The Artist’s Masquerade

by Antonia Aquilante

  He paced around the circle, the swish of the skirts he had no desire to wear clearly audible in the quiet. At least the rich blue-green color of the gown was something he liked. A pale peach one that he refused to wear was buried in the back of the wardrobe. He wondered what had possessed Velia to have the thing made in the first place.

  But he couldn’t tell what color anything was. The moonlight painted everything in shades of silver and gray. He glanced back at Cathal, a dark figure on the other side of the room. Flavian shouldn’t have come with him. It was a bad idea to be alone with Cathal, behind a closed door in a dark room, when he was trying to stop himself from feeling anything for the man, when he was trying to make his futile attraction go away. Madness lay in that direction.

  The flare of light as Cathal lit the first candle only served to make the room seem darker outside that small circle of golden light. Flavian froze, watching as Cathal moved around the room lighting candles in the wall sconces.

  “You really should see this room in daylight,” Cathal said. “You’d be able to see the paintings better, and at the right time of day, the stained glass in the windows and skylights is really beautiful.”

  “So why bring me here now?” He watched Cathal, focusing only on him, on the way he moved, sinuous and graceful, a bit incongruous for someone so tall and well built. He held his breath as Cathal came near, turning as Cathal passed behind him, a hairsbreadth away. Flavian’s skin prickled at the proximity, and he let out a shuddering breath when Cathal moved away again.

  His hopes that Cathal hadn’t noticed were dashed when Cathal looked at him over his shoulder, a knowing smile curving his full lips. And how he wished that smile didn’t make heat curl through his middle. He could not think of Cathal that way, could not let Cathal affect him that way. It was time to leave, to go back to the boring party or, better yet, back to his bedchamber where he didn’t have to deal with anyone.

  “I brought you here because I know you’ve been discussing glass art with Prince Amory, and this room has some impressive examples that show their best in candlelight.” Cathal gestured at the room around them when Flavian just continued staring at him.

  Flavian blinked and tore his gaze off Cathal. No longer dim and silvery, the room blazed with light, far more than the candles Cathal had lit should have given off. And the light… it danced.

  “Dancing” was the first term that occurred to Flavian, “magic” the second, but the more he looked around, the more appropriate “dancing” seemed. The light was white and gold, and it shimmered through the air, throwing patterns of swirling diamonds high on the walls. But they weren’t random, the patterns, not like they would be if light just fell through a moving crystal. They were deliberate and very much like a dance. Looking up, he spun in a slow circle, taking in the whole of the room.

  “How—what is doing that?”

  Cathal’s lips quirked into a half smile, a little smug, but mostly pleased. At Flavian’s reaction? “Magic. It’s a Talent that glassworkers prize, but it’s exceedingly rare. The man who made these had perhaps the last great Talent of this kind in Tournai, and he lived almost a century ago. He crafted the sconces specifically for this room, using magic to cause the glass to throw the light in specific ways. Look.”

  Cathal went to the nearest wall sconce and slid his fingers behind the glass and metal, doing something Flavian couldn’t see. The light changed, like a wave sweeping around the room beginning where Cathal stood. The gold and white was gone, leaving behind a soft, blue-green that undulated over the walls and reminded him vividly of the sea he had come to love on the voyage to Tournai. The colors, the movement like light on waves, soothed but delighted him no less than the sparkling gold of a moment ago.

  He knew he was smiling, but he couldn’t stop the smile if he tried, as delight bubbled up inside him. He looked back at Cathal, and his breath caught. Cathal was looking at him so intently, as if he were drinking in every bit of Flavian’s reaction.

  Before Flavian could say anything, Cathal spoke. “One more.”

  He did something with the sconce a second time, and the light changed again. The gold was back, joined by vivid reds and oranges that coalesced into the shape of a….

  Flavian laughed his surprise. “Is that a dragon?”

  “Yes.” But Flavian didn’t really need Cathal’s confirmation. It was quite obviously a dragon that shimmered and flickered high on the walls of the room, its neck a graceful arch, its tail curling around the room, its wings unfurling proudly. Amazing.

  But more amazing was what he saw when he looked back at Cathal. The man was smiling, a true, genuine smile that transformed his entire face. Cathal never smiled as he was at the moment, not that Flavian had ever seen. Flavian hadn’t realized he was waiting for a smile from Cathal, hoping for one, until he saw one on Cathal’s face.

  And it was rather beautiful. If Flavian painted portraits, it was how he would want to paint Cathal. The smile lightened Cathal’s whole face and made him look years younger, closer to his true age. His gold eyes sparkled with mirth and something else that was less easily defined. Flavian’s stomach swooped and filled with butterflies just looking at Cathal.

  He resolutely looked back up at the dragon, studying it and marveling at how the glassmaker had used skill and magic to create something so beautiful, and not thinking about how Cathal’s smile made him feel. After a moment, the dragon faded away, replaced by the first light display again, but still he watched, letting the gold and white shimmers mesmerize him.

  “You like it?”

  Flavian jumped at Cathal’s voice in his ear. When had Cathal moved so close? And how had he done it without Flavian noticing? He was so shaken he answered completely honestly. “I love it. It’s beautiful. Thank you for showing it to me.”

  “You’re welcome.” Cathal’s voice was low, matching Flavian’s, but it seemed loud in the quiet room. Cathal was so close that his breath stirred the hair at the side of Flavian’s head. He shivered.

  “Cathal.” He meant it as warning, protest, but he couldn’t make himself step away. Why was Cathal standing so close to him? A hand came to rest on Flavian’s back, warm and large, fingers drawing slow, caressing circles that Flavian felt all the way down to his toes.

  He needed to move. He needed to step away from Cathal right this minute and go back to the party where there would be other people and he would be safe from himself. Yet he still couldn’t make his feet move. He just stood, staring up at the lights, while Cathal’s hand moved slowly on his back.

  Mesmerizing. The lights swirling and sparkling above them, the slow movement of Cathal’s fingers… the rest of the world faded away. Beautiful though they were, even the lights couldn’t hold his full attention, blurring together in front of his eyes as his focus narrowed to Cathal’s touch. Those strong fingers drawing random patterns up and down his back, the heat of them burning through the layers of fabric separating them from his skin. He tried to make sense of those patterns, tried to anticipate where Cathal would move, but he lost even the attempt in the sensations, the heat shivering through him.

  “Flavian….” It was a whisper of sound, and Flavian barely heard it over his own heart beating in his ears.

  He turned his head to look back at Cathal, the rest of his body staying still under Cathal’s hand. Cathal’s gold eyes were molten hot, and Flavian’s breath caught in his throat. Before he could get it back, Cathal’s lips were on his.

  Shock punched through him, followed by pleasure in a swamping wave that left him clinging to Cathal’s arms. The last time, had he noticed how soft Cathal’s lips were even as they moved firmly, purposefully over Flavian’s? No, he couldn’t have. He couldn’t have realized it, because Cathal was coaxing responses in him he had never felt before.

  His gasp provided Cathal with all the invitation he needed to take the kiss deeper, and he did, by turns plundering and seducing, devouring and nibbling. Flavian turned to Cathal, pressing himself up into Cathal’s bro
ad chest. Shivering a little at the feel of the solid muscle under Cathal’s clothes, he pushed further into the kiss, exploring Cathal’s mouth and thrilling at the low moan that vibrated in Cathal’s chest. Flavian did that; Flavian made Cathal feel like that.

  Cathal pulled his lips from Flavian’s and began working his way down Flavian’s neck, nibbling and kissing, before Flavian could protest the end of the kiss. And then he didn’t want to protest, because as good as the kiss was, this was good too—the play of Cathal’s lips on his neck, his throat, on one particular spot behind his ear that nearly made him jump out of his skin at the burst of pleasure. Instead, he pulled himself closer, using his hands on Cathal’s shoulders to hitch himself up Cathal’s taller frame.

  Cathal murmured his approval but didn’t stop what he was doing. Which was good because Flavian might have maimed him if he did stop. Flavian grabbed Cathal behind the head and dragged his lips back to Flavian’s so he could dive into another kiss and do some devouring of his own.

  The hand on his bare thigh, moving up above his garter, squeezing flesh, was like a plunge into an icy lake. When had he wrapped his leg around Cathal’s hip? And when had Cathal gotten a hand under his skirt? And how could he be doing this anyway? He tore himself away from Cathal, jumping back, out of reach.

  “Wha—what?” Cathal shook his head and blinked, focusing a hazy gaze on Flavian. “Flavian, what’s wrong?”

  “We shouldn’t be doing this. We can’t do this.”

  “I know—I’m betrothed to Velia, and even though there aren’t feelings involved, I made a commitment. I shouldn’t betray that.” He shoved his hands through his already disheveled hair. Disheveled by Flavian’s hands before Cathal’s frustration drove him to muss it further.

  “No—well, yes.” Something inside Flavian started to soften at Cathal’s integrity. It was just like Cathal, so proper but so good too, Flavian was beginning to realize. “But, I meant, I can’t.”

  “Why? If not that, then why?”

  “Because you only want me because I look like this.” He punctuated the sharp statement with a sweeping gesture encompassing his entire appearance—wig to gown to delicate slippers. “Because you thought I was a woman. Because I look like a woman.”

  Cathal simply stared at him for a long moment, not speaking, and Flavian forced himself not to squirm under his scrutiny. “Yes, dressed as a woman, you look like a woman. I never even guessed you were anything else. But I know now. I know you’re a man. I know who I’m with, Flavian.”

  The tone of Cathal’s voice changed on Flavian’s name, became deeper, almost a purr, and Flavian shivered, his body going warm and loose. He wanted to sway toward Cathal, to fling himself back into Cathal’s arms and continue what they’d started. But he couldn’t, because Cathal couldn’t really feel that way. He couldn’t want Flavian knowing Flavian wasn’t actually Flavia. He straightened his spine, pushing back all those warm feelings. “You can’t.”

  Cathal let out a sharp, exasperated breath. “Why can’t I?”

  “Because you like women. You’re betrothed to a woman. You’ve had affairs with women. Only women.” He’d heard whispers of them, rumors of who the women were. He found he heard a lot of things trying to fade into the background as he had lately, and anything about Cathal piqued his interest, much as he wished it wouldn’t. There was a persistent rumor that Lady Celeste, first among Princess Elodie’s ladies, was Cathal’s former lover. He hated to admit it, but he’d watched Celeste after he heard that rumor. She was beautiful and graceful at every social event he saw her attend. She reminded him of Velia some.

  And if he’d had an affair with a woman like that, Cathal wouldn’t want Flavian, a man, or even a woman who looked like Flavian in his disguise. “You’re attracted to women. You sleep with women. So you shouldn’t be kissing me. I’m a man.”

  “Again, I’m aware you’re a man. I’m also aware that you are utterly exasperating.”

  “Excuse me? What did you just call me?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I did, and now I’m leaving. I’m going back to the party.” It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he wasn’t staying there with Cathal.

  “You weren’t enjoying the party.”

  And Cathal had noticed, which was why they were in this room, alone. “Doesn’t matter. I’m meant to be there with Velia and so are you.”

  “I wasn’t much enjoying it either.” Cathal shrugged, perhaps in response to the skepticism Flavian was sure was plain on his own face.

  “Of course, you weren’t.” Flavian rolled his eyes. “Dancing and laughing and being charming. Having such a terrible evening at a party for your betrothed. While I was forced to be there, wearing this dress, hoping no one would figure out who I am, so no one would suspect anything about me or Velia.”

  “Yes, because I wanted to be there, because I chose to be there. It wasn’t as if I was obligated to attend a party for the woman to whom I am betrothed, a betrothal arranged by my father. It isn’t as if it’s my duty to do these things, and to be charming and social and uphold the position of my family while I do it—no matter what, even if I have to spend hours dealing with fawning, sycophantic people whose only desire is to be closer to the royal family.”

  Flavian was stunned, but he managed to dredge up a flippant comment. “At least you don’t have to wear a dress.”

  Cathal sighed. “There is that. But you’re right, I should return to the party. If you’ll excuse me.”

  He watched Cathal turn and walk toward the door, stunned again. And just a little ashamed of himself. He hadn’t thought about Cathal’s obligations. His betrothal had been arranged just as Velia’s side of it had, and he did have to be at these parties—something Flavian had been quick to point out when it served his own purpose, obviously just as quick to forget about when it didn’t. Cathal always seemed to be in his element, so Flavian had never thought he might not enjoy them.

  “Velia isn’t like that,” he said. He wondered why he’d said anything when Cathal turned back to him with a raised eyebrow, skepticism written all over his handsome face. But he felt bad for forgetting that Cathal was in a situation not of his own choosing as well. Suddenly he had the strange need to reassure Cathal, even though it gave him a sick feeling in his stomach as he did. He forced that aside—Cathal wasn’t for him. He would be marrying Velia, who was Flavian’s friend. It would be best for them all if Cathal liked her. “She isn’t one of those people. She’s never cared for titles for their own sake.”

  “She seems to be enjoying herself in there, as my betrothed and the center of everyone’s attention.”

  Flavian bristled. “She likes parties and people. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “I never said there was.”

  Flavian narrowed his eyes at Cathal, trying to see beyond the man’s suddenly bland expression and mild tone. “There isn’t, and she isn’t like all those other people. You’ll see.”

  “Whatever you say. You know her best.”

  “I do.” Amazing how quickly he could go from feeling bad to annoyed with Cathal near. “On second thought, I’m going back to my bedchamber.”

  Cathal’s expression changed in an instant, bland sliding away into mischief and heat. Flavian’s heart sped, but he forced himself to ignore it.

  “Alone. I’m going back to my bedchamber alone. You go back to your party.”

  Chapter 13

  FLAVIAN MANAGED to keep the stern expression in place as he swept past Cathal. But he lost his grip on it as he strode down the corridor.

  Cathal confused him. So much. His heart still beat too fast as he remembered the look in Cathal’s eyes, all simmering heat and impishness. And Flavian liked that, far more than was good for him. He liked other things about Cathal too—flashes of heart and humor that came through at the oddest times, past the outer shell of propriety and rigid adherence to duty. And that smile of his, not the practiced, polite smile Flavian had seen often, but the rea
l one that had graced Cathal’s lips tonight… that had been beautiful.

  But Cathal was rigid and overly proper and infuriating at times and betrothed to Flavian’s friend, who had done so much to help Flavian. And only interested in women anyway. Not men, not Flavian. He had to remember that, because his confusion didn’t matter. He needed to push it and any lingering, inconvenient attraction aside. Cathal was not for him.

  He should concentrate on keeping his disguise intact until Prince Philip allowed him to leave and he could begin his new life.

  He paused his headlong rush down the corridor only when he would have run into a wall if he didn’t. The corridor branched off to the left and right, and he considered, looking first one way, then the other, then back again. He had no idea which way to go to return to the suite he shared with Velia. He had no idea how to get back to the party, either. He hadn’t been paying attention to how they got to that extraordinary room when he’d followed Cathal there, and this part of the palace was completely unfamiliar to him.

  Had he once thought it smaller than the imperial palace and therefore manageable? The place was a labyrinth, and he hadn’t seen a fraction of it.

  Left. He would go left. He had no reason for the choice, but he had to make one. He certainly wasn’t going back to ask Cathal for directions to his own bedchamber.

  He yelped as a strong arm wrapped around his waist and lifted him off his feet. He immediately twisted and struggled, trying to escape the iron grip.

  “Stop squirming.”

  Cathal’s voice shocked Flavian into silence and stillness long enough for Cathal to turn him and press him against the wall. The wall was hard and cold against his back, a contrast to Cathal’s warm, firm chest against his front. Cathal’s strong arms still held him up, his feet dangling but his eyes on level with Cathal’s. It was the strangest feeling of weightlessness, hanging suspended in the air as he was. He hadn’t been lifted since he was a small child, and it was infinitely different with Cathal lifting him. Not bad, good even in some ways, but strange to be lifted so easily. Unsettling, but with a little thrill of pleasure zinging through him.