Claiming the Courtesan

He stroked his fingers across her cheek until he held her head in both hands. “You kissed me when you left me, if you recall.”

“A mistake,” she said unsteadily.

She’d known that even at the time. How she wished she’d let him go on his way that afternoon. How she wished she’d followed her instincts and never taken the Duke of Kylemore as her lover at all.

Ever since she’d met him, a voice inside her had insisted he and only he could break through the protective shell that was Soraya. But calamitously, she’d ignored the shrill warning from her instincts. As his mistress, she’d endured a year armoring herself against the empathy she’d always felt for him. An empathy that was absurd. A Cyprian and a duke of the realm could have nothing in common.

Before her capitulation, he’d pursued, she’d resisted. Every lure he cast her way was a move in the game. Part of her had relished the contest. Even her final play was a challenge—she’d deliberately demanded an impossible fortune for her compliance, an amount no sane man would pay for a woman.

But no Kinmurrie was ever completely sane.

The duke had called her on her bid. She’d found herself unexpectedly having to pay her gambling debts. She’d assured herself she could survive a year, a little year, with him and emerge with her detachment intact. And she’d almost succeeded.

Almost.

And the disaster that little word almost promised sat beside her now, plotting to destroy her.

Well, she wasn’t finished yet. The Duke of Kylemore needed to learn that. This time when his lips met hers, Verity remained as unrelenting as rock. She closed her eyes and deliberately enumerated all her reasons to hate this man.

His arrogance.

His selfishness.

The way he ripped her away from the life she’d planned for so long and had finally gained the chance to achieve.

The hands in her hair began to move in soothing circles, finding and loosening each knot of tension. And all the time, he kept nipping and nibbling and sucking at her lips.

She hated him.

Her captive hands clenched as she fought to remain unmoved.

He was unmistakably aroused, in spite of her lack of encouragement. Any moment, he’d fling up her skirts and force himself into her. She almost wished he would so she’d have no choice but to loathe him.

At least rape would end this torture that hovered so close to drugging pleasure. She tried to summon disgust. But in truth, he was heartbreakingly gentle.

He knew gentleness was his greatest weapon, damn him.

And he smelled wonderful. Clean, strong, healthy male, free of the cloying toilet waters so many of his sex used. He smelled of the outdoors. For one lost moment, she yearned toward that alluring scent before she remembered she was made of stone and stone didn’t yearn.

But he, so attuned to her, so close to her in this confined space, noticed her momentary weakening. “I can do this all the way to Scotland, you know,” he murmured against her mouth.

“I’m not a toy,” she retorted.

“You’re what I say you are. That’s the price of betrayal.” A few deft movements and her hair cascaded around her shoulders. He ran his fingers through the tumbled mass, straightening the kinks. “That’s better. Now you look like my mistress. Although I own to finding the seduction of the virtuous widow rather piquant. We must save it for another occasion.”

His easy confidence rankled, as she was sure he meant it to. “I’m not your mistress any more. I told you—Soraya has gone forever.”

The relentlessly combing hands paused, then resumed. She tried to tell herself the stroking didn’t disturb her, but each movement was a promise of delight.

Lying promises, she reminded herself.

“Soraya is just hidden, that’s all.” His certainty made her want to hit him.

“You’ll get tired of this.” She hoped she was right.

“Perhaps. But do you really doubt whose will is stronger?” His hands slid around to rest on her shoulders.

If he shifted those hands an inch, they could be around her throat. He’d already threatened her with violence. She struggled to awaken her fear as a barrier against him, but it was impossible when his touch conveyed only tender possession.