Free The Mask of Night by Tracy Grant

Molière. The delights of Paris. My boredom with my supposed husband.” She took a sip of whisky, wishing the smoky bite was enough to wash away the memories. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the fluted mahogany posts of the bed she shared with Charles. "We didn't finish the cognac. Some of it got spilled on my gown."
    Charles leaned against the mantle, a half-dozen paces from her. “And then?”
    Her fingers tightened on the crystal, etched with the crest of her husband’s family. “Darling, you don’t seriously want it spelled out for you.”
    “I told you. What people do in the bedchamber can be revealing.”
    “Charles, if you’re testing yourself or me—“
    “That would be a singularly stupid thing to do.” His gaze had turned maddeningly opaque, the way it sometimes did. His arm rested along the mantle, whisky glass casually in hand. “I’m trying to make sense of the man whose murder we have to solve. You’re the only person we have access to who knew him.”
    She tossed down another sip of whisky. It burned her throat. “Perhaps I don’t remember. There were a lot of them after all.”
    “Gammon. You have a memory like an encyclopedia. I’m adult enough to handle this, Mel.”
    She stared at the candlelight glinting off the polished beads of her mask. Sometimes she thought it would be infinitely easier to be married to a man who would settle for something less than the unvarnished truth. She looked at her husband and took up the challenge he’d thrown down. “He was aggressive. Inventive. Greedy about his own needs but not blind to his partner’s. He wasn’t particularly interested in kissing but he spent a lot of time unpinning my hair. He told me I reminded him of his first love, which seemed a bit fulsome for his general style. He ripped a seam in the side of my gown and tore off one of the knots of ribbon. He undressed me completely except for my stockings. He tied me to the bed posts—“
    Charles’s arm jerked, spattering whisky on the hearth rug. “What? ”
    “Oh, for God’s sake, darling, you've read the Marquis de Sade. At least I assume you have. His books are in our library.”
    “And you let him—“
    "Do you think I’d let anyone tie me up if I wasn’t certain I could get free in ten seconds if I needed to?"
    “Surely—“
    “It wasn’t the first time. Dearest, there isn’t a lot I haven’t done. Besides I rather”—she glanced down at the glass in her hand, then forced herself to look back at him—“—it had a certain piquancy.”
    He drew a breath.
    “Don’t look at me like that, Charles, it’s not something I want you to do. That is”—her fingers clenched on the glass; odd how one could share a bed with someone for seven years and not be sure of certain things—“you could if you wanted to, but—“
    “Thank you. No.” Charles set down his glass and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry. I was the one who claimed this wasn’t personal.”
    “No, you’re right. It may be relevant.” She scoured her memory of touches and scents and tastes. “He liked to be in control. I’d go so far as to say he needed to be in control. I got my hands untied at one point. I was playing, but he didn't like my changing the rules. He lost his temper. And yet if there was one moment in the whole evening when I could have overpowered him, it was then. Losing control of the situation made him vulnerable. And brought out his violent streak.”
    “Did he hurt you?” Charles said in a voice that belonged more to a husband than an agent.
    “He didn’t do anything I wasn’t perfectly willing to allow.”
    “Would have done it anyway if you hadn’t been willing?”
    Silk cords. Demanding lips. A compelling touch. A murmur that was close to a command. “Possibly. Probably. He was dangerous.” And that danger had been exciting. She didn’t say so, but she knew Charles could see it in her eyes. “You’re right,” she said. “Whatever brought