Claiming the Courtesan

He turned to glance at Ben, who stood aghast at the base of the staircase. Verity realized Kylemore’s mention of marriage must have astonished her brother. She’d never confided in him about what had happened that last afternoon in London.

Kylemore’s voice was peremptory. “Ashton, if you care to join us?”

He dismissed his mother with a spin on his heel and strode inside. Perforce, Verity followed into an impressive hall decorated with displays of spears and swords arranged in complicated geometric patterns. Behind her, she was aware of Ben mounting the steps and the servants preventing the vociferously protesting duchess from pursuing them.

She was still in a daze. How she’d treasure that moment when he’d announced that she was the wife he’d choose.

But the duchess’s disbelieving response only echoed the world’s derisive reaction if he actually went ahead and wed his mistress.

Her reason

s for leaving him were as urgent as ever.

Kylemore didn’t wait to see what happened to his mother. His staff had their orders, and he knew they’d obey unquestioningly. Instead, he drew Verity into a salon on the ground floor.

He turned to his two unwilling guests. Ashton remained mercifully silent, but Kylemore read displeasure and shock in the square-jawed face. Verity was exhausted, and strain left dark shadows under her beautiful eyes. He didn’t care about the brother, but he most definitely cared about her. He gently took her hand.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you from that,” he said softly. “I had no idea my mother was in residence.”

“I shouldn’t be here,” Verity said unsteadily.

“Yes, you should.” His statement brooked no argument.

If I had my way, you’d be here always, my soul’s darling.

He handed her carefully into a chair and crossed to the sideboard to pour three glasses of local whisky. After what they’d been through, they all needed it, he thought grimly.

“Here, drink this,” he said, handing one to Ashton. He couldn’t say he was any fonder of the fellow, but for Verity’s sake, he was willing to make an effort.

“What is it?” Suspicion laced the man’s question.

“Hemlock, of course.” Without pausing to see what Ashton did with the drink, he went back to Verity.

“This will make you feel better,” he said in a totally different tone as he crouched down on his haunches before her.

“I don’t drink spirits,” she said shakily.

“Just this once, mo cridhe. It will help.”

She nodded, and he pressed the crystal glass into her chilled fingers. He stood up and downed his own drink. The liquor soothed the physical aches lingering from his scuffle with Ashton. Unfortunately, nothing short of a bullet could cure the pain in his heart.

Ashton returned the empty glass to the sideboard with a click. The whisky had revived his usual combative self. Perhaps hemlock would have been a better choice.

“You heard what the lass said. I’m taking her home with me this afternoon,” he said with familiar belligerence.

“Surely that’s her decision,” Kylemore said neutrally.

Down on the dock, she’d all but announced that he had her full allegiance. How could she leave him now? Or was it that while she might want him, she wanted freedom more? Anguish clenched hard fingers into his heart at the thought.

Verity raised her head. He waited in desperate hope for her to tell her brother that she’d changed her mind, that she meant to stay.

But she looked over to Ashton and spoke in a firm voice. “Yes, Ben, I’ll come with you.”

No!

Ashton looked relieved, damn him. “That’s grand, lass. I’ve got a hired carriage ready. We’ll go when you say the word.”

Kylemore swung around toward the tall windows open to the garden outside. He couldn’t let her go. Not now. Not when he knew she cared, even if she didn’t care enough. One hand lifted to the curtains and crushed the silk so tightly that his knuckles shone white.