Claiming the Courtesan

“Verity, allow me my secrets. This isn’t a matter for frivolous chatter,” he said heavily, drawing on his breeches. Obscurely, clothing felt like armor against her attack.

She set her brush down on the table with a sharp click. “I wasn’t making frivolous chatter. Your precious secrets give you nightmares. When you scream, you call out for your father.”

With jerky movements that indicated temper, she began to wind the thick black hair into a knot. He strode forward and took her busy hands in his. Bending down, he stared at her in the mirror. The slippery strands tumbled into disarray around her shoulders.

“Stop this, Verity.”

“I’m trying to do my hair,” she said crossly.

“It will wait. Or don’t do it at all. I prefer it loose.” He released her hands and stroked his palms down the side of her head until he held her face looking straight ahead into the glass. Defiant silver eyes met his.

“Can’t we just enjoy what we have?” It was a plea. “We’ve only just found one another. Don’t spoil it.”

Her fine dark brows contracted in displeasure. “Soraya was paid to do what she was told, Your Grace. I’m afraid your next mistress is a woman of more independent character.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Soraya was no wilting violet either. Your memory plays you false, mo leannan.”

“Stop using those outlandish foreign words to me,” she snapped, irritated even further by his humor.

“It’s English that’s foreign here, mo cridhe.” He bent to kiss her glossy crown.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” she said woodenly.

She shook her head, dislodging his grip. He stayed behind her for another moment, then swung away to pace the room.

“Devil take you, you won’t play me. Sulk as much as you like, but you won’t make me your toy.” He wouldn’t accept this. His whole life, he’d fought his mother’s self-serving machinations. He’d be damned before he accepted similar manipulation from his lover.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Calmly, she returned to doing her hair. She ignored his request to leave it down. Pleasing him plainly wasn’t her priority. The more agitated he became, the more composed she appeared.

The chit meant to provoke. And, damn her, she definitely provoked.

Looking cool and remote, she turned on the stool and faced him when she’d finished pinning up that luxuriant mass. “What is Your Grace’s pleasure now?”

It was Soraya’s voice and he hated it. He bit back a blistering setdown.

Because he read what she hid beneath her tranquility. And what he saw made his barren heart ache.

God, he’d hurt her. He couldn’t bear it.

He’d sworn nothing would hurt her again. He’d sworn that on his life when he’d brought her home from the mountains.

This moment revealed the value of his oath.

To save her from hurt, he’d injure himself, he’d injure others. He’d fight, lie, steal, kill. He’d do anything.

Anything except reveal his shame.

Hell, this wasn’t worth it.

She wasn’t worth it.

He snatched up his shirt and tugged it over his head. Then he turned on his heel and marched to the door. Let the baggage pout at not getting her own way. When they were back in London, he’d buy some pretty bauble to soothe the sting.

He stopped on the threshold. Oh, Lord, how he deceived himself.

Soraya would be content with such sops. He could only satisfy Verity with tribute more costly than even the most precious diamond.