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“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 theton. 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.

Aye, as such, Malcom had known hell was the eternal fate one day awaiting him. He’d accepted it. At times, when the weight of life’s struggles became insurmountable, he’d even welcomed it.

This, however? This was a special hell.

Attired in fine garments, out before Polite Society.

The Devil had a rich sense of humor, indeed.

He’d rather be wading through shite with an army of hungry rats bearing down on him than be where he was.

At least those discomforts and dangers were familiar. Ones he’d faced countless times, and survived to thrive from.

This? Being on display before fancily clad gents in ridiculously high hats and the ladies on their arms was a special kind of hell.

“It could always be worse,” Verity whispered, unerringly following his thoughts. It was an uncanny ability she possessed, and proved continually unsettling.

“Oh, and just how do you figure that,dear heart?”

“Well, they could be seeking an audience with us,” she rightly pointed out.

Malcom shuddered. “You are correct on that score.”

She beamed, that luminescent smile wreathing her face, radiating her joy. His heart caught oddly in his chest. It was an all-too-foreign expression of unguarded emotion, and even as he should find himself only horrified by that candidness, he found himself ... captivated against all his best judgment.