Claiming the Courtesan

“Apparently not,” she said after blowing her nose. “I’ll look after the smaller things.”

She turned to the massive glass-and-mahogany specimen cases, which displayed examples of the valley’s wildlife. She’d hated these poor, stiff, dead animals from the moment she’d seen them. She reached in with great satisfaction and tugged out a stuffed weasel.

Clearing the room took most of the day. Once, she’d never have believed the magnificent Duke of Kylemore would lower himself to such menial work. At the very least, he wouldn’t have subjected his perfect tailoring to such despoliation. But now, she wasn’t surprised to see him work diligently and uncomplainingly beside his servants.

How she’d misunderstood him in London. And she’d always considered herself a clever woman!

As Hamish, Angus and Andy carried out stag’s head after stag’s head, something new seeped into the atmosphere. Something that felt like happiness.

But for her, it was a happiness tinged with regret. It was a happiness that couldn’t endure.

Verity carefully straightened from the bottom shelf of the last case. She put a hand behind her aching back. To think she’d once worked like this every day as a maid in Sir Charles Norton’s manor. She must be getting old.

She turned her head and caught Kylemore studying her from the corner. His dark blue eyes held a familiar glint that sent blood pounding low and heavy in her belly.

Perhaps she wasn’t that old after all.

They were alone for the first time that afternoon. After a murmured discussion with the duke, the others had disappeared to consign the last gruesome decorations to the bonfire.

He stepped over the only remaining detritus, a quartet of remarkably bloodthirsty hunting scenes, and crossed to her side. With one elegant hand, he tilted her chin toward the light flooding through the large windows on her left.

“You have dirt on your cheek, mo cridhe.” A gentle smile flickered across his face. “Soraya would be ashamed of you.”

Once, the reference to Soraya would have stung. Once, he would have intended it to sting. They’d moved far beyond those days, but even so, she suffered a twinge of insecurity.

She looked searchingly into his face. “Do you miss her?”

He raised his other hand and smoothed the tendrils of hair that escaped the braids twined around her head. “Why would I? She’s here. She’s Verity.” A very male satisfaction deepened his smile. “And she’s mine.”

Verity didn’t bother arguing. They both knew it was true. As they both knew that while this idyll lasted, he was hers.

When surrender was so equal, what shame was there in defeat? She cast him a searing glance under her lashes. She’d quickly learned that particular look drove him wild with desire.

Predictably, the fingers on her chin tightened and his voice roughened into urgency. “I want you now.”

Not the most subtle seduction, but the heat of his body and the intent glow in his eyes were enough for her. Sometimes, he wooed with sweet words and extravagant compliments. Sometimes, he swept her off her feet with a forceful passion that made her heart race.

Right now, she read the sapphire blaze in his eyes and saw he was too impatient to devote time to preliminaries. She didn’t mind. “Let’s go upstairs.”

He shook his head and his smile took on a devilish edge. “No, I mean now.”

She felt her eyes widen. “But anyone could come in.”

“They won’t. I’ve dismissed them for the day.” He let her go and strode across to lock the door. “Take off your drawers and lie down on the rug.” His voice was uncompromising.

Verity gave a shiver of anticipation at the brazen demand but didn’t immediately obey. “Just my drawers, Your Grace?”

“For now.” He turned to face her and tapped the room key on his palm, all aristocratic impatience. Only the hard bulge that pressed against his breeches belied his aura of control.

She bent her head to conceal her gathering excitement. “As you wish.”

She heard his breath catch as she raised her skirts to reach the strings. A few quick tugs and her underwear sagged to lie at her feet. She stepped out of it and draped it with deliberate provocation over the massive oak chair she’d noticed on her first day here.

The cream silk, with its elaborate embroidery of violets and lilies, looked incongruous against the heavily carved wood. Like a banner of challenge. Which, of course, it was.

His eyes were avid as he watched her every movement from where he stood near the door. She felt like a rabbit in a fox’s sights. But in this case, the rabbit was more than happy to be devoured. Her pulse skittered when she saw his gaze dwell on her drawers, shamelessly displayed for his delectation.

“The rug,” he said hoarsely.