Tentatively she fingered the dark curls, wondering if he powdered them when at court. He would have no need of a wig. The thick hair, shoulder-length, sprang pleasurably beneath her palm. Léon half awoke, feeling the warmth of her body beneath his cheek. For a fleeting minute he thought himself in a Spanish brothel as his hand tightened around a hand-span waist. His eyes half-opened, narrow with desire, and he bent his head to kiss her. Instead of the anonymity of a painted and rouged face he saw green eyes he remembered only too well. He recoiled as if he had been struck. ‘God’s truth! What kind of strumpet are you?’ ‘I’m not a strumpet,’ Marietta said furiously, scrambling to her feet. ‘Then you’re fast turning into one!’ Unsatisfied desire made him harsh. ‘It was you who was forcing your attentions on me!’ Marietta pointed out as she mounted Saracen, trying to hide her humiliation.
