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It was, however, Verity’s insistent question that brought him jolting back to the moment.

Malcom swiped the edge of his sleeve over the damning moisture that had beaded at his brow.

Those clever eyes took in all. “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

Nay.“Fine.” He was losing his damned mind, and he’d be damned if he did so before her.

“What of your father?” he urged, impatient to move them back to talk of her, and to draw himself out of the mire of his memory.

Verity drew her satchel close, the gesture a protective one. Her bag revealed watermarks upon the faded leather, and bits of the fabric having long peeled off. “My father was a man my mother was better off without,” she finally settled for.

Malcom’s stomach muscles tensed. She’d been hurt. Her pain didn’t matter to him. Except if that was true, why did a bloodlust pump through his veins, along with a hungering to rip the entrails from the bastard’s mouth? “He was cruel?”

Surprise lit her expressive features. “On the contrary. He was kind and loving. He was, however, not one meant for my mother.” She briefly dipped her gaze to her bag. “He was an earl.”

She’d been born the daughter of a nobleman. Even being illegitimate, with her regal bearing and grace, she was more of this world than Malcom had ever been.

Misunderstanding the reason for his silence, Verity’s cheeks flushed. “I’m a bastard.” Verity lifted her bold, unapologetic eyes to his in that show of spirit he so admired her for. “Therefore, if knowing that, you’d rather extricate yourself from our contract?”

He puzzled his brow. Extricate himself from their contract?What ... ?And then it hit him. “You expect me to condemn you for your birthright,” he murmured. It was there in the challenge that blazed in her eyes.

She shrugged. “You would not be the first. However, you will be expected to have a wife who is above reproach and—”

“I don’t give a damn that you’re a bastard, or what Polite Society expects or doesn’t expect me to have.”

Her lips parted. Her eyes softened. “Thank you,” she said softly. So much adoration spilled from those expressive eyes, Malcom shifted on his feet. He didn’t want her admiration or those damned doe eyes. Because, in short, he didn’t know what in hell to do with all that emotion.

There was no place or room to let his guard down around the woman who’d pilfered his secrets and fed him to the members of both impolite and Polite Society as if his past and future were nothing more than a tasty morsel to be devoured.

That safe, burning anger stirred once more, kicking ash on any weakness about Verity Lovelace.

He was the one to break that connection. “Let us get on with it. What have you planned for us, madam?” he asked, returning them to the task at hand.

Verity reached inside the ridiculously ancient bag she carried about. “I’ve brainstormed a number of ideas,” she explained, handing him a sheet.

“What is this?” He made no move to take it.

She waved it at him. “It is a list.”

“And what do you have first at the top of it, madam?”

“Gunter’s,” she said, not missing a beat. Verity tucked her—their—plans back inside the satchel.

“Gunter’s?” he repeated dumbly. That incessant throbbing in his head returned, and he fought the urge to jam his fingertips into his temples in a bid to rid himself of the sensation.

Verity looked up. “They sell ices. Lords and ladies sit in curricles outside. This way, we’ll be on full disp—”

“I know what Gunter’s is,” he bit out.

“Unless you have another suggestion,my lord?” she asked in even tones that didn’t fool him one damn.

He narrowed his eyes. The minx was “my lord-ing” him. She knew precisely what to do to get under his skin. “Very well. Let’s get on with this.” The sooner they deceived, the sooner he might continue on with his life, and she, hers.

“Of course,” she murmured, and together in silence, they started from the rooms.

So they were doing this ...

Chapter 19