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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 atThe Londonerseemed 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 ofthis.”

“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?”

Verity frowned. When he put it that way, she could certainly appreciate how he—or anyone—might take offense with her work. “I’m only willing to share that which you are willing to share with me.”

Pure, unadulterated masculine interest glinted in his eyes. “Oh?”

The air crackled; the suggestive utterance robbed her of a suitable response. Needing space between her and this man whom she could not figure out, Verity made to draw away from him and his tantalizing caress.

His eyes mocked. “Never tell me you’re afraid?” he murmured, resuming his gentle stroking. Refusing to allow her that distance. “I’m disappointed. I’d expect more from a woman on her own, darting around the sewers of London, Verity.”

He laid ownership to her name with an ease better suited to one who’d been speaking it for years. That theft undoubtedly as much a part of the fabric of his person as the hard set to his scarred features. “Sh-should I be afraid?” she whispered, latching on to the mocking question he’d put to her. Fear, of course, was the suitable response. And there was something inherently wrong in her lack of that proper, justified reaction to this man.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured. “Very much so.”

The fact that he sought to rouse that sentiment in her was in and of itself reason enough to fear him, and yet, everything tunneled on that back-and-forth glide of his fingertips. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said quietly, and then his fingers ceased their distracted caressing.

North rotated his palm and cupped her cheek. He lowered his head close to hers. Closer still. His dark eyes pierced her, running her through with the intensity in them. And more.

Desire.