Behind the Courtesan’s Mask by Marguerite Kaye Read Free Book Online

things—I would not normally do or say.”
    It was the first time she had seen him smile. The first time she had seen his eyes lighten. Her own smile was both generous and innocently sensual. She realized, as it tugged at the corners of her mouth, that she had used it rarely of late. A lightness, breathlessness, such as she felt when galloping over the downs, enveloped her, fueled by the simple relief of having confessed, of having the truth between them. “You’re not angry?”
    Troy took her hand again, clasping her thin fingers around his own, distracted for a moment by the way two became one so very easily. “No. I don’t know what I am,” he said wryly, for yet again the diplomat in him had been subsumed by the man with this unaccountable need to be honest. “I cannot even pretend that I wish you had told me the truth, for then it would not have—we would not have—and I cannot wish that undone,” he admitted.
    â€œNor I,” Constance whispered.
    Her admission thrilled him, making him wish all sorts of impossible things, but he had to leave for Italy in a few days, and he did not want complications, loose ends. This woman was different. Instinctively he knew that a brief affair would not satisfy either of them, though it was all he could offer. He pushed aside the voice that whispered to him that anything was better than nothing, that he would regret walking away. “What will you do now?” Troy asked, hoping and not hoping that she had plans that would decide the matter for him.
    â€œI don’t know,” Constance replied. “Sell the house. There are stocks, shares, jewelry, so much I can’t imagine what I will do with it all. I don’t need it. I don’t really want it.”
    â€œGive it to a magdalen then, if you wish to do something apt in your sister’s memory.”
    â€œNo! Those places, they punish the women who seek refuge there. I cannot condone how Annalisa lived, but there are others, less fortunate, who are forced to make their living in such a way. It is not their fault. Not always.”
    â€œThen found your own more compassionate magdalen.”
    â€œPerhaps. I don’t know. I haven’t thought about the future.”
    He lifted her hand to his lips. “Don’t give it all away. Your sister would have wanted you to be comfortable.”
    â€œMy twin. A part of me that I still don’t really know, will never know.” His lips were warm and soft. Her pulses quickened at his touch.
    â€œDo you look alike?” he asked.
    â€œThere is a portrait of her upstairs,” Constance replied. “I can show you if you like.” She led the way up the narrow kitchen stairs. He tried not to look at the swaying movement of her hips under the simple muslin gown, tried not to gaze at the tiny waist, the curve of her back, tried not to remember the way those heavy tresses of rich auburn hair hung down to caress the slope of her bottom. Through the hallway, up the main staircase, images from before flashed through his mind. He tried not to remember, but he could not help it. Her innocence, her frank confession of desire, the knowledge that he and only he had aroused her, had given her pleasure, made it so much more difficult to resist than when he had thought her a professional.
    The portrait hung on the wall above the fireplace. La Perla gazed over her shoulder provocatively. Deliberately captivating. The almond eyes were the same. The hair the same. The mouth…
    â€œShe is very beautiful, but not as beautiful as you. I mean it,” Troy added, noting her skepticism. “Your mouth is different, softer,” he said, running his thumb over Constance’s bottom lip. “And when you smile, you have a dimple just here,” he said, touching her cheek.
    She tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but his touch was sending shivers up and down her spine, making her pulses race then slow,