Claiming the Courtesan

Kylemore sat opposite her and reached out to pour the wine. The hunting box was well stocked with life’s luxuries. For the first time, Verity reflected upon how such goods arrived. Surely not along that rough road over the mountains. There must be another way in. The loch perhaps.

“I find in my captivity, time hangs heavily on my hands,” she said pointedly, although she’d long ago given up hope of awakening any guilt over his crimes against her.

“I’ve asked him to help you tomorrow.” He shook his napkin out of its folds and placed it on his lap.

“Are you worried I’ll dig my way out unless you place a guard over me?” she asked acidly.

Kylemore’s affability made her nervous. She much preferred their unambiguously open conflict. He lifted his glass and leaned back with a negligent grace that tugged at her senses. Her determination to escape hardened. If she stayed and let her unwilling attraction have its way, she’d be lost forever.

Kate Macleish came in with a tureen of soup. When they were alone once more, Verity returned to hostilities. A sharp tongue hid the growing softness within, a softness she had every intention of stifling.

“Or perhaps you’re afraid I’ll come after you with a spade if you’re reckless enough to put gardening tools within reach.”

He put down his spoon. “Verity, you have a choice,” he said gently. “We eat, we talk, we pass the evening with an attempt at civility. Or we fuck. It’s up to you.”

Kylemore watched as her remarkable gray eyes widened. He’d have said that nothing could shock Soraya. But Verity was much less hardened by the life she’d led.

Hell, now even he was doing it. He had to stop thinking of her as two different people. He’d quickly guessed on the journey to the glen that in her mind she divided herself into separate entities. Soraya, the notorious courtesan. And Verity, the woman who preserved an odd air of innocence whatever debaucheries he’d committed on her body.

Over the last few days, avoiding this cursed house had given him hours alone in the fresh air to puzzle over his captive.

He must have been out of his mind with thwarted lust when he’d found her in Whitby, or he would have realized immediately that she believed the virtuous widow was much closer to her real self than the glittering demimondaine was.

He’d abducted her to get his fascinating mistress back and to make her pay for her betrayal. Now the problem was that while he wanted to find Soraya in Verity, he also wanted to find Verity in Soraya.

God knew why. Soraya offered him all a sensible man wished for. A willing partner in bed. A sophisticated companion. No inconvenient emotional storms.

Whereas Verity…

Face it, Kylemore, he told himself wryly. Verity is sweet and vulnerable in ways Soraya never was. She’s gallant and honest and as luscious a peach as you could sink your teeth into. Verity banishes your nightmares. Verity gives you peace.

He wanted them both.

Last night, she’d finally surrendered to the sensual hunger between them. Even lost in his own release, he hadn’t mistaken her response. He only needed to seduce her into a malleable frame of mind once more. Then he’d convince her of the advantages of becoming the Duchess of Kylemore.

The advantages?

Sour amusement filled him. What were the advantages to marriage with him?

A troubled self-destructive husband who had spent his life in his own private hell?

Centuries of misery, madness, addiction in his bloodlines?

A future as a social pariah?

Alliance with the foul lout who bore the Kylemore title would disgrace the woman he now knew, whatever the world might think of the match.

Damn her.

Across from him, he noted the droop of her graceful neck. Against the Elizabethan collar of her crimson gown, stiffened and raised at the back to frame her upswept hair, her face was as pale and sad as an effigy on a marble tomb.

There had been a subdued air to her all evening. He was used to her bristling at everything he said. He relied upon her prickly reactions to keep his damned inconvenient urge to cherish her in check. But tonight’s jibes contained a desperate edge, as if she forced herself to snipe and fight.

“Well?” he asked.

“As Your Grace wishes,” she said colorlessly, picking up her spoon and beginning to eat her soup.

He resisted the impulse to whisk her upstairs and make good his crude threat—anything to rouse her from despair. Her inner fire was doused and cold tonight, and the absence of its warmth left him frozen and alone.