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’re the 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.
Gentle fingers touched his sleeve.
Rasping, Malcom shot a hand out, capturing that wrist, squeezing.
“Malcom.” Verity’s pained whisper shattered the disjointed memory.
Verity.
A woman in the here and now.
Safe, and yet, dangerous for what she’d visited upon him, and what she continued to force upon him. But still far safer than the demons that lurked in his mind.
“Are you all right?” she whispered with such gentleness, he cringed.
Malcom abruptly released her, and his fingers clenched and unclenched into reflexive balls. Her astute gaze that missed nothing went to those shaking digits. He swiftly clasped them behind his back to hide that mark of his vulnerability. “Forgive me,” he said sharply, exhaustion having made a muddle of whatever they’d been discussing. He searched his dulled mind, struggling to bring clarity of thought through the pounding at his temples.
Think. Think.
What was she doing here? What was he doing here?
And then it all came rushing back in a whir, crashing through the noise of jumbled memories. “Because of you, I’m being hunted.”
Her high, noble brow creased. “Hunted by—”
“The peerage. Wastrels who’ve lost all at gaming tables and are in need of a fortune. They’re thrusting their daughters at me.” He lifted his chin in her direction. “All a credit to you, Verity.”
“Oh.” That single syllable emerged sheepish. “And so you wish to marry me so you needn’t deal with a proper wife.”
“It’s all really quite simple, you see. I’ve no wish for”—he tossed his arms wide—“any of this.”
Her eyes took in the expanse of the room.
“I want to live my life unfettered in East London.” Where it was safe and comfortable and a world which he knew. Or the way it had been before his identity had been discovered and his existence thrown off-kilter. “I don’t want to be bothered with title-seeking ladies and their fathers who would whore them out. I don’t want the servants and the fine things.” Malcom let his arms fall to his sides. “I don’t want any of it.”
Verity tugged her already impossibly tightly closed wrapper all the closer. “I’m afraid I do not follow, my—Malcom . . .”
“I wish for a marriage as real as the one you’ve created for us,” he said flatly. “Temporarily. We present ourselves as the Earl and Countess of Maxwell.”
“What?” she squawked, loosing that grip she’d had on her night wrapper, and the fabric gaped slightly.
It took a forcible effort to tear his gaze from that hint of generous flesh exposed. He took a step toward her. “In this arrangement I’m prepared to give you everything you desire . . . and more: your story.” As he was able to tell it. Which was largely not at all.
She gasped. “You’d do that?” Then suspicion immediately darkened her eyes.
“During the course of our arrangement, you’ll have the opportunity to live here with a roof over you and your sister’s head. Full bellies. Fine garments. Security.” He let that last word hang on the air as the gift it was.
He’d presented her with a mutually beneficial relationship that any struggling woman of their ranks would have leapt at.
She hugged her arms to her waist. “And then what happens afterward?” That question revealed Verity Lovelace to be a woman all too familiar with the precariousness of life.