Kylemore waited until after dinner before he asked the questions that really interested him, none of which fell into the category of civility, despite what he’d said earlier.
He lounged beside Verity on a settle in front of the fire, and a glass of port dangled from his fingers. Her glass of wine from dinner rested untouched on the table near her elbow. She’d hardly eaten any of
the elaborate food Kate had prepared.
Confound it, he worried over the chit like a damned nursemaid. Where the hell had the wicked Duke of Kylemore gone? He reminded himself with increasing desperation that his goal in this glen was revenge on a deceitful mistress.
Still, in the three months since she’d run away, it had niggled just how little he knew of her. He’d explored every inch of her delectable body, yet he had no idea where she’d grown up. He needed to learn what went on behind those beautiful silver eyes. That curiosity had become paramount last night.
Last night, when she’d insisted she hated him. Then held him safe against his nightmares.
“You never told me what caused you to adopt your profession,” he said with deliberate idleness.
A haunted expression fleetingly crossed her face. If he hadn’t observed her so closely, he would have missed it.
“I’m sure every whore has a similar tale to tell,” she said in a biting tone and without looking at him. “I see no need to bore Your Grace with the details.”
How quick she was to refer to herself as a whore. Yet if ever a demirep held herself above the gutter, it was Soraya.
“Indulge me,” he said softly, noticing the beguiling play of the firelight across the creamy skin revealed above the dress’s low square neckline.
At least his question dispelled the defeat from her eyes. She raised her head and glared at him with a return of her usual blazing defiance. “Is this part of my punishment—reliving my every sin for your delectation?”
“Confession is good for the soul,” he said mildly. “Why not tell me? I’ll let you know if the tale becomes tedious.”
She stood up, her face stiff with disdain. He should have guessed she’d never surrender her secrets just for the asking.
“No.”
Soraya had never said no and Verity seemed to say nothing else. He caught her hand to stop her leaving. “I mean to find out, Verity,” he vowed.
She snatched away from him. “You bought my body, not my mind, a year ago, Your Grace.”
As imperious as any duchess, she marched out.
Chapter 13
Kylemore stalked into Verity’s room, intent on proving to both of them that he was still her heartless lover.
Abandoned to brood in the parlor, he’d decided he was heartily sick of debating the phantom essences of Soraya and Verity. In Whitby, he’d known exactly what he’d wanted of his mistress. She’d learn her place: in his bed. And after learning that, she’d stay there, willing, inventive, endlessly available.
He was desperate to regain that simplicity of purpose.
After the chit’s haughty exit, he wasn’t surprised to discover her perched on the window seat ready for battle. She hadn’t removed the gorgeous dress she’d worn at dinner. Her beautiful face indicated stubborn resistance. She was clearly as willing to lie beneath him as she was to walk to Morocco barefoot.
Perhaps her reprieve from his attentions this morning meant she assumed she could persuade him to leave her alone.
Foolish jade to believe that could ever be true. He was hot and randy, and he thirsted for the relief only she offered him.
“Your Grace,” she said without rising and without a trace of welcome.
“Take your clothes off and get on the damned bed,” he snarled softly from the doorway.
Familiar annoyance submerged the momentary vulnerability he thought he’d caught in her eyes. “I see Your Grace is pressed for time,” she snapped. “Why don’t I just lift my skirts and lean against the wall? That way, you need only devote five minutes to the business.”
“Don’t push me, Verity.” He ripped his neckcloth off and flung it to the floor as he stepped closer to her. “You won’t like the results.”
“I don’t like the results now,” she said coldly.