Claiming the Courtesan

“There’s nothing pathetic about the duke,” Verity snapped unwisely.

The duchess stepped forward and slapped Verity hard across the face. “You will address me with respect, slut.”

Verity would have crumpled under the blow if Smithson hadn’t gripped her arms so tightly. As it was, the left side of her face felt like it was on fire. She lifted a shaking hand to her cheek and adopted a more conciliatory tone in spite of how it galled her.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she said, while every particle of her wanted to spit disgust into the woman’s exquisite face.

“That’s better.” The duchess’s expression changed from displeasure to gloating expectancy. “And you mistake me. I have no intention of killing you or your pimp. I want you to remember the day you crossed Margaret Kinmurrie. And live to rue it.”

“Let her go, you bloody witch!” Ben rolled in the dirt, kicking and pulling as his powerful muscles strained against the ropes.

“Silence the fellow,” the duchess said negligently to her henchmen. Her glittering gaze didn’t shift from Verity. She looked ruthless. She looked excited. The violence had triggered something primitive and uncontrollable in her.

Sickened, Verity closed her eyes.

The duchess continued in the same idle tone. “But don’t make him insensible. I want him to witness the consequences of presuming above one’s station.”

A scream tightened Verity’s throat, but she fought to contain it.

Screaming would do her no good. There was nobody to help her, just as there was nobody to help Ben.

The men clustered around Ben hid the beating from her, but his grunts of agony rose above the sickening thud of fists on vulnerable flesh.

She craned and twisted against Smithson’s imprisoning grasp to see what they did to her brother. Nausea rose as she instinctively but uselessly tried to wrest herself free and dash to his aid.

Eventually, she gave up in panting exhaustion and sagged in her captor’s grip. Her puny strength was no match for the duchess’s thug.

“No, please. Your Grace, Ben’s done nothing to harm you,” she pleaded, her throat still raw. Then, even though her pride revolted at the words, “I beg of you, Your Grace. Let your anger fall on me, not on my brother.”

Amazingly, the duchess smiled, even while her bullies kicked and punched an innocent man toward unconsciousness. “I have anger to spare for both of you, whore.”

Ben’s groans became softer and more intermittent. Again, the duchess spoke without looking in his direction. “Don’t forget, I want him aware. He must see every detail of his sister’s punishment.”

Thank God the beating was over. It had seemed to last an eon. Verity forced herself to take an unsteady breath. Agonizing certainty grew within her about the duchess’s intentions.

“You mean these villains to rape me,” she whispered.

Horror swelled up to choke her. She needed Smithson’s cruel hands to keep her from collapsing as images of unbearable pain and shame flooded her mind.

“Yes. Eventually. An extra lover or four to a trollop like you makes no matter,” the duchess said lightly, then her voice hardened. “But before that, I’ll make sure you never bewitch my son—or any man—again.”

“I’ve renounced my life as a courtesan,” Verity said, although she saw that nothing would sway the duchess’s purpose.

“Oh, I can guarantee that.” Finally, the duchess looked across to where Ben lay in shuddering pain. “One of you, prop him up so he can watch. The rest, I need you here.”

Verity gave a broken cry as the brutes moved away from her brother and she finally saw what they’d done. His face was bloody and swollen, and his clothes were torn and filthy.

What further injuries did the fading light hide? The damage she could see now made her want to vomit.

“Oh, Ben,” she cried, hoping desperately he’d lost consciousness, despite the duchess’s orders. But his head jerked unsteadily in her direction as she spoke his name.

Her distress meant she hardly noticed when the duchess directed Smithson to hand her over to two of the men who had beaten Ben. They stood on either side of her and grabbed her arms while the loathsome Smithson stepped forward to stand beside his employer. “What are your wishes, Your Grace?”

The woman’s eyes were bright with almost sexual arousal as she drew a small silver knife from her reticule. “Cut her fa

ce. Scar her so no man can look at her without revulsion.” Her voice quivered with eagerness.

“No! You can’t do this!” Verity cried, struggling futilely. Pride had fled and she could no longer conceal her terror. “It’s barbaric.”