Claiming the Courtesan (23 page)

This time, the climax was cataclysmic. Her world fragmented in a burst of molten white. Gasping, she clung to Kylemore as the only solid object in her fracturing universe. But a more lasting radiance lingered beneath the violent explosion of pleasure. And when she floated back to reality, it was the radiance she remembered.

Afterward, they slept briefly.

She woke to find Kylemore raised on one elbow, watching
her with a slumberous expression in his indigo eyes. Indigo eyes that for the first time since she’d known him were tranquil, like a calm sea at sunset. He must have gotten up while she’d dozed, because a forest of candles lit the room to gold.

His expression was tender as he shaped her breast. He brushed his thumb against the plump nipple, and it hardened in immediate response.

“This is what I wanted in London,” he murmured, bending to place a kiss where his thumb teased. His lips were hot on her tender skin, and she shifted under a renewed surge of desire.

“Why did you make me wait so long, Verity?”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “You seemed…you seemed more than I could handle. I preferred easier men.” How did he expect her to concentrate on his questions when he touched her?

“So you took Mallory as your lover.”

Her last protector’s name crashed into the harmony between them with the force of a knife thrown at a door. Her pleasurable stirrings of arousal vanished in an instant.

“I can’t help what I was,” she snapped. She tried to draw away, but he caught her shoulder and stopped her.

“I’m just trying to understand. I know why you owed Eldreth loyalty. But Mallory was a joke.”

“He was sweet. I thought I could help him.” She smiled, then wished she hadn’t as a frown darkened Kylemore’s face.

“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 genu
ine 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.

“They suffered a kind of madness. You were only the excuse,” he said slowly, searching for the right words to soothe her pain. “There was something feverish in the air that
season. I remember the wildness, the ever more profligate gambling, the unfettered womanizing, the duels to the death. Soraya, with her beauty and her mystery, formed part of it. But nothing she did drove those men to take their lives.”

“They died because of me,” she whispered, hiding her face in his shoulder. “Because of what I was and what I did.”

Kylemore’s covetous soul exulted that he was the one she turned to for comfort.

Then he felt her hot tears against his throat. His greed to be the eternal center of her world faded as bone-deep pity overwhelmed him.

His hold on her tightened. “It’s time to forgive yourself as I’m sure the ghosts of those troubled young men have long ago forgiven you. The suicides were a tragedy and a cruel waste, but they were never your fault.”

“Do you really mean that?” Her hesitant question was a murmur against his chest.

“More than I can say.”

She lay calm and exhausted upon him, fragile in his arms, yet stronger than anyone he knew. He yearned to make extravagant promises, swear eternal fealty, go on his knees and offer her the world on a gold platter.

But he settled for a simple, “Sleep now,
mo cridhe
. I’ll keep you safe.”

V
erity was still wallowing in a daze of bliss and newly awakened love the next afternoon when she and Kylemore ate a belated meal in the parlor. Giving herself—all of herself—to him had been extraordinarily liberating.

Beneath the lethargy lingering after a night of passion, new self-confidence flowered. For the moment, this extraordinary man’s ardor, intelligence, courage, beauty were utterly hers.

Whatever the future held, nothing could alter what had happened between them. She’d never be the same. Nor would Kylemore.

Eventually, he’d leave to take his rightful place in the great world. But he’d never be free of her.

Never.

The day had started with rain, providing the ideal excuse to detain the duke in bed. Now she contemplated the outrages she meant to perpetrate upon his body when they returned to her room. Which would be soon, she hoped.

She was definitely hungry, but not necessarily for food.

“What is it?” He lifted his hand from where it lay near his plate and reached over the table to play with her fingers.

All morning, he’d touched her like this. The tiny gestures of connection surprised her. He’d always been a vigorous lover, but she’d never otherwise regarded him as a demonstrative man.

He looked across the remains of their luncheon at her. “You’re blushing,” he said smugly.

Smugness was one of his abiding characteristics today. She must be in a bad way indeed to find it charming rather than irritating.

But he wasn’t having everything his own way. “I was thinking how it felt to take you in my mouth this morning,” she said lightly, glancing at him under her lashes. She smiled her own satisfaction as he choked on a mouthful of claret.

Soraya retained her uses, not the least of which was keeping her temperamental lover from complacency.

Still smiling, she took a sip of her own wine and studied the room. A particularly fierce stag glaring at her from the wall captured her attention. “You know,” she said absently, “these decorations always seem out of character. I never pictured you as quite such the swaggering huntsman.”

Although he’d hunted her effectively enough, she admitted, for once without a trace of resentment.

He set his glass down, brought his napkin to his lips and glanced at the funereal décor without interest. “The trophies were my grandfather’s.”

“Don’t you find them oppressive when you visit?”

“I don’t visit. I lived here with my father until I was seven. I haven’t been back since. Unless I’d needed to stash a troublesome mistress, I wouldn’t have returned now.” His expression was guarded as usual when she probed his past.

“It’s certainly inconvenient.” She used a neutral voice.

“It’s a hellhole,” he said flatly. “And no,” he continued when she opened her mouth, “I don’t want to discuss it. Let’s go back to bed.”

Startled to hear him echo her own wanton thoughts, she put down her glass. “We only came downstairs an hour ago.”

His black brows lowered in a frown. “Is that a no?”

“No.” Then, when the frown darkened, “That’s not a no.”

He laughed softly, and the deep sound skittered up her spine like hot lightning. He quickly rounded the table to pull out her chair.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you,” he said fervently.

She sent him a level look. “Neither do I. And don’t think you can always use sex to distract me.”

“Why not? It works.”

Smug again, damn him. He was so beguilingly pleased with himself.

But if he thought she’d abandoned her curiosity, he was wrong. Last night, he’d forced her to come to terms with who she was and what she’d done. Her love made her determined to help him conquer his demons in return. If this determination abetted her purely feminine need to learn about the man she loved, so be it.

Something terrible lay buried in his past. He’d never be free until he confronted it.

She was thoughtful as she left the parlor on his arm.

Kylemore crossed his arms behind his head and relaxed against the pillows while he studied Verity. To his drowsy chagrin, she’d just tugged a green day gown over her delicately embroidered chemise. The shift had done nothing to hide the splendors of her body. The dress required him to use a little more imagination.

She sat down at the dressing table and began to brush her
long, shining hair. The regular pull and release of the silver brush was sensuously soporific.

His body ached pleasurably in passion’s aftermath, and unfamiliar contentment lulled his mind. The afternoon edged toward evening. Outside, rain fell, filling the room with cold, gray light.

He’d always watched her. From the first, when he’d been desperate to have her and her elusiveness had proven so frustrating. But after last night, it was as if she was giving him permission to stare. The pastime would never pall.

A feline smile curved her lush mouth as she caught his eye in the mirror. She knew he couldn’t get enough of her, the witch.

She was the most intriguing mixture of sophistication and innocence. Over the last hours, the sophisticate had dominated. But at the height of their pleasure, he’d caught a flash in her eyes that had pierced straight to the soul he’d sworn he didn’t possess.

Until now.

In the mirror, she regarded him with the thoughtful expression she’d worn downstairs.

Hell, he should have known she wouldn’t forget her damnable questions. Perhaps he should have tried harder to divert her. Unbelievably, given what had just taken place, his body expressed its enthusiasm for the idea.

“Mr. Macleish said I should ask you about your father,” she said evenly.

Blazing anger banished his sleepy well-being. He thrust himself up against the bedhead and glared at her with all the hauteur a duke could muster. “Did he, by God?”

“Yes,” she said with remarkable calmness, considering his growl. “He wants me to cultivate a better opinion of you.”

“I’ll have his head on a plate,” he muttered.

Hell, he wasn’t just furious; he felt betrayed.

Hamish Macleish had witnessed every humiliating moment in a boyhood crammed with shame and pain. Someone bruiting those tribulations as idle gossip wounded him to the marrow.

“He presumes too much on old obligations.” He used Cold Kylemore’s voice, clipped, frigid, cutting. “As, madam, do you.”

In the mirror, he watched the light fade from her shimmering gray eyes. “Yes, Your Grace,” she said listlessly and returned to fiddling with her hair.

The formal address stung. It always had. But it smarted more today. He sighed and rose from the bed. Her expression indicated that he was unlikely to coax her back into it any time soon.

“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.

Verity wanted his quivering, inadequate, vulnerable soul. And she wanted him on his knees when he offered it.

Damn her. Damn her to hell. He couldn’t do this.

But what did his pride matter when he’d made her unhappy?

Nothing. Less than a single speck of dust.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to watch her face while he told her. Once, she’d loathed and despised him. With good reason.

After the miracle that had flowered between them since last night, his courage failed at the prospect of reviving her contempt. Slowly, he moved across to the window and looked through the bars onto the rain-swept glen.

“Madam, I will speak of this once and once only.”

His voice was low with the control he exerted. The hu
miliations he’d endured since his mistress ran away last spring paled in comparison to this bitter moment.

He waited for her to say something, perhaps encourage him to go on. If she called him Your Grace again, he honestly thought he might strike her. But she remained silent, though he felt her gaze trained steadily on his back.

He curled one hand hard against the window frame. “My father, the sixth duke, was a debaucher, a drunkard and an opium addict. The poisons he’d taken since his schooldays gradually but inexorably sent him mad. My mother had him confined in this glen to avoid the scandal of committing him to a lunatic asylum.”

He paused for her to make some conventional expression of surprise or dismay or even denial.

She said nothing. Perhaps he’d already shocked her into speechlessness. Worse was to come, he grimly and silently told her.

He wished he didn’t need to say more.

He steeled himself to continue. “My father’s retinue included Hamish and a twelve-year-old mistress called Lucy. And my infant self. He had some idea snatching the heir would spite my mother.” He used the same flat voice. “He never understood his wife. He hated her, but he certainly never understood her.”

As though appearance of distance made it so in fact, he spoke quickly, unemotionally. Because, of course, the pain and fear still fed on him. They were close as his own skin.

Closer.

He no longer saw the rain-sodden view outside the window.

Instead, his head filled with the long, dark nights of debasement and imprisonment in this house. Long, dark nights that insidious memory melted into one endless night. He
took a deep, shuddering breath, bracing himself to reveal the rest.

“When the mania was upon him—and it grew increasingly more severe—he became violent. Everyone within reach was at risk, but he took a particularly virulent hatred to me. Perhaps because I look so much like my mother. At his worst, he tried to kill me. Several times, he tried to kill himself.”

He paused, the memories rising as poisonous as any adder. His voice was bitter as he continued. “He died in Lucy’s arms when I was seven. The poor little bitch didn’t know that his foul diseases would finish her a year later. After my father’s death, my mother sent me to Eton while she evicted most of the tenants to starve or emigrate.”

He paused again. Surely, Verity would say something now. Protest, express sympathy. Scoff, even. But the taut silence extended.

And extended.

Perhaps she gloated to see him brought so low. His mother would have relished the moment. She’d made it her lifetime’s work to crush his pride and turn him into one of her creatures.

She’d never succeeded. But Verity could destroy him with one word.

Christ, he was so very tired of pretending to be the great Duke of Kylemore. He found a bleak freedom in owning to the truth behind his sham magnificence.

The silence continued.

Christ, what was wrong with her? Why the hell didn’t she speak? Surely his pathetic confession deserved some response.

A gust of wind spattered cold rain against the windowpane.

What was the use of hiding? He had to face her. He was no
longer the frightened child he’d once been in this glen. Even so, making himself turn tested the limits of his courage.