That was the very least she owed him, the unscrupulous baggage. He’d prefer her on her knees, begging forgiveness. But that wasn’t Soraya’s style, as he should have known.
She went on in the same dispassionate voice. “I wanted to tell you it was over, but my brother insisted you’d make trouble and I allowed him to persuade me against my better judgment.”
Her brother had been right, Kylemore thought grimly. “Rich protectors are deuced thin on the ground in this backwater, I’d have thought.”
A spark of annoyance lit her eyes. “That is of no consequence, Your Grace. I don’t seek a rich protector. I have retired. My life will be one of blameless propriety and good works from now on.”
He did laugh out loud at that. He couldn’t help himself. “What a charmingly nonsensical notion, my dear Soraya.” He paused. “Except you call yourself Verity Symonds, don’t you? Am I permitted to know your real name after our long and…close acquaintance?”
She looked uncomfortable, although he couldn’t tell if it was at the implication of deception or his reference to their liaison. “It’s Verity Ashton. And I don’t see why my ideas are nonsensical. Although your stoush in the kitchen has destroyed any future I might have had in Whitby. I can’t imagine Marjorie keeping her mouth shut about a duke brawling with Mrs. Symonds’s brother.”
“I found you once, I can find you again,” he said evenly.
She looked unconcerned at his threat, blast her. “Why would you bother? A man like you has no trouble getting someone to warm his bed. There’s nothing special about me.”
Amazingly, she wasn’t being coy or eliciting flattery—she’d always been remarkably free of the usual female wiles. But surely she knew she was a woman beyond the common calling. She was the incomparable Soraya, whatever damned name she chose to call herself now.
With difficulty, he kept his voice neutral. “So after the deal of trouble I expended to find you, I’m to go on my way without a murmur of protest?”
“You were angry. You thought I’d deceived you. Now you realize that isn’t the case. I haven’t taken another lover and have no intention of doing so.” She moved forward to the door, clearly trying to end the interview. “So you see, there’s nothing here for Your Grace. Soraya no longer exists. Verity Ashton and her brother can be of no interest to you. You’ve satisfied your curiosity about what became of your mistress.”
“Yes,” he said, although, of course, he lied. His curiosity, if anything, was more consuming than ever. “This new life will pall. You weren’t born for obscurity.”
“After my years of public notoriety, obscurity will be a blessing,” she said. He could see that she was sincere, deluded creature that she was. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Oh, I understand,” he said. “More than you can know.”
Hadn’t he wasted his childhood yearning to be just an ordinary boy from an ordinary family? But maturity had brought the knowledge that some burdens were never to be laid down, no matter how unwilling, how unfit, how resentful the bearer.
His spectacular mistress still needed to learn this lesson.
“I believe we have nothing more to say to each other. You were a generous and kind lover, Your Grace. Please don’t make me remember you otherwise.” The presumptuous slut even had the gall to smile at him when she opened the door, as if dismissing an inconvenient caller. “Good day.”
He bent his head in a show of acknowledgment, although in reality he did it to hide a surge of ferocious need. “At least do me the courtesy of accompanying me to my carriage.”
With predatory avidity from under his lashes, he saw her glance nervously around the room, as if seeking an excuse to refuse. She wasn’t quite as self-possessed as she wished to appear, but her compulsion to speed him on his way superseded sensible caution. “As you wish.”
With false decorum, he presented his arm. After a tiny, telling hesitation, she took it. The light, irritatingly reluctant contact burned. Her touch had the same effect on him it always had. If anything, his hunger had only become fiercer after so long without feasting on its desire.
Soon, he soothed his rioting appetites. Soon all you want will be yours.
As they moved out into the mean little hall, her scent surrounded him. Fleetingly, it disoriented him. It made her Soraya and not Soraya.
His worldly mistress had always floated in a cloud of musk and ambergris. The woman at his side smelled of violet soap. Although far from unpleasant, it was vaguely unsettling, as though he’d somehow set his revenge on the wrong target. But beneath the fresh scent of flowers lingered the haunting essence of the woman he craved so endlessly.
Her brother waited outside the parlor. He clearly, and rightly, suspected Kylemore’s intentions. A canny laddie, Benjamin Ashton, Kylemore admitted to himself.
“His Grace is leaving,” Soraya—Verity—said.
Ashton looked unimpressed. “Just like that?”
“I’ve found out what I wanted.” Kylemore looked around the poor dwelling with unconcealed derision. Good God, Soraya belonged in a palace, not in this hovel.
“You won’t be coming back, then,” the young man said flatly. It wasn’t a question.
“No,” Kylemore said and meant it.
“I’ll just see His Grace to his conveyance.” She looked troubled. He couldn’t blame her. The atmosphere of loathing and mistrust was thicker than the impenetrable sea fogs that regularly swept in along the Kylemore coast.