Behind the Courtesan’s Mask (3 page)

“Yes. Oh, yes. Oh, dear God, yes.” Her voice was rough, harsh, guttural with desire, the words dragged from her, no longer able to be suppressed. “I want you.”

He had her. He had his proof. He could leave now. He would leave. Though he made no move to leave. And then she touched him, placed her hand tentatively again on the length of his manhood, and he was lost.

She touched him. Her fingers traced his length, felt the full heft of his girth, and it was not enough, and a blaze of white-hot elemental need shot through him. He ripped open the fastenings, kicked off his boots, the last of his clothing, careless of the tearing and stretching. He kissed her deeply, his tongue thrusting, tasting, urging, warning. His fingers flicked mercilessly over the pulsing mound of her sex. His shaft pressed into the silk and lace of her petticoat. He felt her swelling, heard the first of those unmistakable moans, and, turning her round in his arms, steadied her over the back of a chaise longue, and thrust himself hard and high into the throbbing, welcoming heat of her.

Constance cried out with shock and delight. Swept so violently along with the crashing insistency of her first-ever orgasm, swirled high into the starry heights with its intensity, she was still soaring when he entered her, thrusting higher and harder than she had ever imagined possible. The jolting shock, the shuddering rapture of it caused her climax to tighten and strengthen, made her own muscles pull him in, forcing her to arch back against him. His arm around her waist, he pulled her toward him and thrust again, making her cry out. Again, harder, though not hard enough. She reached between her legs to cup the heavy, potent weight of him as he thrust again, his grip moving down to her bottom, tilting her to open her, and he thrust higher. She felt him thicken inside her. She craved, with an intensity that astonished her, for him to plunge ever deeper. “More,” she panted. And again, “More…”

Troy groaned. Harder. Higher. He had never, ever, ever dreamed it could be so… He thrust, felt himself swell, felt his seed muster, and at the last moment, pulled himself free, spilling onto the rumpled lace of her rucked-up petticoats with a force that shook him.

 

The ecstasy of the moment suspended them only briefly in the blissful haze of rapture. Too soon, as the throbbing ebbed, as the heat that enveloped them cooled, as the mist that stopped them thinking cleared, they dropped abruptly back down to earth.

“Goddammit all to hell!” Pulling himself free, he gathered up his scattered, rumpled clothing with indecent haste, disgusted by his lack of restraint, and began to dress before cursing again, using a colorful Anglo-Saxon expression that he rarely employed.

“Sir!”

Troy looked up as he shrugged into his coat. “It is a bit too late to play the prude, madam.”

Constance flinched. He had a point. “Still, there is no need for such strong language,” she protested weakly.

“On the contrary, my inclination is to use much stronger, I assure you.” He could not believe he had lost control. He was a master tactician. He never lost control. Never! He was appalled by the specter of his misguided, besotted younger self that this woman had conjured, furious with the temptress who had so befuddled him, with his ambassador for having embroiled him in this debacle, and with the ambassador's son too, for being so damn foolish as to have made this whole episode necessary. And with himself. Most of all with himself.

Why was he so angry? Constance wondered. “If it is the money…” she said hesitantly. She could not even remember the final ridiculous figure. Forty thousand? Fifty? Surely he didn't think she actually expected him to pay. “I thought…”

“You thought to offer swansdown manacles, silken cords and velvet ropes to justify the price? No, thank you. I have sampled quite enough of your wares,” Troy said cruelly. And quite dishonestly. She looked like a wild creature, all bee-stung lips and postcoital flush, braced herself on the back of the chaise longue for support, her pearls in a knot hanging down her back. Oh God, such a wildly alluring creature.

His diplomatic instincts kicked in. When confronted with a delicate and potentially explosive situation, détente dictated that the best plan was to retreat and regroup. In his current state of mind he did not trust himself, he had to get out of here right now, before he made any more errors of judgment. Not a maneuver he usually had much cause to deploy, but a sensible one. Eminently sensible, he told himself, pulling on his coat and carelessly stuffing his neck cloth into the pocket. “I think it best if I bid you good day, madam.”

Constance tried to stand upright, but her legs were trembling. She shook out her rumpled petticoats. Her lips felt swollen. Her sex throbbed. Her thighs ached. Mortified, she simply could not understand how she had become so carried away, deceiving herself into thinking she would go no further. Deceiving the man now leaving so hurriedly into thinking her someone quite other than the respectable woman she really was. Though she was beginning to wonder if she knew herself at all.

He was in such a great hurry to be gone she could almost believe he felt as guilty as she. The reality of Annalisa's life hit Constance like a smack in the face. Disgust with herself brought a rush of tears to her eyes. She blinked furiously, turning her head away lest Troy see them. She could not bear to face questions or recriminations.

It seemed she had her wish. The door closed abruptly behind him, and with it went the feeling of fantasy that had been all pervasive since his arrival. Constance shuddered, no longer able to persuade herself that she was vicariously experiencing her twin's life.

“Good day, sir,” she said abjectly to the empty room. She was freezing cold. Staggering slightly, pausing only to draw over the bolt on the front door, she made her way upstairs. Huddling under the covers of Annalisa's bed, she pulled the fur blanket over her head to avoid seeing her reflection in the ceiling mirror. The reflection of a fallen woman. And the reflection of a very, very foolish one.

Cocooned in the fur blanket, Constance finally drifted off into a fitful sleep before waking early, heavy-headed and depressed. The events of the previous day seemed like a dream. A too-vibrant, too-vivid cavalcade of images paraded across her mind, making her moan with mortification and—to her shame—damp with desire. Pushing aside the covers, she forced herself out of bed, resolutely closing her thoughts down to all but practical matters. Hard work, that's what she needed to occupy her. Time enough later, when distance had lent some perspective, to think about what had happened. Or not think about it.

She spent the next few days cleaning and sorting the downstairs rooms of Annalisa's house. The sheer amount of her sister's possessions astonished her. Three full dinner sets, each with twenty-four settings. A cupboard full of leaded-crystal glasses and decanters. A cellar full of wine, including case after case of French champagne.

She packed boxes. She scrubbed floors and polished furniture and even cleaned the windows with vinegar, falling every night into a troubled sleep, from which she woke every morning still haunted by those twin demons, guilt and desire. But after four days of physical toil she finally admitted defeat and decided to take herself outside, to walk until she had cleared her head.

She dressed in her own clothes, simple white linen undergarments, plain woolen stockings, a gown of pale green muslin she had fashioned herself, the sleeves long and tight at the wrist, the décolleté high, her modesty further protected with the addition of a white fichu. The waistline of the dress was unfashionably high, the hem unfashionably plain, her brown boots unfashionably stout, but she did not for a moment consider wearing one of Annalisa's multitude of silk promenade gowns, nor did she feel any urge at all to augment her country-mouse outfit with any of the multitude of Annalisa's hats or gloves, pelisses, half, three-quarter or otherwise. Pulling her favorite shawl around her shoulders, draping a light veil over her straw bonnet, Constance let herself out of the house in Half Moon Street and headed in the direction of Hyde Park.

Though it was early, the streets were busy. A milk cart was making its precarious way along the cobbled street, the pails clanking noisily. Servants, their livery swathed in leather aprons, were sweeping front steps, polishing brass knockers, cleaning boot scrapers.

In the park, she wandered randomly along the plethora of attractive paths, deep in thought. A vision of herself in shocking abandon, crying out her pleasure as a total stranger thrust into her, made her blush behind her veil.
How could she have?
And yet, she had. And there was no denying that she had enjoyed it, which was the most shocking thing of all.

Taking a seat under the shade of a tree, Constance gazed out over the Serpentine, frowning. To be sure, the sumptuous luxury of Annalisa's house, the sensuous textures and rich fabrics, the almost tangible presence of La Perla herself, created an certain erotic ambience, just as her own musing about Annalisa's life had conjured up a certain longing, but she would not have acted on either had it not been for the man. That very particular man.

Troy. There was something about him that drew her, that swept away her natural reticence, making her tingle with excitement, making her reckless. It was him. Ridiculous as it sounded, she knew unequivocally that it could only have been him who could have provoked that response in her.

Troy. Troy what? Troy who? A diplomat, he had said. Not a man who routinely consorted with courtesans, that was obvious, yet he had come to the house in Half Moon Street to do exactly that, offering a preposterous sum of money. Why? Was he too playing some reckless game? Did he too succumb to that incredibly potent, almost visceral connection that crackled between them?

With an exclamation of frustration, she got up off the bench and began to make her way back down the path. She would never see him again. She had best forget all about him and get on with what she had come to London to do, which was to sell Annalisa's house and settle her affairs. Turning out of the park, Constance headed for Piccadilly, thinking to purchase some provisions. By the time she had completed her shopping, her head was starting to ache and her feet were sore. Head down, intent only on reaching the sanctuary of Annalisa's house, she did not notice the man standing on the front doorstep until she collided with him.

He had raven-black hair, slightly too long to be fashionable. His eyebrows were black. His lashes sooty. The snowy fall of his complicated cravat highlighted the tan of his skin, the strong line of his jaw. The tight-fitting tailcoat of blue superfine emphasized the breadth of shoulders, his leather buckskins clung lovingly to his long, muscled legs. Short boots with long tops stopped at a well-turned calf.

Constance's heart leaped in recognition, her first emotion simple joy at seeing him again. “Troy!”

He put his arms on her shoulders to steady her. The lightest of touches, but it was suffice to signal recognition, to kindle the slow burn of desire under his skin. Goddammit!

Four days he had spent trying to come to terms with what had befallen him. Four days of going over and over, step by painful step, each point when he should have stopped, when he could have said something different. Four days of picking over the inconsistencies in her behavior, her failure to demand payment—though he had given her little opportunity—seeking desperately for something that would explain his own rash behavior. Four nights of reliving, in vividly arousing detail, every moment of their coupling, waking for four mornings throbbingly hard, having to fight the compulsion to go back, gorge himself on her, just to be rid of this aching need.

Four days trying to muster his resolution to a pitch where he could be confident it was enough to resist her, repeating that old adage
once bit twice shy
like a mantra. It didn't work. He told himself that her very mode of existence should be enough for him to despise her, but he knew it was not. Something intangible existed between them. Something that would explain this overwhelming, irrational need.

With his departure for Italy looming, Troy had finally admitted defeat. Whatever this compelling feeling was, it must be ignored. What he had to do was confront her with the consequences of her actions in plain, unemotional language, complete his ambassador's damn mission and get the hell out of London.

He stepped away from her, as far away as he could get on the doorstep, leaning against the black-painted railing.

“Troy?” Constance clutched her basket to her like a shield. He was frowning. Angry? He looked tired. Dark circles under his eyes, making him look older, more forbidding.

“I need to talk to you.” Taking in the veil, the dowdy clothing, the basket of food, doubt shook his resolution, but then he realized she was likely wearing some sort of disguise. Even courtesans must need their privacy when out in public.

Her hands were shaking as she put the key in the lock. Now was the opportunity to explain she thought never to have. He was here, right on her doorstep—Annalisa's doorstep. Oh, God, he was here and he looked so—stop! Whatever he was here for, judging by that satanic frown of his, it would not be pleasant! The key turned. “Come in,” she said, preceding him into the hallway.

Troy hesitated, then castigated himself for doing so. He would state his business, and then he would kick the dust of the place from his heels forever.

“If you don't mind waiting in here for a moment, I'm going to make some tea,” Constance said, opening the door of the pink salon, anxious to have a little time to steady herself, to cool her heated pulses, to put her thoughts in some sort of order. Without waiting for his reply, she headed through the green baize door at the back of the hallway and down the stairs into the kitchen, the one room in the house she had made her own during her short stay.

Filling the heavy iron kettle, marveling once again at the sheer luxury of having a water pump actually inside the kitchen, she placed it upon the stove, and was setting out the dainty china cups on a silver tray when a footfall alerted her to Troy's presence. “Tea's just about ready.”

She made to pick up the tray, but he stilled her, unwilling to return to the oppressive air and distracting memories of the pink salon. “No, let's have it here.”

“If you like,” she said, sitting down at the large deal table.

Troy took a seat at right angles to her, pulling it out to give his long legs room. Constance passed him a cup, noting without surprise that he took it without sugar, and stirred a little cream into her own. He should look out of place in these humble surroundings, but he looked quite at home. The domesticity of the scene struck her with a pang. The unpalatable truth she had been unwilling to face earlier confronted her mercilessly. She didn't just desire this man, she was deeply attracted to him in a terrifying, this-is-it way. Given other circumstances, other, impossible circumstances, something extraordinary could have grown between them.

Troy stirred his tea but made no attempt to drink it. He could tell she was nervous by the way she was cradling her cup with both hands. She looked much younger today, her luxuriant hair confined in a heavy bun at her nape. Her skin really was flawless. He wondered how many men had touched it since he had. How many men had shared her body? How many men had claimed her lips? Disgust warred with something horribly akin to jealousy.

Troy pushed back his chair and got to his feet, leaning against the wooden mantel over the empty grate. “Four days ago, when I came here. I deceived you,” he said baldly. “My name is Troy Templeton, the Earl of Ettrick. At present, I am assigned to the British embassy in Italy. The ambassador there is Lord Wheetley Montague.” He waited, but La Perla made no sign of recognition. Troy sighed. “To be clear, madam, I came here on business, but not the sort of business you normally transact. I had no intention of paying you for your services.”

“Such vast sums as you offered,” Constance said with a frown. “Did you think I would take you seriously?”

“A thousand for the night, I was reliably informed, is the going rate.” Reliably informed from several sources, in fact, one of whom claimed to have been accepted, and further claimed it was worth twice that.

“Good heavens, really? A thousand pounds?” Annalisa had been proud of her exclusiveness, certainly, but she had not translated it into financial terms, and Constance, determined not to judge, had deliberately avoided the issue.

“A thousand guineas,” Troy said, watching the emotions flitting across her beautiful countenance in confusion. There was a glaze of tears in those big almond eyes, a hint of sorrow. Despite his resolution to get this over and get out, he was intrigued. And in danger of becoming distracted! “The amount is irrelevant, it is what it signifies that matters.”

“And what does it signify?”

Troy pushed himself away from the mantel and resumed his seat, the better to scrutinize her countenance. She smelled different, of sweet summer flowers and grass, not heady like before, but her scent went to his head all the same. And other parts. Again.

Say it, goddammit!
Make her agree to your terms Then get out! “It signifies that the game is up, madam. You are exposed.”

“What game? You mean the money? You surely knew I never intended—”

“I mean the game you were playing with Philip Montague.”

“I'm sorry?”

“The eldest son of Lord Wheetley Montague.”

“The ambassador to Italy. You said. But I'm sorry, I don't know anyone of that name.”

“Oh, for God's sake, don't prevaricate. You promised to marry him. You promised to retire from your profession for six months to prove yourself worthy. A clever move on your part, I'll grant you. Six months, you said, of complete abstinence, then he was to come to claim you. Well, madam, your duplicity has been discovered. I came here thinking that your agreeing to my price would suffice. As things turned out, you betrayed yourself feely. You are undone, madam, and you will release the poor deluded boy from the betrothal forthwith.”

Constance picked up her cup, but her hands were shaking so badly that the tea slopped onto the saucer. “I don't understand,” she said, staring at Troy in dismay. “You think that I—you say that this boy—this—what was his name?”

“Philip,” Troy said curtly. “I've told you…”

Constance clutched at her brow. Annalisa had never mentioned a Philip. Surely she would have, if their relationship had been serious. But Annalisa had been dying and now this boy, this poor boy—had all this time been waiting in vain. “He'll have to be told,” she said faintly.

“Precisely,” Troy said with satisfaction. “I will pay you the compliment of trusting you to tell him you have changed your mind—not for your benefit, for the boy's—but believe me, if necessary, I will inform him myself what—what transpired between us.”

Constance pushed her chair back, tried to get to her feet, but her knees were shaking too much. “What
transpired
between us makes no difference at all to that poor boy,” she exclaimed.

“Come, madam, you must see—”

“No! No! It is you who do not see. I am not La Perla.”

“What!”

“It is not I who was betrothed to this Philip.”

“Not you!” He seemed to be incapable of doing anything but repeating what she said. He tried to assemble his thoughts, but only the single fact clogged his brain. This was not La Perla. “But the house. The clothes.” The clothes that she was so obviously not wearing today. Now it was Troy's turn to clutch at his brow. “If you are not her, then who the devil are you?”