Whereas Verity...

Face it, Kylemore,he told himself wryly.Verity is sweet and vulnerable in ways Soraya never was. She's gallant and honest and as luscious a peach as you could sink your teeth into. Verity banishes your nightmares. Verity gives you peace.

He wanted them both.

Last night, she'd finally surrendered to the sensual hunger between them. Even lost in his own release, he hadn't mistaken her response. He only needed to seduce her into a malleable frame of mind once more. Then he'd convince her of the advantages of becoming the Duchess of Kylemore.

The advantages?

Sour amusement filled him. What were the advantages to marriage with him?

A troubled self-destructive husband who had spent his life in his own private hell?

Centuries of misery, madness, addiction in his bloodlines?

A future as a social pariah?

Alliance with the foul lout who bore the Kylemore title would disgrace the woman he now knew, whatever the world might think of the match.

Damn her.

Across from him, he noted the droop of her graceful neck. Against the Elizabethan collar of her crimson gown, stiffened and raised at the back to frame her upswept hair, her face was as pale and sad as an effigy on a marble tomb.

There had been a subdued air to her all evening. He was used to her bristling at everything he said. He relied upon her prickly reactions to keep his damned inconvenient urge to cherish her in check. But tonight's jibes contained a desperate edge, as if she forced herself to snipe and fight.

"Well?" he asked.

"As Your Grace wishes," she said colorlessly, picking up her spoon and beginning to eat her soup.

He resisted the impulse to whisk her upstairs and make good his crude threat-anything to rouse her from despair. Her inner fire was doused and cold tonight, and the absence of its warmth left him frozen and alone.

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 provingto 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.

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 anyrequest 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 naive. 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.

"Oh, no. I'm not chasing you through the hedgerows tonight, my dear," he drawled. "We'll save that particular amusement for some other occasion."

"I'm not some inanimate object," she protested.

"Lately when you've been under me, I've found myself wondering," he said cruelly.

Her sharp inhalation was his only warning. She lifted her hand and slapped him hard across the face.

The crack of the blow echoed in the suddenly silent room.

Then she released her breath in a sob and began to struggle in earnest. Kylemore, his face stinging, seized her roughly with both hands.

"You'll be sorry you did that," he grated out.

"I'm sorry I ever met you!" she cried wildly.

"You're not alone in that sentiment."

"Then why don't you let me go? End this evil before it ruins us both."

He felt a vulpine smile spread across his face. "You know why." He buried his fingers in the thick mass of black hair confined in its elaborate knot. "Because of this."

Ignoring her wriggling, he forced her head back and swooped down to take her mouth with his. For the space of a second, her lips were taut with rejection. Then she answered his fury with a fury of her own and kissed him back, viciously, hungrily.

Passionately.

He raked his hands through her hair until it tumbled in lavish abandon down her back, while all the time his mouth ravished hers, demanding capitulation she couldn't help but give. That desperate, unhappy kiss hinted at needs of her own swimming beneath her defiant surface. Needs not too far removed from his own.

Gasping, he raised his head, her taste sharp and rich on his tongue. He searched for some sign that her will and her desire had coalesced at last. But while her mouth was swollen and wet with his kisses, her eyes shone brilliant with rage.

"Concede, Verity," he begged hoarsely, his pride dust when it came to his overwhelming hunger.

"Never," she insisted.

Then astoundingly, she reached up to drag him down for another kiss. Their mouths dueled and parted, then met again, this time for what felt like eternity.

This was like no kiss he'd ever shared. This spoke of passion and anger and misery and an endless battle for supremacy.

And pleasure. Pleasure so intoxicating that it made his head spin.

Curling his arm around her slim waist, he bowed her back to press his mouth to her pale throat. Her pulse pounded wildly beneath his lips. The wanton blood beat a relentless rhythm of temptation that beckoned him as opium had beckoned his father to ruin.

He tasted each shuddering breath she took. The sensation was unbearably intimate, as though she lived by his kisses alone. Her hot scent swirled, luring him to further importunities. His nostrils flared as he tested her building arousal in the most primitive way.