Claiming the Courtesan

She was too heartsick to protest at the word “home.”

The castle would never be her home. She had no home apart from the man who gently lifted her onto Tannasg’s back.

And that home was forever barred to her.

Kylemore slid into the saddle behind her and wrapped his arms securely around her waist. If only he could hold her safe like this forever. But even as they rode away toward his castle, she knew nothing had changed.

She was still a whore. He was still a duke.

And she still had to leave him.

Chapter 26

Papers littered the satinwood desk in Kylemore’s beautiful library. It was very late, after midnight, and he made a desultory attempt to sift through the correspondence that had banked up in his absence.

But it was impossible to focus on petitioning letters or statements about his investments. He lifted the crystal glass of whisky he’d poured himself, then replaced it, untasted. He’d reached a pitch of bitter hopelessness far beyond the comforting warmth mere liquor could provide.

His gut clenched as he recalled the torture his mother had planned for Verity that day. The duchess had always been selfish and destructive, but her evil had festered unchecked to reach a peak of viciousness even he hadn’t recognized.

Margaret Kinmurrie was lucky he hadn’t shot her down like a rabid dog.

He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t. The rage and fear that had engulfed him on that lonely stretch of road still pounded like wild thunder through his veins.

What if he’d been too late? His hand tightened, white-knuckled, around the glass.

What if he’d acceded to Verity’s wishes and not followed her at all?

No, he’d never have agreed to that. He’d sworn no harm would come to her. He’d sworn on his black soul.

Yet only hours after leaving his care, she’d faced disfigurement and rape, even death.

He’d never forgive his mother. Or himself.

It bedeviled him to think the duchess was retiring to the lovely dowerhouse. She’d be perfectly comfortable there, however barbarous she considered her surroundings.

He could draw some satisfaction from contemplating how she would chafe at her quarantine from the centers of power. She could fuck as many strapping footmen as she liked to while away the hours, but nothing would compensate for her loss of influence.

He sighed heavily and let yet another letter begging for his patronage drop unread to the desk. Terrible as the events of the day had been, they weren’t what kept him here, sleepless and suffering.

The dumb misery that gnawed at him tonight stemmed from old heartbreak. Old heartbreak as sharp and fresh as when his mistress had abandoned him in Kensington so many months ago.

At the time, he’d blamed his mad frenzy on p

ride and lust.

Now he knew better. Verity had inflicted a mortal wound on him that day.

Over the last weeks, he’d foolishly believed that the wound had begun to heal. But his momentary reprieve in the glen had only sharpened his present anguish.

She’d plunged a blade into his heart, withdrawn it, then thrust it in again, deeper and harder.

Dully, he glanced up at the Roman triumph carved around the Adam mantel. Dancing maidens in swirling tunics led a garlanded bull to sacrifice at the delicate little temple in the far right-hand corner.

How keenly he envied the brute beast’s ignorance. How he wished he faced his fate with similar insouciance. But he comprehended every measure of misery awaiting him.

Losing Verity was torment now, but as the long, barren years passed, the pain would weigh heavier and heavier, slowly squeezing the life from him.

She consigned him to a slow, agonizing death with her absence. A fitting punishment for what he’d done to her.