Behind the Courtesan’s Mask Read Online Free PDF Page A

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