And yet, she was here now. Seated atop a curricle with a crystal glass of jasmine-rose ice, and she couldn’t so much as muster a smile. All the muscles of her belly remained knotted and twisted. Survival had earned her immediate capitulation to Malcom’s proposal. Now, the ramifications of living here, amongst her father’s people . . . and his legitimate family? Verity clasped her hands tightly around her crystal cup.
I have every right to be here . . .
She may not wish to be here in this capacity, but she needn’t be hidden away like a dirty secret. Why did it feel like she only sought to convince herself? Nor did it help matters that she was seated beside a man who despised her, and who hadn’t uttered a single word to her since he’d all but tossed her atop the curricle.
“I’ll have you know this is never going to work,” Verity said from the side of her mouth.
For a long while she expected Malcom wouldn’t even respond to that utterance. He scoured the streets, openly glaring at both onlookers and passersby. No one was spared his wrath. Not even her. Especially not her.
“What?”
“This.” Careful to keep her palm low and out of visibility in the carriage, with her spare hand, Verity motioned between them. “Us. This ruse. None of it will ever work as long as you carry on as you are.” The ease of their banter over chess was a distant memory made by two very different people, ones not divided over betrayal. A pang struck at that fleeting time she’d had with him. When they’d been two people hiding from a shared danger.
Suddenly, Malcom dropped an arm around her shoulders, wringing a gasp from her. “And tell me, dear heart, just how should I present myself?” he whispered against her ear. “Devoted? In love?”
Her body, traitor that it was, tingled where he held her. It knew nothing of pride, or of the mockery Malcom sought to make of her. “I’d settle for ‘human,’” she muttered, and when faced with the option of her ice melting over the rim of her glass or taking a bite, Verity dipped her spoon and tasted the flowery-sweet confection. “You might at least smile.”
“I don’t smile,” he said tersely. As if to accentuate that very point, Malcom glowered at a puce-clad dandy who stepped too close to the curricle.
The young man bolted off in the opposite direction with such alacrity his crimson silk Empire top hat tumbled to the ground. And the gentleman continued running, without so much as glancing back for the costly article.
Verity sighed. This was going to be a good deal harder than she’d anticipated.
“What now?” he demanded, that harsh question so hushed it barely reached her ears. At her side, Malcom tensed, his sinewy thighs tightening. The muslin fabric of her day dress did little to conceal the heat of him pressed against her. Or the weight of that heavily muscled limb.
Her breath quickened, and words escaped her. What had he said? It had been a question? Hadn’t it? She took several frantic bites of her ice, shoveling the treat into her mouth. To keep from openly gazing at his splendid physique, impressively displayed within his tight-fitting black trousers and double-breasted coat.
“I suggest you say whatever it is you intend to say.” His was a command that would never be confused for a question, and it also proved sobering, cutting across her pathetic musings of him.
“Actually, I do have something to say.” You’re a damned fool . . . going weak-kneed over a man who despises you. Who if he hadn’t a need for her, would sooner turn her over to Newgate than talk to her . . . “You’re not making any of this easy.”
“And do you expect I should make it easy for you, Verity?”
She thought about that for a moment. “Well, no,” she conceded. “But I’m not so much speaking of myself as you.” Verity opened her mouth to explain when she caught a trio walking in neat precision, locked in step, with a bevy of maids following several paces behind.
Oh, blast and damn.
Sliding closer to Malcom, Verity slipped her arm through his, and favored him with her best I-adore-you-and-cannot-live-without-you expression.
“What in hell is that?”
Or her best attempt at an adoring smile.
“I’m besotted.”
“You look foxed,” he said bluntly.
Verity trilled a laugh and angled herself even closer to her make-believe husband. “Do you know who they are?” she whispered out the side of her mouth.
Had she not been studying him so closely, she’d have missed the slight shifting of his eyes over the top of her head to that trio who now lingered. “Should I?”
“The lovely one with dark hair is known as Queen Sarah. Also known as Lady Jersey,” she murmured. “She is one of the patronesses of Almack’s Assembly Rooms.” Verity carefully positioned her spoon close to her mouth so her lips could not be read as she spoke. “One time, she denied entry to the Duke of Wellington himself because he arrived just seven minutes late.”
“Horrific,” he drawled.
“Hush.” Except her heart thumped slowly in her chest. She preferred this version of Malcom. As he’d been in his East London residence, slightly droll, teasing. And not dripping with malice and loathing. “Well, the one to the left of her is another hostess of Almack’s, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell. She is by far the greatest stickler.” Verity stole a peek over at the trio, who gave no indication that they intended to leave. “And the other, that is Lady Cowper. Captain Gronow has called her the most popular of the hostesses.”
“Should I be impressed?” His cool tones indicated anything but.
“Well, given that he landed himself in debtors’ prison, many are of the opinion that his word is not . . .” Malcom gave her a look. “Oh,” she blurted. “You were being sarcastic.”
“Aye. I was being sarcastic.”
Her cheeks warmed, and just then, the matrons unabashedly watching on erupted into a flurry of murmurs.
Undoubtedly they’d taken that blush for something more than the embarrassment it was.
“Be dismissive all you want, Malcom,” she warned. “They are, however, the ones who will carry stories back to other members of the ton. Therefore, anything you . . . we . . . say or do is being observed and mentally recorded by them so they might in turn report to Polite Society.” Scraping some of her ice onto the spoon, she held it to Malcom’s lips.
“What are you—”
She shoved the small silver utensil inside, silencing the remainder of that question. Aye, he was terrible at this. “I’m being devoted.”
“By f-feeding me?” he sputtered around the mouthful. “Give me that,” he snapped, yanking the spoon from her fingers. “That’s the act of a bloody nursemaid. Not a blasted spouse.”
Malcom had known at an early juncture in his life that he was going to hell.
No older than eight years, he’d followed an emaciated street urchin down an alley that had served as the boy’s home. Malcom had nicked the smaller, younger child’s sack of goods, the refuse from a bakery. He’d made off with it and ate heartily—a rarity in those darkest of days.
The next night, Malcom had come across that same lad, in that same alley, dead, his eyes sightless, pointed up toward the starless St. Giles sky. And not a wound upon him. Dead of hunger, and in the name of self-survival, Malcom had been the one to send the small stranger on to the hereafter.