Claiming the Courtesan

Ben’s smile widened. “That’s grand, lass. Aye, and I don’t mind telling you summat else—I’ll be right glad to see the back of Ben bloody Ahbood, the sultan’s favorite eunuch, as well!”

An hour after leaving his mistress, the Duke of Kylemore stood in his large library, embroiled in a quarrel with his mother.

This was in no sense an exceptional occurrence. Kylemore and the duchess shared a difficult relationship at the best of times—and the best of times were fleeting and rare. But today’s clash was even more bitter than usual.

“You will marry, Justin! You owe it to your name and your family. You owe it to me. You owe it to the title.” This wasn’t a new conflict, but his mother had taken it up with particular vehemence this afternoon. She stood opposite him, tall and slender, and blindly set on her wishes prevailing.

“There are times I believe the world would be a better place if the title sank into permanent oblivion,” Kylemore said wearily, leaning one elbow on the carved marble mantelpiece and staring down into the unlit grate.

“Justin! What would your dear departed father say if he could hear you?”

“My father was too addicted to drink, opium and the viler sins of the flesh to care.”

“How dare you say that?”

“Because it’s true.” Kylemore looked up. With a sense of inevitability, he watched his mother shake out a scrap of lace to dab at her eyes.

“What in heaven’s name did I do to deserve a son who is so unfeeling?”

“I don’t believe that’s a line of argument you wish to pursue, madam,” he said icily.

His mother could produce crocodile tears at will. The sight of her clutching a handkerchief evinced only ennui.

“Letitia would make you the perfect wife, Justin.”

Kylemore suppressed a shudder. “She’d make you the perfect spy, you mean.” His mother had pushed her ward, Lady Letitia Wade, at him for years. But recently, her efforts had become increasingly desperate, perhaps because she saw any hold she had over her son dwindling away to nothing.

Margaret, Duchess of Kylemore, cared for one thing only—power. In its pursuit, she’d seduced half the government, lied, connived and manipulated. Without a shred of compunction, she destroyed anyone and anything that hindered her own selfish ends. He’d seen h

er in action often enough.

But her days of influence faded, and she knew it. Planting the whey-faced Letitia, always utterly her creature, into her son’s household was something of a last stand.

The duchess’s delicate chin took on a stubborn line. “People are talking. If you don’t make it right, the poor child’s reputation will be beyond redemption.”

“If there is gossip, it has only one source. And that is you.” Kylemore took a step closer. “I will never take that sheep-featured little sneak to my bed. If tongues are wagging about her sleeping under my roof, perfectly well chaperoned, I might point out, that can easily be remedied. The dowerhouse is ready for occupancy.”

His mother’s yelp of outrage held no artifice. “Leave Town? In the middle of the season? You must be mad. Everyone will condemn you for cruelty and neglect if you compel me to this monstrous act.”

Kylemore had had enough. He perhaps hadn’t hated his mother for his full twenty-seven years, but, God, he felt as if he had. And the ideal revenge lay so close to hand. The moment had arrived to show the duchess how truly monstrous he could be.

He permitted himself a cold smile. “I think not. The world will consider my actions perfectly reasonable in a newly married man.”

Of course, his mother didn’t immediately understand. Her fine-boned face, with its deep blue eyes and black, winged brows—a face whose twin he saw and loathed every time he passed a mirror—cleared with relief. “Oh, Justin! You were bamming me. Lud, I should have guessed. Letitia will be in a transport. She’s always held a tendre for you.”

Kylemore had no difficulty keeping his smile in place. “I doubt it.” The duchess’s ward was terrified of him, he knew. That the chit contemplated him as a husband without running screaming to the nearest nunnery spoke volumes for Margaret’s sway over her. “But I’m afraid you mistake me, Mother.”

The duchess was an astute woman, although vanity and self-interest sometimes clouded her judgment. “Don’t do anything rash to spite me, Justin. Remember the Kinmurrie honor,” she said, abruptly somber.

“Oh, the Kinmurrie honor is uppermost in my mind, dear Mother.” He saw her flinch at the savage edge he lent the endearment. “I intend to bring home a bride to do that honor proud.”

“Justin…” She reached out to touch him, but he moved out of her reach. He was pleased to note she was seriously frightened now.

“I don’t expect a long betrothal, Mother. My wife will wish to take up her duties as soon as possible. Given the situation, you and Letitia should make arrangements for an early removal.” He bowed briefly in her direction. “Your servant.” He stalked out of the library, his mind hard with a determination as bright as a diamond.

Verity was in the kitchen when the maid found her. “Beg pardon, miss, but His Grace is in the drawing room asking for you.”

“What?” She spun around too quickly and knocked the pottery candlestick she was packing to the flagstones.