Mr. North moved a hand close to her face, and she drew a breath in sharply. But he merely stroked his knuckles along the length of her cheek, a touch that was unexpectedly gentle for the roughness of his skin. It was madness. He was a stranger. And yet, his touch mesmerized. Her eyelashes fluttered.
“I’m not opposed to staying.”
Interest flared in his eyes. “Oh?” he purred.
Verity’s face flamed, and she resisted the urge to press her palms to her burning cheeks. “Now you’re being crude, and I’d have you know, it’s uncalled for. All of this.”
“All of this?” he repeated.
“The whispers, the rasping breath, the growling. You’re making all this very uncomfortable when it needn’t be.”
He eyed her like she’d sprung a second head, which, though annoying, was vastly safer than the previous he-wanted-to-remove-her-head look.
“Now,” she went on. “I . . . see that I’ve upset you. That was not my intention.”
“And what was your intention?” He didn’t allow her a chance to answer. “To gather up my secrets as your own? To share them with the world?”