Claiming the Courtesan

She marched down the steps with elegant determination. “What plans are you making? What is this ridiculous talk of an engagement?”

“I shall inform you of developments.” He turned toward his library.

His mother forgot her self-importance to go so far as to hurry after him. “That’s not good enough! And you cannot really expect me to leave London!”

He whirled on her as he reached the door. “I have spoken, madam. And as head of this family, I expect to be obeyed. You and your ward will be gone from this house by week’s end.”

“Justin, this is cruel. This is…”

He didn’t know what she read in his face, but his expression must have been daunting enough to convince her that retreat was the wisest course. And the duchess was a woman who quailed at nothing.

“As you wish,” she said in a subdued tone he’d never heard from her before.

“Yes, as I wish,” he said savagely, knowing that nothing, in fact, was as he wished.

He strode into his library without a backward glance. Soraya didn’t know what she’d unleashed in her lover by deserting him. But she would find out. And she would be sorry.

Kylemore poured himself a brandy and downed it in a single gulp. He was usually a man of abstemious habits. His father’s pathetic example had always stood as a warning against the dangers of self-indulgence. But now he refilled his glass and collapsed in a chair in front of the fire. He had agreed to meet his cronies at his club, but he was in no mood to act the civilized gentleman tonight.

The liquor’s warmth couldn’t melt the chill inside him. What was Soraya doing now? Had she left him for another protector? Was his humiliation already public knowledge? Did the world snigger tonight at the thought of Kylemore’s mistress fleecing some other rich blockhead?

How his rivals would gloat at his rejection. How they would fawn over the fortunate fellow who was now Soraya’s keeper.

He swore and flung the empty glass into the fire.

Had she taken another lover? Or had her favors become her brawny manservant’s exclusive prerogative? The thought aroused another burst of sick anger. Just when had Ben Ahbood become an inseparable part of Soraya’s mystique?

Kylemore couldn’t remember the first time he’d noticed the brute. He’d certainly been with Soraya after Sir Eldreth’s death three years ago, when the male half of the beau monde had predictably gone mad trying to secure her interest. Two other dukes had been in the running, as well as an Italian prince and one of the tsar’s cousins, not to mention a parcel of fellows holding lesser titles.

In the six months Soraya took to consider her next step, there were more duels between especially excitable supplicants. Although thankfully, this time, the self-destructive element among society’s sprigs controlled their inclinations to end it all.

Kylemore had been sure of himself—and of her—and had remained above the vulgar displays of masculine competitiveness that kept London buzzing that season. He’d always known at some bone-deep level she would be his. And she’d known that too. She put up a great show of indifference, but some link, some invisible thread tugged her inexorably toward him.

So he stood apart from the fray and waited for her inevitable choice. Only to watch Soraya do the utterly unanticipated.

From her clamoring legion of admirers, she chose James Mallory. Not a whiff of a title. A mere Mr., a shy young man recently back from India. Of good but unremarkable family. And rich. At least there she’d lived up to Kylemore’s expectations.

If his inconvenient fascination for the chit had allowed, Kylemore would have given up the game then and there. She’d had her shot at greatness and instead given herself to a commonplace milksop with no social polish, however deep his pockets were.

Although to be fair, James Mallory had cut quite a dash after Soraya singled him out as her lover. He’d soon developed enough town bronze to snare one of the season’s prettiest heiresses. To whom, then, amazingly, he showed every sign of fidelity.

Which meant Soraya was back seeking a protector.

Not that she gave any indication her sudden freedom was unwelcome. And by this stage, Ben Ahbood, or whatever the bastard’s name really was, had been very much in evidence.

Of course, she had neither explained nor excused. The legendary Soraya’s factotum was a mute Arabian Samson. If the world disapproved, she shrugged her straight, slender shoulders and proceeded just as she pleased.

This time, Kylemore left nothing to chance. No gentlemanly hanging back, no self-confident hesitation in expressing his interest. The morning Mallory’s engagement to Lady Sarah Coote was announced, Kylemore presented his card at Soraya’s house. He’d waited five years. He had no intention of waiting one moment longer.

Soraya appeared neither delighted, dismayed nor disconcerted to find a duke in her parlor at an hour more suitable for breakfast than for callers. Instead, she listened calmly and, Devil take her, had said she would think about what he proposed. Her protector hadn’t been in evidence, although Kylemore would have happily faced him down if he had.

But, Kylemore remembered with a churning in his belly, Ben Ahbood had admitted him to the house, then sent him on his way. And the lout’s manner toward him had done no honor to his dignity as a duke.

Soraya’s response had come a week later, couched in a swathe of legalities. Kylemore’s original offer had been extravagant. She requested he increase it to a king’s ransom, including clear title to all property and goods he gave her.

And, he remembered now with anothe

r unpleasant twinge, after a year, if either party were dissatisfied, the arrangement ceased forthwith.