Cathal’s brother Etan had spoken to him. He and Flavian had been seated next to each other, down the table from where Velia was seated near Prince Philip and Cathal. Flavian had pointedly ignored her glance of concern when she saw how far away from her he was seated. He didn’t need her to nursemaid him, but he wished he wasn’t going to have to navigate conversation.
“It’s very impressive, Lord Etan. A work of art,” he said.
The man smiled. “I think so as well. Tournai is famous for its glasswork, and I’ve seen some beautiful pieces, but this has become one of my favorites.”
Flavian had heard something about glass and Tournai, but glasswork had never been something he was interested in, so he really only remembered the most vague references. “It is beautiful.”
“Yes,” Etan agreed. He looked quite a bit like his brother, but his face was far more expressive than Cathal’s stoic visage and showed his enthusiasm. “It was just completed and installed. Prince Amory’s family’s business made it to his design.”
“The prince designed it?” Flavian looked back at the chandelier, his soup forgotten for the moment. He studied the intricacies of the design anew.
“Yes, they produced it from Amory’s sketches. The sketches are as impressive as the piece, I think.”
“They are not, Etan. Stop exaggerating,” Prince Amory said, joining their discussion.
Flavian turned from Etan to the prince’s consort, who looked back at them with a smile and a trace of embarrassment in his eyes.
“I’m not exaggerating,” Etan said, his voice firm, but he remained smiling as well. “I saw the sketches, remember.”
“Nevertheless. They were designs for a chandelier, not great art.”
Flavian wished he could just sit there and let the two other men talk around him, but he had a social duty to uphold in the role he was playing. Even a semiawkward, impoverished noblewoman would be able to manage dinner table conversation. Never mind that he didn’t want to and that the kind of simpering, polite conversation necessary made him want to roll his eyes.
“The piece is quite impressive, Your Highness. I would think the designs would have to be equally so.”
“See? Lady Flavia agrees with me,” Etan said, his voice holding a hint of triumph.
Prince Amory laughed softly, his smile kind. “And I’m certain Lady Flavia was just being diplomatic.”
“I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of that,” Flavian said without thought, but at least he did keep his voice to the low murmur he’d cultivated over these last weeks. He felt the heat of a dull flush staining his cheeks when Lord Etan laughed. Prince Amory’s smile grew.
“I think you were in this instance.”
Flavian shrugged, trying to emulate Velia’s habitual gesture and knowing he failed miserably. “Perhaps, but the piece is magnificent. So intricate and detailed. Every time I look at it, I see something new. The work and skill that went into creating the drawings for such a design had to be considerable, Your Highness.”
“There, Amory. I told you.” Etan seemed satisfied as he sat back to let a servant remove his soup bowl.
Prince Amory shook his head, but he didn’t stop smiling. “Do you have an interest in art and glasswork, Lady Flavia?”
“Art, yes. Painting mostly. Until I saw this piece, I hadn’t considered glasswork….” Flavian bit his tongue. In a country famous for its glasswork, it was probably not his best idea to insult the art form to the prince.
But Prince Amory just laughed. “You hadn’t considered it art? Many don’t, but it is. You’ll have to view some of the other pieces in the palace, and we’ll see if we can solidify your opinion.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. I would enjoy that.”
The conversation moved on to paintings, with Flavian and Amory enthusiastic on the topic and Etan doing his best to keep up with them. Flavian could feel eyes on them from the other end of the table, and not just Prince Philip, who had been looking at Prince Amory for most of the meal. It should have been treacly and nauseating that the princes couldn’t keep their eyes off each other, but it was just nice, almost heartening, to see. Not that Flavian would be saying that to anyone.
Velia kept stealing glances down the table. Flavian bristled at the thought that she was checking up on him again. He wasn’t going to do anything to ruin it for either of them. But even as he bristled, he felt a wash of cold nerves, because Cathal was looking his way too.
Chapter 4
THE NEXT morning, Cathal began his day sorting correspondence in the princes’ private study. There were several things in the stack that Philip needed to see to immediately. He separated those into their own pile on the prince’s desk to show his cousin first. While he was working, Etan walked into the room through the door that connected it to the princes’ suite.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, Etan. Are they going to be in soon?” he asked, gesturing toward the door, now closed, through which Etan had entered the room.
“In a little while. They’re a bit slow this morning. The baby kept them up last night,” Etan said as he walked to the second desk. After Philip and Amory had married, Philip had a second desk moved into the study next to his own for his husband. They comfortably shared the study, which meant Cathal and his brother were often in the same space as well, with Cathal back to working for Philip and Etan taking over those duties for Amory.
“I thought Julien had gotten over that, started sleeping at night.” Cathal fully admitted to knowing nothing about babies, though he thought his cousin’s son was sweet enough.
“Sometimes babies fuss.” Etan shrugged, not looking up from his own stack of papers. “They think he wasn’t feeling well. He wouldn’t sleep unless Amory was rocking him, and Philip stayed up with them.”
Cathal could only accept that, but he did wonder where the baby’s nursemaid had been all night. “And you? Where did you end up after dinner last night?”
“I joined Tristan, Adeline, and her husband at the theater. I missed the first act, but the play was still enjoyable. I came back here after.”
Etan had formed a close friendship with Amory’s sister Adeline and his friend Tristan since they met after Amory moved into the palace to be with Philip.
“They were curious about your betrothed,” Etan added.
“Oh? And what did you tell them?”
“I told them what I knew, which really isn’t much. I didn’t spend a lot of time with her last night. I was seated too far away at dinner to talk with her.”
“You’re lucky.”
Etan whipped around with a shocked look on his face, and Cathal realized what he’d said. “Not because of her. Father was seated near us.”
Etan nodded, his face flooding with understanding. Father’s posturing in front of Philip with regard to the betrothal was both tedious and troubling. “Then I’m sure the conversation on my end of the table was more pleasant. Lady Flavia was quite diverting.”
Cathal felt a jolt of… something… go through him at his brother’s words. “Was she? What were you talking about last night anyway?”
“Art, mostly.”
Art? He couldn’t see his brother conversing about art for very long. It wasn’t one of Etan’s interests. “Really?”
“Really.” The response came not from Etan but from Amory, who walked into the study with Philip. “Lady Flavia was quite knowledgeable.”
“And had some strong opinions,” Etan added.
Amory smiled. “And a sharp tongue to go along with them when we got her talking.”
“She did? But she’s so quiet.” Cathal wasn’t certain what to think, though it validated his thoughts that there was something off about the way Flavia presented herself.
“Well, she was still quiet,” Amory said, moving away from Philip and toward his own desk. Cathal only realized their fingers had been tangled together when they let go. The two men were always touching each other in those little ways. Cathal was
uncomfortable seeing them, but not for the reasons Philip might have thought after Cathal’s deplorable behavior when they announced their intention to marry. No, he was jealous of those touches, almost, because he wouldn’t ever have anything like them. But it was stupid of him to even think of it.
Amory was still talking. “She was just sharp in a soft-spoken way.”
“That sounds contradictory,” Philip said.
“A bit.” Amory’s eyes brimmed with amusement. “She’s interesting.”
“You were just happy to have someone to talk about art with instead of making polite dinner table conversation,” Etan said as he handed Amory a stack of letters.
Amory blushed at Etan’s remark and his husband’s knowing look. Everything Amory felt was still written across his face—that hadn’t changed in all the time he had lived in the palace, and neither had Cathal’s worry for him because of it. “Perhaps. I told her I would show her some of the more interesting paintings in the palace.”
“If I didn’t know better, I would be jealous with all this talk of Lady Flavia,” Philip said, his tone blatantly teasing.
“Pip! Don’t be ridiculous.” Amory stepped over and brushed a kiss over his husband’s lips. It was Philip—Pip, as Amory called him, no one else dared—who pulled Amory close and lingered. The embrace was loving and sweet, but still not something Cathal felt he should be watching, intruding upon, despite his cousin and Amory being comfortable kissing in front of them. And since when had his cousin thought it appropriate to kiss in the middle of his study? Probably around the time he had fallen in love with Amory, who Cathal had to admit was good for Philip. Still, Cathal averted his eyes, glancing at Etan, who was watching at the couple with a soft expression of almost yearning until he saw Cathal looking at him and quickly looked away.
“Good,” Philip said, pulling Cathal’s attention back to him and Amory. They were no longer kissing, but they were still standing close to each other. “I believe Elodie has plans for Lady Velia and her companion today, though. A party out in the gardens. So your plans to discuss art may have to be delayed.”
“Elodie wants to make sure Lady Velia meets everyone and feels at home,” Cathal said.
It was kind of his cousin to do so, but Elodie probably didn’t need to throw such a large party right off. And the party was large, he found when he made his way there later. Of course, with Elodie, it could never be anything less, and Cathal should have realized that when she told him her plans. Musicians played on the wide lawn nearest the garden, and lords and ladies mingled among tables covered in lace cloths and shaded by fluttering white and yellow awnings. The more intrepid sat on cloths laid on the soft grass and were entertained by a minor sorcerer with a Talent for illusions while servants circulated with wine and food.
Far more people milled around the gardens than Cathal had expected. His brother Vrai was there, flirting with a group of ladies, but Etan had stayed behind in the princes’ study. His sisters were there, as well as Amory’s sisters, Adeline and Adora, who stood chatting with Amory’s friend Tristan. Tristan was the eldest child of a powerful Jumelle merchant, not a noble, but he had become something of a fixture at court functions due to his friendships with Amory and Etan. Cathal had only met Adora on a few occasions. She hadn’t attended many court functions. Her dark eyes were wide as she looked around her at the crowd of nobles, and she stayed close by Adeline. Cathal meandered through the crowd, exchanging a few words with everyone he passed but not allowing himself to be distracted from his path toward Velia.
Velia was at Elodie’s side in the middle of everything, with everyone flocking to the two young women. His cousin and his betrothed made a pretty picture in their spring gowns, Elodie in lavender and Velia fetching in pale blue trimmed in gold lace, their hair, dark and gold, both shining in the sunlight. Velia seemed to handle everyone and everything well, laughing and charming anyone who spoke with her. Elodie was already starting to relax next to Velia, becoming just a little more enthusiastic and less demure in her gestures. Velia would make a good duchess someday, and she was beautiful. Cathal had no room to complain, despite Father’s high-handed tactics. He greeted both ladies, bowing over their hands, and joined the conversation they were having with the group gathered around them.
He caught sight of his former lover, Celeste, coming in his direction—well, probably toward Elodie, since Celeste was one of Elodie’s ladies. But Cathal still felt awkward around her. He faded back into the crowd away from Velia and Elodie, who didn’t even notice, they were so engrossed in a conversation with two ladies and a gentleman. Glancing around, Cathal noticed Flavia walking away from the party and into the garden proper. She glanced behind her once and then disappeared around a hedge.
What was she up to?
Without making the conscious decision to follow, he found himself winding through the crowd on the lawn, nodding and replying absently to greetings but not stopping. When he reached the edge of the formal garden, he glanced behind him once, back toward the party and his betrothed, and then slipped into the garden.
FLAVIAN COULD only stand so much socializing, especially when he had to do it as Lady Flavia. He hadn’t wanted to go to the princess’s party to start with, but he had to play his role until he could get himself out of the palace and away. So he had gone to the party and stood at Velia’s side. But Velia didn’t need him. She was happy among the party guests, who had all come to see the lady betrothed to Cathal. Apparently, the man was considered something of a catch among the ladies of Tournai. Flavian could see it. Cathal was handsome, close to the prince, and heir to a dukedom, and though the man was serious and proper, he also socialized smoothly with everyone out on the lawn that day, seeming to charm anyone who talked with him. Flavian had watched him and the other guests as everyone talked and flirted and looked their fill at Velia, who thrived among them.
The people around Velia and the princess squeezed Flavian back after a while, and he let himself be moved away. No one paid him any attention. He wandered through the party, sipping some wine, eating a little, avoiding eye contact and, therefore, conversations he had no desire to engage in. Mostly he drifted, continuing to observe the guests. His mind wandered to painting portraits of the interesting faces or perhaps of the party as a whole with the wash of color of gowns and tunics against the background of fluttering yellow and white fabrics and the brilliant green of grass. But he pushed that thought away. He couldn’t start thinking that, couldn’t let himself contemplate portraits.
He went to the gardens instead. There would be solitude there, or at least fewer people, and perhaps something interesting he could contemplate painting. He tried to be unobtrusive as he walked away from the party—did his best, anyway, with the skirt of his blue gown swishing around him and the heels of his blasted shoes sinking into the dirt. He looked back only once, when he reached the entrance to the garden, just to make certain no one was paying attention to him, and then he ducked inside.
Fewer people were in the garden, but he saw some as he wandered the paths. Not too many, just a few flirting couples looking for privacy. Most people probably wanted to be at the party, close to the princess and Cathal. Flavian easily avoided them, since whispers and giggles so often gave them away, and made his way deeper into the gardens.
He wasn’t particularly worried about being missed. The only person who might note his absence was Velia, and she would think he had escaped back to their shared suite. If she noticed, and there were so many people vying for the attention of Velia and Princess Elodie that he wasn’t sure she would. He would rather she didn’t.
The farther from the party he went the more he could feel his muscles relaxing, the tension in his frame releasing—but not completely. He was grateful to be alone, away from so many people. It was the first time he had been alone since they arrived in Tournai, except for sleeping last night, and he hadn’t slept well, even with his door locked and a chair back propped under the door handle. The same fears that plagued hi
m last night were still with him in the daylight, which was why he couldn’t completely relax even all alone in a beautiful garden.
That and the snug bodice of his gown didn’t allow for slouching. But if he thought too much about the gown, he would only end up throwing things.
Instead, he forced himself to focus on the gardens, letting himself wander at random along the paths, not looking for anything in particular but delighting in each beautiful surprise he found. Every breath he dragged in was laden with the heavy, intoxicating scent of spring flowers. He’d enjoyed painting the flowers in the garden at home, though that was a far smaller—and frankly less interesting—garden than the one he wandered. He’d spent some time in the imperial gardens on his visit to the emperor’s court, which also differed from these. The imperial gardens, like the imperial palace, were so vast and grand that he could hardly imagine even having been there. The gardens he explored at the moment were large, but they also felt intimate with their winding paths and lush vegetation leading to small grottoes and bubbling fountains.
He regretted leaving his sketchbook in his bedchamber, but he couldn’t have brought it to a party. Perhaps he could come back with it. Sketching was an acceptable pursuit for ladies—at least, he thought so. His sisters had all had art lessons for a time. He didn’t think it would look strange for him to sketch in the garden, and maybe in doing so he could avoid having to spend too much time around people.
Another bend in the path took him into a small walled garden, and he stopped abruptly just one step inside. He was in a rose garden with a small fountain in the center that burbled happily, but it was the colors that took his breath and made him wish for paints. The fountain was decorated with a glass-tiled mosaic in vivid colors, but those bright colors were overshadowed by the roses and the butterflies that fluttered around them. There were a few pale flowers—white and pink and peach—but most were far brighter, and the ones that stood out were like no roses he had ever seen. He walked to one of the bushes and cupped a large bloom in his hand. The rose was a brilliant, true purple.
The Artist’s Masquerade Page 5