“You loved him,” he growled.

She bit back a vehement denial as she looked more closely at Kylemore. He wasn’t furious. Instead, he appeared uncomfortable, shamefaced, annoyed.

Jealous.

Heavens, how marvelous. He was jealous. Because of her!

His liaison with her wasn’t at all the unequal match she’d always believed it. When he mentioned James, he didn’t taunt her about her wicked past. He sought reassurance that she wanted no one but him.

Her resistance seeped away. She lay back beside him.

“No. I wasn’t capable of loving anybody then.”

With horror, she realized just what she’d said. Dear heaven, don’t let her astute lover pick up on the telling use of the past tense.

But he still fretted about the man who had occupied her bed so briefly. “He loved you. He must have.”

He seemed unduly concerned with the notion of love.

She’d have thought love an alien concept to the Duke of Kylemore. Clearly, she was mistaken.

“Very flattering, Your Grace,” she said dryly. “But in truth, he didn’t know what to do with me once he’d won me. He was a home-and-hearth sort. I taught him social polish, gave him advice about wooing his Sarah and waved him good-bye happily enough when it ended. He’s a kind, dear man who married his sweetheart. He’s not worth your hatred.”

“Except he had you when you should have been mine.”

His powerful arm tightened around her. “You’ve driven me mad for years, you know. Tell me about the others.”

“What others?”

He tugged a long strand of her hair in gentle rebuke. “Don’t play me for a fool, Verity. You were the most notorious woman in London. You’ve had more paramours than just an elderly baronet and a parvenu milksop.”

“Yes,” she said on a growl, trying once more to free herself from his embrace. “There was a presumptuous Scotsman who should have had his ears boxed.”

Kylemore lifted himself above her, his face white with shock. “Three lovers?” he asked in patent disbelief.

“There’s no need to sound so smug,” she said with genuine displeasure.

“Shh,” he whispered and began to kiss her. She wanted to resist, but as always, it was impossible.

When he’d subdued her into a bundle of quivering pleasure, he laughed wryly. “You’ve led us on, mo cridhe. The kingdom’s most scandalous woman is pure as the driven snow.”

“Don’t mock me, Kylemore,” she protested, nettled anew.

“I’m not. But you need to reconsider your role as a scarlet woman. You’d put most ladies of the ton to the blush.”

“You forget I drove all those men to suicide with my wiles when I first came to London,” she said bitterly. The old wound still festered.

“Their deaths weren’t your fault, Verity,” he said softly. She searched his face for censure, anger or disgust, but the deep blue eyes were grave and held no condemnation.

He sounded so sure. But her regret had bitten too deeply for mere words to offer absolution. She dragged in a sobbing breath. “On my soul, I didn’t encourage them. Yet they blew their brains out because of me. Why?”

Ignoring her quivering stiffness, Kylemore settled himself higher until she lay across his bare chest. Her naked skin slid against his as he tucked her head under his chin.

He understood futile guilt better than most. He knew how it ate at the soul. Hadn’t he suffered because he couldn’t stop his mother gutting the estates to fund her political ambitions?

Verity had endured years of hatred and sly talk over her supposedly fatal charms. Gossip had condemned her coldness and accused her of luxuriating in her power over the unsuspecting and gullible male sex.

The ton had known nothing about the real woman.

Tags: Anna Campbell Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net