Claiming the Courtesan
At this moment, he had no difficulty recognizing her as Soraya. Except once she’d taken him as her lover, refusal had never been part of Soraya’s repertoire.
He gave her the level glare that always gained instant obedience from everyone in the world but this one slender woman. “Liar. You like the results well enough. What I can’t understand is why you go through this elaborate minuet before we both get what we want.”
“I don’t want you,” she said steadily. “You’ve always confused what I do out of necessity with what I’d do if free to follow my own inclination.”
He tugged his shirt over his head and sent it sailing after the neckcloth. “I know you better than that. You’re a sensualist at heart, my dear. It’s what made you a great courtesan. You come alive to my touch. You always have.”
She looked frostier by the minute. He sat down on the bed and extended one leg in her direction.
“Help me with my boots.”
She stood, and her eyes sparked with fury. “Take them off yourself.”
With a shrug, he tugged at his footwear. “If I must.”
He looked across to where she waited, proud and stiff as a statue. Truly, she outdid any great lady he knew when it came to bearing.
Where had she learned her grand manner? One day she’d tell him, he promised himself.
“You’re wasting your time, you know,” he pointed out, tucking his curiosity away for later consideration. “Nothing you say will make me storm out in a temper.”
Surprisingly, a disdainful smile curved that lush mouth. “I’ve seen Your Grace in more equable frames of mind.”
“There are other ways to work off ill humor than a fit of the sullens,” he pointed out silkily and was pleased to see dismay expel her brief confidence. He pursued his momentary advantage. “I requested the removal of your clothing.”
“I don’t believe any request was involved,” she sniped back.
He slung his boots into the corner, where they landed with a loud thud. Generally, he was an orderly man. It was part of his carefully cultivated control. But he wanted her to recognize that everything in this house was his—including her—and he treated his possessions as he liked.
Barefoot and still wearing his breeches, he swaggered over to where she stood. She retreated a step before she gathered her courage and held her ground.
Futile courage. Much better for her if she’d taken to her heels. But of course, she’d tried that last night and had only delayed her inevitable fate.
As he’d told her, he knew every hideout on this estate. When madness gripped his father, Kylemore’s very life had depended upon his ability to disappear. He’d often used the hollow in the shrubbery, if only because it was close enough to the house for a quick escape.
She raised her chin and glared at him. “Kylemore, don’t do this.”
He was relieved to note that her words held more demand than entreaty. He preferred her when she acted his insolent mistress. When she was sad, he felt like the meanest worm that ever crawled upon the earth.
God, he was doing it again. She was one woman, not two. Even if she gave him enough trouble for a hundred.
“Pleas are futile and you know it,” he said evenly.
“Aren’t you tired of forcing yourself on me? What satisfaction is there?”
He laughed derisively. “You’re not so naïve. We both know satisfaction’s not the problem. I might even say I find your resistance exciting. Soraya was always so…amenable.”
Something that might have been shame welled up in her gray eyes, but to her credit, she didn’t waver. “So if I spread my legs without argument, you’ll give up this game?”
Was it a game? At this precise moment, it seemed like life and death.
But then, he’d always been a slave to his desire for her. Having her, incredibly, had only doubled the weight of his chains.
“Let’s try it and see, shall we?” He’d take her any way he could, although he didn’t pretend he’d yet gotten anything like the surrender he craved.
“Damn you,” she said in a low, shaking voice, her hands fisting at her sides. She whirled away in a flurry of crimson skirts.
He grabbed her arm, feeling the willowy strength in her, and swung her back to face him. She was no weakling, his woman. But she needed to understand he’d always be stronger.