Behind the Courtesan’s Mask by Marguerite Kaye Page A

another chest contained swaths of exotic undergarments. Sumptuous colors, gorgeous textures, clearly designed to tantalize, excite, provoke. Slowly, she put on a pair of black stockings, enjoying their silky caress as she rolled them over her legs. Another cupboard was full of slippers with jeweled heels. She selected a scarlet pair, to match the ribbons on her garters, lifting her gown to view the seductive effect in the mirror. She smiled provocatively, emulating Annalisa’s portrait, and found she no longer recognized herself. The woman who stared back at her was a familiar stranger. Confidently alluring. Voluptuous. Constance had never thought her curves voluptuous before.
    In a locked box, beside her jewelry, were Annalisa’s potions, presumably the arts she used to prevent the consequences of all that sin. They were both childless, though for Annalisa it had been a choice, for Constance a tragedy. Barren, Granville had called her. His barren wife. Wincing, as the familiar pain squeezed her heart, Constance quickly locked the box again.
    As she did so, the front doorbell clanged, making her jump. There were no servants in the house, Annalisa having closed it up when she left, knowing she would not be returning. Constance hesitated. Who could it be? No one knew she was here. The bell clanged again. Picking up the navy blue satin of her half robe, she made her way cautiously down to the entrance hall. The layers of lace petticoats rustled seductively. Her satin slippers with their ridiculously high heels clacked on the marble tiles. The scarlet garters that held up her stockings fluttered. The bell clanged again and again. The knocker had been removed, but a heavy fist began thumping impatiently on the door.
    Constance wrestled back the locks and flung it open, almost colliding with the solid bulk of man on the other side. A strong arm steadied her. She looked up. And up. Into a face so forbiddingly handsome, she drew a quick, sharp breath. Glossy black hair, worn unfashionably long, the ends curling over the pristine white of his intricately tied neck cloth. Thick black brows over sooty-fringed eyes, which must be dark brown, but looked darker. A strong nose. Surprisingly sensual mouth. Dark skin, almost swarthy, as if he spent too much time in the sun. A shadow of black stubble on his cheeks, a dark cleft in the middle of his chin. Black as sin. As if her imaginings had been made flesh, she though fancifully.
    When he let her go, she staggered back, clutching the brass door handle. He was real enough then, and extremely well dressed, she noted. Superbly cut tailcoat, almost the same color as her own robe. A plain gold fob tucked into his pale blue waistcoat. Gray pantaloons. Black boots polished to a sheen. “Can I help you?” Her voice sounded breathless, she noted.
    â€œI most sincerely hope you can, madam.” Troy Templeton, the Earl of Ettrick, pushed the door wide enough to allow him to enter, then firmly pulled it closed behind them.
    â€œWhat are you doing—I do not recall inviting you in, sir,” Constance said, trying to keep the panic from her voice.
    â€œGiven the nature of my business with you, I do not consider it appropriate to conduct it on your doorstep.”
    Troy strode over to the door on the right, giving his unwilling hostess no option but to follow him. It was a pretty salon, decked out in rose pinks, all gilded chairs and knickknacks, a deliberately feminine room, designed to complement the artfully feminine woman who plied her trade in it.
    He had only been in one such salon before. At nineteen, a Johnny Raw in every sense, he had been experiencing the delights of his first London Season when he was introduced to the Incomparable Stella Margate, the Season’s highest flier. As a result of their acquaintance he was left scarred for life, when it came to affairs of the heart. Stella had taught him a harsh lesson and certainly not one he would wish upon any other