Claiming the Courtesan

The poker remained uplifted, and he couldn’t doubt she meant to use it. He supposed he should be nervous facing this furious Valkyrie brandishing an iron club, but instead he felt more alive than he had in three long months.

“I should never have trusted you,” she said, edging around to keep him in view.

“Don’t pretend you ever did,” he said softly and with unexpectedly genuine regret.

His response must have puzzled her, because she frowned and for a moment forgot to watch his eyes. Smoothly, he ducked around her. With ease, he avoided the poker she aimed a little too late at his head. Grasping her arms from behind, he tugged her back against him.

“Let me go, you foul cur!”

He ignored her insult. He wished he could ignore how warm she was. This close, he couldn’t help but notice how she trembled. Fear lurked very close beneath the surface of her resistance. But then, he’d immediately understood that.

“Drop it, Verity.”

She struggled in his grip. “No, you bastard!”

“Tut, tut, language.” His grip slid down to her wrist and tightened just short of pain. “Give it to me or I will hurt you.”

Something in his voice must have convinced her, because with a despairing exhalation, she dropped her makeshift weapon. It thudded on the carpet at their feet.

He turned her so she faced him. “This is absurd,” he said mildly. “Anyone would think you were a frightened virgin. And you must know I’m the last man in creation to fall for that act. For a year, I’ve had you each way from Sunday. What secrets can your body possibly hold for me now?”

Her eyes were desolate with defeat above the sullen line of her mouth. “I am no longer your mistress,” she said dully.

He flung her away with an exclamation of disgust. “If we didn’t have to travel on, I’d demonstrate how untrue that is.”

She frowned in obvious confusion. “Travel on?” she asked after a fraught pause.

“Yes. I told you in the carriage we headed north without delay.” He spoke over his shoulder as he headed out of the room. “I’ll be back in half an hour. Use your reprieve to decide cooperation is the safest way to proceed.”

Chapter 7

The depressing awareness of failure and the more galling knowledge that she’d behaved like a silly little fool accompanied Verity as Kylemore escorted her to the carriage half an hour later.

Tall, brooding, ominously quiet, he stalked beside her as they left the rose room and descended the stairs. She had no idea what he was thinking behind his mask of aristocratic hauteur. After her attack on him, she supposed he must be fuming. One large hand circled her arm with an implacable hold that told her he had no intention of letting her go until he’d wreaked his cruel revenge to his satisfaction.

Just what had she expected her theatrics with the poker to achieve? A woman’s fury would never cow the duke. She’d been so afraid that he’d meant to rut over her on that brocade-covered bed that fear had disordered her reason.

If she brought herself to murder him, she’d hang—which would put a more permanent end to her long-term plans than anything Kylemore devised. If she injured him, she’d only make him angrier than he already was. The grim acceptance seeped into her heart that until he tired of her, nothing short of death could end this persecution.

From the beginning, she’d fatally misread the truth of how he felt about her. In London, she’d assumed he’d wanted her because winning the notorious Soraya complemented his prestige. A year’s intimate contact with the duke had taught her that he rated his standing in the world highly indeed.

But now she looked back and considered in a different light altogether his six years of pursuit and the fortune he’d paid to gain her. The light of the Duke of Kylemore’s obsession.

For her.

She’d heard rumors about madness in the Kinmurries from her earliest days in the capital. She’d always discounted the talk as overblown gossip. Until now.

She shivered, more frightened than she’d ever been in her life. Worse, he was perceptive enough to note her terror and use it against her.

Once they were outside the manor, she saw why he hadn’t tied her up again. Macleishes surrounded her. Their set expressions indicated they wouldn’t hesitate to act should she show the slightest sign of mutiny.

But her chastening humiliation in the rose room meant rebellious impulses had temporarily deserted her. Pitting herself against Kylemore’s physical strength had been a mistake. She still cringed at how easily he’d disarmed her.

Two more Macleish sons traveled on with the duke. With no great interest, she watched them climb up next to the driver. One set of jailers was much the same as another. The only jailer who really mattered was the lean, powerful man pressed so close to her side.

Kylemore bundled her into the coach without a word. He followed her inside, sat opposite her, knocked sharply on the roof, and they were away. He didn’t release his proprietary clasp on her arm until they picked up speed.

How she wished she’d controlled her temper at the house. Now he was more careful than ever to stop her eluding him.