Behind the Courtesan’s Mask

by Marguerite Kaye

  She could feel him swelling inside her. Looking up at the mirror on the ceiling, she could see him, buttocks clenched tight, her ankles and feet digging into them, her nipples dark, her skin glowing with pleasure, her face an unrecognizable wanton. It excited her. As he lifted from her, and she caught a glimpse of the curving length of him, she arched up to meet him, and the sight of that excited her more. Thrust and arch, thrust and push, she dug her fingers into his back, she bit down on his shoulder as he thrust for the last time, so high that she thought she would be torn pleasurably in two. She tightened her grip on him, holding him inside with all her strength, feeling the rush of his seed spill inside her, hearing him groan, grip, press harder, shuddering with the tumultuous force of his climax.

  Chapter Five

  They stayed entwined, joined, for some time. “I’m sorry,” Troy said finally. “I should not have, I never have any problem being careful. It is no excuse, but you overwhelm me.”

  “And you make me lose control,” Constance said with a soft chuckle. “I told you before, I cannot—so it doesn’t matter. Anyway, I wanted you to.”

  Troy kissed her again. Unbelievably, he felt himself stirring inside her. Embarrassed at his insatiability, he rolled away.

  “You won’t hurt me,” Constance whispered huskily, amazed at her own boldness, wrapping her arms around him, nestling into his back, “if that is what you are worried about.” She kissed his neck, burrowing her nose into the warm smell of man. Of Troy. “In fact, I don’t know how it is, but if you were thinking of—again—then I am more than happy to…”

  He twisted round and rolled her on top of him. “Venus rising from the waves,” he said, stroking the glorious cloud of her hair, which trailed over his shoulders, onto his thighs. As he pulled her down to kiss him, her breasts brushed against his chest, and he caught a glimpse of them both in the overhead mirror, a vision so erotic that he was instantly hard. “Look up,” he said, lifting her onto him, moaning as she sheathed him, her own delicious gasp of pleasure enhancing his.

  Constance looked up. Troy moved her so that her nipples brushed back and forth across the wall of his chest. The double assault on her senses, the abrasion of his rough hair on her breasts, the vision of them overhead, gave an added frisson, as if she was performing and being watched at the same time. The frisson became a shock as he lifted her and let her fall slowly down onto him. Losing interest in their reflection, lost in the vision beneath her, Constance’s breathing became fast and shallow as she clung to the satin length of him, lifting and falling to the rhythm he set, circling her hips to push him higher, arching back in ecstasy and crying out her pleasure as she reached the dizzy heights too quickly, and took him with her as he spilled into her again. Collapsing on top of him, clinging to him, she whispering his name over and over.

  They slept.

  Later, they washed each other under the astonishing newfangled contraption in the bathing chamber, a spout that poured hot water over them like a waterfall. As it cascaded over them, soothing their aching bodies, Troy soaped a large sponge and rubbed it sensuously over Constance’s body, lingering over her bottom, stroking languorously between her legs as the suds slid from her flushed, pink skin.

  Later still, at his bidding, she donned the mask again and teased him with the fringed whip as he had teased her, tracing paths of fire over his body, following with her tongue, until she daringly took him in her mouth, and, taking her lead from what he had done to her, gave them both another kind of pleasure.

  Later again, they fell asleep in one another’s arms. A novelty for both. In the soft light of the summer dawn, made rosier still by the crimson room, they woke to their reflection. Two heads on one pillow.

  The same two heads awoke on the same pillow the next day and the next again, for Troy could not tear himself away, and Constance would not let him try. When they were not making love, they talked, pouring out their histories as if writing a biography for each other, with each confidence discovering more similarities, greater gulfs in their experiences, forded by the bridge of that something, the connection, that fused them. They existed in their own little world. Until the moment they had both been dreading arrived and it really was time for him to go.

  Beneath the bedclothes, their bodies entwined, Constance could feel Troy’s heart beating against her breast. For the first time in her life, she felt complete. It was not just Annalisa who had been missing from her life. This man, this feeling, this connection, was what she had been seeking. And now he was leaving.

  She barely knew him. It was ridiculous to think that he—that she—but she was already thinking it.

  “Constance,” Troy said, pulling her tighter against him. She felt so right there. Leaving her would be like leaving a part of himself. “I can’t believe I’ve known you just two weeks.”

  She tensed. The way he was holding her, it was as if he would never let her go. Or as if he thought she would break when he did.

  “You will think me foolish, but lying here with you, I cannot help thinking that two months, two years, two centuries would not be enough.”

  Her heart began to pound hard and slow. He must feel it. Her mouth was dry. She dared not hope, but she hoped all the same. “I feel it too,” Constance said softly.

  His impulse was to tell her how he felt. To tell her, and to ask her to come with him to Italy. This instant. “Constance, what we have between us, it feels special, extraordinary.”

  Now her heart seemed to have stopped beating. “Yes, it does.”

  Troy hesitated. It was not the same, what he felt for her, not the same thing at all as the shallow, boyish, worshipful love he had felt for Stella Margate. But… “But how do we know for sure?”

  “Know what for sure, Troy?” Constance asked breathlessly, daring him to say it, just to say the word.

  “That we—that we…” He couldn’t. Surely if it was real, he would be able to say it? Or was it just that he was afraid? Was that it? “How much do I really know about you, Constance? How well do you know me?”

  “It doesn’t matter, as long as we know what we feel for each other.”

  “No!” Troy pushed the covers back and got out of bed. “How can I possibly trust my feelings, after the last time?”

  Constance sat up, pulling the sheet around her, distracted by the sheer masculine beauty of Troy’s naked figure, terrified of what he was about to say, sickened by the certainty that he would say it anyway, that her dreams would forever remain just that. Dreams. “You wouldn’t ever hurt me, Troy.”

  “Not knowingly, but what if I promised you something I could not deliver?” Troy knelt down by the bed, gently stroking away the tears from Constance’s lashes with his thumb. “And you. Darling Constance, the same applies to you. So recently widowed, you discover you have a twin, only to lose her. Annalisa died so very recently. And this thing between us, it has taken us both by storm. We are neither of us in a position to be sure of anything,” Troy said, his voice rough with anguish.

  “What are you saying? Does this mean goodbye?” Constance asked brokenly.

  “I don’t know.” Troy got to his feet again, and began to pull on his clothes, frowning heavily. Goodbye was the one word he could not entertain, yet where did that leave them? “Perhaps there is a solution after all!” he exclaimed suddenly, dropping his neck cloth onto the floor. “We could do worse than follow your sister’s sage advice.”

  “What has Annalisa to say to anything?”

  “Six months. Spend six months apart, just as she advised young Philip. Six months to stay true, to prove that this thing between us is not just infatuation. And then if we feel sure that what we have is…” He hesitated again over the word, superstitiously unable to say it. “If what we feel is truly and eternally special, then I will make arrangements for you to join me in Italy, and if you choose to take them up, then I will know we are meant to be together.”

  “Six months.” Constance swallowed hard. “Such a long time.”

&n
bsp; “It will be agony for both of us, but what are six months compared to a lifetime of happiness?”

  “But what if you change your mind? Will I never hear from you again?”

  It pained him to even contemplate it, but that was the whole point. “If I cannot be certain of my feelings, then I will write to you. And you must promise me the same.”

  “I promise,” she said, her voice wobbling, her heart aching.

  Troy kissed the tip of her nose. “Six months,” he said, “from this very day. I vow.”

  “I vow,” Constance said solemnly.

  “Now I must go. I will not say goodbye, for I intend to see you again in six months.”

  “I pray that you do. I’ll be thinking of you every second.”

  “And I you,” Troy said tenderly. He disengaged himself carefully from her embrace to finish dressing. Then he kissed her lingeringly and left without looking back.

  Six months later

  As she signed the papers that allowed the creation of the trust to run the new magdalen funded by Annalisa’s estate, the regime formulated after careful consultation with many women of the street, Constance felt elated. The site for the building had already been purchased, the foundations were being laid. A significant achievement in such a short time, but she had had the strongest of motives.

  Later that afternoon, wandering round the wilderness that would become the magdalen’s gardens, her thoughts turned to Annalisa. Would she have been proud? Scornful? Or simply indifferent? She didn’t know. She accepted now that she would never know.

  The statue was already in place. Twins, representing day and night. One black, one white. Constance took the strand of pearls from her pocket and used the little trowel she had brought to dig a hole at the foot of the plinth. The pearls glowed against the brown earth as she covered them. “Goodbye, Annalisa,” Constance said.

  Back in the house in Half Moon Street, the furniture was swathed in Holland covers. Annalisa’s possessions were packed up, ready for disposal. Constance’s own trunk sat waiting for the carrier at the door. Her brand-new portmanteau lay on the bed beside her dressing case. Her traveling outfit, dark green merino trimmed with gold braid, a smart little hat with a wispy veil, soft kid boots and matching gloves, was laid out in the dressing room. She wandered through the house closing shutters. Tomorrow, the agent would take possession of the keys.

  Tomorrow. Taking the thick packet from her pocket, Constance pressed her lips to the seal. Troy had been right after all. There had been doubts. There had been days when their time together seemed like a dream, nights when she tossed and turned with a nightmare-inducing mix of longing and fear. When each post arrived, she would flip quickly through it, terrified lest there be a letter, at times wishing there was, simply to dispense with the suspense of waiting. And then, in the last few weeks, a calm came over her. And a certainty. By the time this letter arrived, she knew.

  The itinerary was laid out carefully, stage by stage, in a thick, confident script. No other words, save for the initial at the end. Tomorrow she would take the post to Dover. The packet would take her to Calais. From there, the embassy in Paris. From Paris to Marseille. Then another boat, to Naples. And then…

  “And then, my life—our life—will truly begin,” Constance said softly. She folded the package away, and passed the night lying wide awake in Annalisa’s bed, gazing up at her reflection for the last time.

  As she commenced her journey, as the miles between them decreased, as the dank gray northern skies gave way to the cool blue of a Mediterranean winter, her certainty grew ever stronger.

  She loved him. She loved him deeply, irrevocably, eternally. She loved him. The waiting, the lonely nights of missing him, the six months’ silence that was also a communing of the heart…it was all worth it. She loved him with complete and utter conviction. She knew, with almost the same conviction, that he must feel the same. Troy was an honorable man who would not shirk a painful duty. He would not have sent for her if he was not certain.

  He would have told me, she said to herself, not doubting but so nervous that she had to clutch at the ship’s railing for support. The breeze stilled as they sailed into Naples harbor, the crew working fast and efficiently to take down the last of the sails, already bringing up the luggage from the hold, stacking it safely on deck.

  Majestic Mount Vesuvius lay behind her now, Posillipo Hill in front of her. Her heart was beating so fast she could barely breathe. Craning her neck, she scanned the crowds milling about on the jetties—stevedores and merchants, barefoot ragamuffins, well-heeled gentlemen. And then she saw him. He did not wave, but he saw her too. Their eyes locked. She was sure their hearts did too.

  Constance could barely wait for the gangplank to be fixed. She was the first one down it. Troy was the first one at the foot of it. He picked her up. She wrapped her arms around him. Their lips met. They did not say it, because they did not have to. They loved each other. They always would. It was as profound and as simple as that.

  For certain, truly and eternally, it always would be.

  If you enjoyed Behind the Courtesan’s Mask, don’t miss these other sensual historical romances by Marguerite Kaye, on sale now wherever ebooks are sold!

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  Claimed by the Wolf Prince**

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  About the Author

  Born and educated in Scotland, Marguerite Kaye originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practice. Instead, she carved out a career in IT and studied history part-time, gaining a first-class honors and a master’s degree. A few decades after winning a children’s national poetry competition, she decided to pursue her lifelong ambition to write, and submitted her first historical romance to Harlequin Mills & Boon. They accepted it, and she’s been writing ever since.

  You can contact Marguerite through her website at www.margueritekaye.com.

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-2404-9

  Behind the Courtesan’s Mask

  Copyright © 2012 by Marguerite Kaye

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Canada M3B 3K9.

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  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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