Behind the Courtesan’s Mask Read Online Free PDF

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.
    â€œTroy?” 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œIf 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.”
    â€œIf 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