To Dishonour A Duke

Chapter Eleven

"Are you going to answer my questions, or are you going to need some kind of persuasion?" 

This time she hears him, and she drops her gaze to fiddle with her ring. "Are you going to answer mine?"

His full lips quirk in amusement. "You have broken into my home, attacked my friend, and screamed bloody murder for the whole street to hear, but you still think you have the right to ask questions?"

"An answer for an answer." Clara murmurs, afraid to peek at his expression. "One should not give away something for nothing."

"Ah." He chuckles, the sound warming and deep, "A name for a name then?"

Raising her gaze, she is startled by the intensity with which he is considering her, murderous intent lurking near the surface. It causes ice to spread through her veins, a light sheen of sweat beading at the back of her neck. 

 At last, she says, "Wren, my name is Wren." 

"Wren." He tests the name on his tongue like one would savour fine chocolate, every syllable a delectable treat. "Like the bird? A little wren?"

She bristles at the inference but inclines her head. It frustrates her how he has used her name to reduce her to nothing more than a defenceless animal, a weak bird to pluck the feathers from. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she folds her arms and gives him an expectant look. 

He complies with a sinister smile. "Dante." 

"Dante?" Clara frowns, "That is not....particularly English is it?"

"Ah, ah." He shakes a finger, a black diamond ring encircling it. "It's my question." He settles onto the floor and places the candle between his legs and the cell door, relaxing against the wall. "Where do you work?" 

"Work?" She stutters.

"Dury Lane or the Theatre Royal?"

"You think I am an actress?" She says in disbelief.  

"Your demeanour and lack of respect for your betters paint you as a whore, and with your face and your body, you could be the most sought-after prostitute in London." Although he speaks casually his dark eyes have turned to smouldering slits. Clara's skin heats as his gaze travels over every inch of her, but she stares boldly back, hoping her expression doesn't give her away.

Her pride makes her feel outraged and utterly offended, but her heart cannot help but glow at how he looks at her, as though she is the most divine treat, expensive and sinful. Pushing away her wanton thoughts, she squares her shoulders and tilts her head, letting her blonde hair fall to the side. Her cloak slips off her shoulder and bares a flash of skin, prompting a low growl from Dante, his eyes locked onto her bared collarbone.  

"But?" She presses.

"You might speak like a lady, but you dress like whore masquerading as one." His voice is roughened and thick, "Language, dress, demeanour...." His eyes flick to a spot by her foot, "Knife." 

George's gift lies by her boot, forgotten, the blade gleaming. Clara gasps and scrambles to pick it up, whisking it out of sight. She is surprised that her captor appears unaffected by his prisoner wielding a knife, but her attempts at escape come to mind and she acknowledges how useless it is in her hand. 

"That is a beautiful dagger." He comments, "Not one a whore would use. A gift.  Thus the conclusion is...." 

"I am an actress."

"So I am right." He hides a flash of disappointment under his boredom.

"Of sorts." Her pride stinging, she draws the last of confidence and rises from the mattress, now with a part to play. She feels him watching her as she walks around her cell, adding a subtle sway to her hips as she pretends to be fascinated by the walls and window. Her hand trails across the damp, dirty walls.