Behind the Courtesan's Mask

“For one night with you. The infamous La Perla.”

“But I’m not….” She hesitated, her wits thrown into disorder by the unexpected turn in the conversation. To one whose entire housekeeping budget for the year had been two hundred and five pounds, such a sum was unimaginable. So unimaginable as to seem quite unreal. Was it customary for one to barter over such arrangements? How high would he go? Not that she had any intention at all of accepting, but she couldn’t resist the impulse to discover the value he gave to her company—La Perla’s company.

“You are not what?” Troy asked, sounding impatient.

Constance bit down the bubble of slightly hysterical laughter and managed a very credible shrug. “I am not available for such a derisory sum.”

“A thousand then.”

She caught her jaw just before it dropped. “Pin money,” Constance heard herself saying, astonished at her ability to dissemble, wondering if this was what Annalisa would do, instinctively feeling as if it was. Across from her, Troy uncrossed his legs. He had good legs. Too many men were either too fat or too thin to wear these knitted pantaloons, but not this man.

“Fifteen hundred.”

“I’m still not interested,” Constance replied, quite intoxicated now with her game, too taken up with it to notice the very real excitement quivering through her body. He really was incredibly well-built, this man who desired her to the tune of fifteen hundred guineas—an astronomical sum. He was not much older than herself, maybe early thirties. His skin would be smooth, not wrinkled like Granville’s. His muscles would feel hard against her skin.

“Two thousand, then. And I know you are interested.”

Low in her belly, a flicker of fire licked its way into her blood. As her gaze clashed with his, she encountered something there that made her shiver with recognition. His eyes were dark pools. His hair would be like silk to touch. His mouth, that sensuous curve of it, it would be like kissing an angel. Or a devil. Wicked. The fire in her belly licked its sinuous way down. If anyone could show her what true pleasure meant, it would be this man, she was certain of it.

Not that she intended to allow him to do any such thing! But there was no harm in imagining, any more than there was any harm in teasing him a little further. Constance shook her head. “Paltry,” she said in her best not-interested negotiating voice, the one which she had last used to such good effect when taking her chickens to market.

Troy got to his feet. In one sense, it didn’t matter how much he offered, for he had no intention of paying up. The idea was to entice her into agreeing, nothing more, suffice to make her see she had been found out, that her vows of fidelity to the poor love-struck boy were worthless.

He would not actually go through with it. Absolutely not. Every fiber of his being should be repelled at the idea of touching her. Of kissing her. Of sheathing himself in her. She sold her body for money. She was haggling with him over the exact amount right at this moment.

And yet, as he ran his fingers down the tender skin of her forearm, his erection strengthened. And La Perla shivered. She wanted him.

Chapter Two

No! She wanted his money. That shiver was just a trick. Just as the blush that was delicately coloring her throat was a trick. “Five thousand,” Troy said recklessly, anxious now to get it over, anxious to remove himself from this skilled temptress who seemed both venal and virtuous, a heady combination.

Constance gasped. “You surely jest,” she said before she could stop herself. “Five thousand pounds!”

“Guineas,” Troy said, trying not to smile triumphantly, for now he had her. “And I never joke when I am negotiating.”

“You consider yourself an expert?”

“I’m a diplomat. A good one. You could say it’s my raison d’être,” Troy replied, surprising them both with the truth.

“Then I’m afraid that today your talents are wasted. I don’t want your money. I am sure you have many better uses to put it to—and if not, I am sure your wife has.”

“I am not married. I would not be here if I was,” Troy replied. The truth again, for his belief in fidelity, so at war with his low boredom threshold, was another reason for his single state. He could not understand though why he had so readily admitted it—his instinct as a diplomat was to manage information shrewdly.

He was not married. He would not be here if he was. She took this in, and at the same time tried very hard to pay it no heed. It shouldn’t matter, but it did, and this had gone quite far enough. Constance was frightened now, not of him but of herself. Temptation was urging her, not to take the money, but to take the man, a persistent voice in her head, telling her that no one would ever know, reminding her that only a short while ago she had been wondering what it would be like to do exactly this. Temptation was prompting her to look at the dark-as-sin man in front of her, with his firm flesh and seductive lips. This not-married man would linger over their lovemaking. His touch would be sure. He would be knowledgeable, temptation was whispering urgently to her now. He would know how to make you feel the pleasures of sin, which until now you have only imagined. He would be expert.

“Five thousand,” Troy repeated.

“I cannot imagine what you would expect for such a sum.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can.”

Could she? Oh, God, she should not even try. “No,” Constance said, more to her inner voice than to the man.

“You wish me to elaborate then?” Troy asked. He was beginning to lose sight of the objective. He wanted to kiss her. He had to kiss her. “For five thousand, I’d expect a lot of this, for a start.”

“A lot of what?” Constance asked faintly, but she already knew, for his arms were around her, and they were such strong arms. His body was pressed against hers, and it was such a hard body, so solid, so elementally male. And his mouth was descending upon hers, his eyes half-closed, a dark glint of need reflected in them.

“Kisses,” Troy said. “I would expect a lot of kisses.” And then his lips took possession of hers.

She had been kissed chastely, with the public affection of a man for his wife. She had been kissed in the dark of the marital bedroom, lasciviously. The former made her feel nothing, the latter a mixture of shame and disgust. She had never before been kissed with raw passion. She had never before kissed back with passion. But now she was and she did, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

A sheet of flame enveloped them at the first touch, as if the gods were furious, or perhaps celebrating. A flash of fire between them, forcing them together, crushing each other, pushing against each other, as their mouths melded, their tongues tangled and desire roared to life.

His hands were in her hair, on her neck, on her arms, her back. His mouth was hot, dark, sinful, just as shockingly sinful as she had imagined. Heat licked through her veins. Her nipples hardened painfully. A need, a craving, an irresistible force, took her in its grip, leaving her gasping for breath.

“No,” she said, because she knew she should, though she couldn’t imagine what it was she was denying, at the same time pulling him closer, reclaiming his mouth, her hands clawing at the sleeves of his coat. This was wrong. She had to stop. “Five thousand is a lot for mere kisses.”