The Artist’s Masquerade

by Antonia Aquilante

  But then, he was beginning to think he didn’t want it to end. He was beginning to think he didn’t want any of it to end. Maybe ever, because it was all so good. But it had to. It couldn’t last forever, nothing this good could, but he fought it, fought the pleasure until the second when it rose up and swamped him. He cried out what might have been Cathal’s name into the kiss, but Cathal just drank it down. And he didn’t stop kissing Flavian even as he stiffened, even as he cried out in turn.

  And they didn’t stop kissing even as Flavian went boneless and Cathal slumped against him, but the kisses slowed, turned tender and almost sweet, and Cathal’s weight on him was good, safe somehow in a way that wasn’t at all boring. Which all was frightening in a way he’d rather not think about, because he could not start having thoughts like those about Cathal. Bad idea all around, because at any moment, Cathal would realize where he was and whom he was with—that he was with a man—and Flavian wasn’t sure what would happen next.

  Cathal moved, and Flavian tensed. Cathal broke that endless kiss only to brush kisses over Flavian’s cheek before nuzzling into Flavian’s neck and resting his head there. Flavian stared up at the ceiling, resisting the urge to bolt from the room immediately. Better to wait for Cathal to sleep and then slip away. Let them both avoid a confrontation.

  “Relax, will you?” Cathal’s voice, though quiet, made Flavian jump. “Sleep.”

  He tried to ignore how good Cathal’s body felt half-draped over his own. “I can’t sleep. I need to go back to my own bedchamber.”

  “I’ll wake you with enough time to get you back to your bedchamber. No one will see you.” Cathal didn’t even raise his head, his voice sleepy and soaked with contentment. And, oh, Flavian wanted to just pet his hair and snuggle into the big bed with him… so he held himself tense.

  “I’m not worried about that.” But of course he was, if only because rumors of an affair with Cathal would draw far too much attention. He didn’t need people noticing him.

  “Then go to sleep.”

  But he couldn’t. Not with his mind swirling with questions and no answers, and that irritated him so much. “Cathal—”

  “You make a nice pillow. Warm, comfortable. Go to sleep.”

  “Cathal,” he said sharply. “I cannot sleep here. I don’t understand why you want me to sleep here. I don’t understand anything. Why you wanted to do what we did—I’m not one of the beautiful women you’re attracted to, I’m a man.”

  Cathal propped himself up on an elbow. “If I hadn’t been aware of that before—and I was—I would be now. I am completely aware of it.”

  Flavian gasped at Cathal’s rather intimate caress. “But—”

  “Do you ever stop arguing?” Cathal huffed his exasperation, and the sleepy, sated quality cleared from his voice. Flavian felt a bit of a pang that he had done that, but he ruthlessly squashed it. “I like women, yes. I always have. I like any number of things about them, their curves and their scents. But I like men too and I always have. I like soft skin over firm muscles, smooth chests. I especially like you.”

  Flavian’s breath caught in his throat. Cathal seemed sincere, the intensity of those gold eyes boring into his. But Flavian couldn’t imagine how what Cathal said could be true, how it could be possible….

  Cathal leaned down, and kissed Flavian again, one more long, drugging kiss. Then, while Flavian was still addled from it, Cathal rested his head on Flavian’s shoulder again.

  “Now go to sleep.”

  Chapter 14

  CATHAL WAS surprised that he had been able to sleep while in bed with Flavian after all they’d done together. But somehow he had, assured that Flavian wasn’t going to run off because he wouldn’t be able to move without Cathal waking. He wasn’t even certain why it had been so important to keep Flavian there; he didn’t usually sleep with someone he’d taken to bed. It was risky and less than discreet, but after what happened with Flavian, Cathal hadn’t wanted the man to leave.

  Maybe he’d needed the time to fully realize what they’d done, to get his mind to stop spinning and take in what happened. And how much he’d enjoyed it. Because he had enjoyed it, very much.

  But that was about all he managed to realize in the short time he had beside Flavian before waking him. He had to fight back a smile when Flavian blinked his way to awareness, big, cerulean eyes hazy and confused, hair tousled. Memories of what happened and where he was began to seep in, Cathal saw it happen, and those eyes flew open as Flavian sat bolt upright, nearly whacking Cathal in the head as he did.

  Cathal did laugh then, but it was a soft chuckle, and even he could hear the affection in it, which scared him more than a little. But he wanted Flavian to see that even less than he wanted Flavian to see the affection itself. He leaned forward and kissed Flavian quickly. “Come on. Let’s get you dressed.”

  He helped Flavian back into the gown, enjoying Flavian’s befuddlement at Cathal’s care. He’d liked how off balance Flavian was the night before—or earlier tonight, since it was before dawn. Especially since he himself had been so unsure. He had never done anything with a man before, had hardly let himself imagine what it might be like because he knew he could never be with a man.

  But now he had. He knew what it felt like to be with a man, and not just any man: Flavian. Despite how difficult it was to admit, even to himself, there was something to what Philip had said—Cathal hadn’t been able to ignore his attraction to Flavian as he had attraction he’d felt toward any other man over the years, so there must be something special about the connection he had with Flavian.

  Cathal spent the rest of the day thinking about it. He couldn’t remember ever being so distracted while trying to work as he was that day. Every time he managed to push his chaotic thoughts aside for a moment, it seemed an impression from the night before floated into his mind—the surprising softness of Flavian’s skin, the feel of Flavian’s hands on him, Flavian’s arms holding him so tightly, Flavian’s short fingernails biting into Cathal’s back, Flavian’s long legs wrapping around him—distracting him once more.

  Distracting him and making him want to hunt down Flavian, carry him off to his bedchamber, and do more of what they did last night. Cathal loved what they’d done, and he wanted more of it, much more. His mind spun at the possibilities, all the things he wanted to try. But only with Flavian. For some reason, only with Flavian. It was Flavian he imagined when he thought about taking a man to bed, Flavian’s slender but strong limbs wrapped around him, Flavian’s prickly exterior melting into pliancy.

  But Cathal shouldn’t take Flavian to bed again. He may have forgotten—or pushed it out of his head—last night, but he was betrothed, and to Flavian’s friend at that. And whatever Philip said, ending the betrothal without serious repercussions for Tournai would be near impossible. Cathal would have to marry Velia, and he wouldn’t disrespect that commitment or Flavian himself by keeping Flavian outside his marriage. If Flavian would want that anyway.

  Would Flavian even want to go to bed with him again? Flavian had seemed to enjoy himself, despite Cathal’s lack of experience with men, but that didn’t mean he would want to be with Cathal again. Which should be a good thing, because Cathal couldn’t be with him again. He had to concentrate on Velia and his upcoming marriage and put these feelings aside. So why did the thought of Flavian not wanting to be with him again send a wave of disappointment crashing through him? And why did the idea of letting Flavian go and forgetting him leave him feeling utterly cold?

  Cathal stifled a groan and dropped his head into his hands.

  “Cathal? Are you all right?”

  He lifted his head enough to see Etan sitting at his desk across from Cathal’s, brow furrowed and eyes brimming with concern. “Sorry? Oh, I’m fine.”

  The wrinkles in Etan’s brow deepened as he stared at Cathal. “No, you’re not. What’s wrong? What happened?”

  He opened his mouth to deny it, but for some reason, the words stuck in his throat. No matter what
he did, he couldn’t get them out.

  If anything, Etan looked even more concerned. As well he might, since Cathal didn’t think he was managing to control his expression at the moment and much of the struggle he felt inside was showing.

  “Cathal.” Etan’s voice was low, quiet. “Talk to me. Let me help.”

  “I’m not certain you can, or anyone can. There isn’t much to be done.”

  Etan rose quickly, the legs of his chair screeching against the polished floor. Cathal winced at the noise. He stared as Etan hurried around his desk and over to Cathal’s, looking more alarmed than anything else. “Etan?”

  “Cathal, you’re worrying me.” Etan pulled a chair next to Cathal’s desk with another scrape of chair legs against floor and sat, leaning toward Cathal. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “But—”

  “Maybe I won’t be able to help; maybe there isn’t anything to be done. But you can’t just sit there. You’ve been distracted all day with something plainly personal. Because if it wasn’t, you would have said something to me or been in conference with Philip.”

  Cathal hadn’t known he was quite so predictable, but he supposed it shouldn’t shock him. If anyone would know how he reacted to problems affecting him personally or having to do with Tournai, it would be his brother. They’d grown up together, he and Etan, and Philip and Vrai. He could always tell when something upset Etan.

  “Tell me, brother. Let me help if I can, if only by listening,” Etan finished, looking at Cathal with such concern, such seriousness, it was almost a blow.

  Cathal often underestimated his youngest brother, but he was ashamed he did so. His brother was an intelligent, dedicated man beneath a charming, even flirtatious exterior, and Etan had shown that amply recently—though Father didn’t often see past the surface, or care to look. Cathal had learned to look, and here was Etan asking Cathal to trust him with his troubles. It humbled Cathal; he should have trusted Etan long before, just as he should have trusted Philip.

  “All right.” Cathal let himself slump back in his chair. “I’ll take the listening ear, though there really isn’t anything to be done.”

  “This is about your betrothal, isn’t it?” Yes, Etan was perceptive.

  “Partially.”

  “I know you don’t what to marry Velia—I can see it. I wish you didn’t agree to it. You’re past the age of majority, old enough to pick your own bride.”

  Cathal sighed. All true, even though he tried not to think of it. “But Father had already negotiated the agreement. I can’t imagine the repercussions of breaking an agreement with the emperor of Ardunn.”

  “What was he thinking?”

  “He was thinking of Tournai and our family.”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” Etan said but shook his head when Cathal would have said more. “Enough of that for now. Unless Father being presumptuous is what’s upsetting you.”

  Cathal gave a short laugh. “No, Father’s actions and attitudes are not my primary concern today. Except that they caused me to be betrothed in the first place. And you’re right, I don’t want to marry Velia. I don’t know why. She’s beautiful, able to navigate the waters at court, accomplished in every way a future duchess should be.”

  “She has charmed almost everyone,” Etan agreed. “But you don’t love her. And more than that, you didn’t choose her.”

  He hadn’t, but he had tried to accept his betrothal, to get to know her, to even care for her. But he hadn’t been able to, and he wondered how much of that was his incompatibility with Velia and how much was his preoccupation with Flavian.

  It scared him to realize how preoccupied by Flavian he’d been, starting before he knew Flavia was Flavian and showing no sign of abating. He hadn’t really seen anyone else since he met Flavian, couldn’t imagine being with anyone—man or woman—except for Flavian. Not just scary, terrifying.

  “I didn’t choose her, no. But I should have been able to like her, to find her attractive—she is the type of woman I often find attractive.”

  “But you don’t. Is there someone else?”

  “No. Yes—maybe.”

  “That was informative,” Etan said, a sardonic tone to his voice.

  “I’m aware. There is sort of someone, but it can’t happen even if I wanted it to be something. I’m not sure if I do anyway.”

  “Because of the betrothal? That’s why it can’t happen?” Etan continued after Cathal’s nod, “But you might want it to be something if you weren’t betrothed? What about her? Does she have feelings for you?”

  Cathal took a long, deep breath. He didn’t know how Etan would react to his revelation. He wouldn’t blame him for being upset—Cathal should have told him long ago about his preferences, long before Flavian came along to complicate matters. Or if not long ago, then at least when Etan confessed his feelings for Tristan, trusting Cathal with his pain. He didn’t want to hurt his brother, to make it seem as if he didn’t trust Etan when he did.

  “He, actually. It’s a he.” He kept his eyes closed, having no desire to see the recrimination in Etan’s eyes, and waited for his brother to speak.

  Silence stretched out between them. Long moments with nothing said, possibly the most awkward moments of Cathal’s life.

  Finally, he had to look at Etan, had to know.

  His brother was staring at him, eyes wide, face utterly blank with shock. Etan opened his mouth, but closed it again. He did that twice more. It would have been funny if Cathal wasn’t worried about what his brother would say.

  “Wait. You’re—the person, the someone else, is a man?”

  “Yes,” Cathal admitted quietly.

  “You’re in love with a man?”

  He sat up straight. “I never said anything about being in love.”

  “All right,” Etan said mildly. “But you are interested in a man. I didn’t know you liked men like that. I thought it was women….”

  “I do like women,” he said, suddenly very weary of explaining it over and over. “I just like men too.”

  “Since when?” Etan asked, his voice baffled, confusion replacing shock all over his face.

  “Since… always. I’ve always noticed men, always found them attractive, but I’ve never done anything about it, not until now. I had to ignore it. I have to produce heirs, and I can’t do that with a man.”

  “Duty….” Etan stared at Cathal, and Cathal could see the wheels inside his brother’s head turning, putting everything together. “Always duty with you.”

  Etan’s statement made Cathal’s stomach churn. “I suppose it has been.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “Philip. And since Philip knows, Amory assuredly does.” He didn’t think Philip and Amory kept anything from each other.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Etan asked, the question fairly mild, not as accusatory as Cathal expected.

  “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. For years, I just tried to ignore it.” He willed Etan to understand.

  “And later? I told you about Tristan, about how I felt. We even started talking about….” A trace of hurt clouded Etan’s eyes, and a hint of anger. “You could have told me then.”

  “I know.” He dropped his head against the chair back for just a moment before he looked at his brother again. “I should have. But I didn’t know how, or how you would react. And I still needed to ignore it. I still do.”

  Hurt faded a little, blending into sadness, maybe pity. That might have been worse. “Because Father is making you marry Lady Velia.”

  “If not Velia, I would have to marry some other woman. I have to provide an heir for the dukedom, for the family.” It was something else he was getting tired of saying, but maybe he had to keep saying it to remind himself that even after last night, as good as it had been, nothing had changed. Etan seemed about to make another argument, but Cathal shook his head. He knew what would come next: a suggestion that he find a man who could carry a child. Amory had done so for Philip, but as
they’d found then, the spell allowing Amory to do so depended heavily on Amory having a particular Talent himself, a Talent that was extremely rare. “And the chances of finding a man who would be capable of carrying a child and would want to do so and whom I could fall in love with are slim at best.”

  Etan nodded, accepting Cathal’s words. “But I think you put too much on yourself. Yes, as Father’s heir, it is your responsibility to produce an heir in turn. But if you don’t, the line doesn’t die out. There’s Vrai and me.”

  “I don’t think you want to marry a woman and produce heirs,” Cathal pointed out.

  “No,” Etan conceded. “I’d rather not. But there’s Vrai. And even if it had to be you, it didn’t have to be Velia. You should have been able to choose your own bride.”

  Yes, he should have been, but the choice had been taken from him before he could even think to make it. “Yes, but we’ve been over this already, and I wasn’t. That isn’t going to change.”

  “And what about the person you actually do care about? This man?” Etan asked, his tone almost challenging, his gaze serious. “What happens with him?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing to be done.”

  “And how would he feel about that?”

  Cathal laughed, short and not at all amused. “I don’t know that he would care.”

  “Does he know how you feel?”

  “I don’t know how I feel, Etan.” So there was no way Flavian could, and Cathal would rather Flavian wasn’t privy to his confusion, given that he had no idea what Flavian thought of their liaison. “But I did take him to bed, so I suppose he at least knows that much.”

  Etan sputtered, his eyes going wider than Cathal thought possible. “You—you bedded him?”

  “Yes.” He wasn’t certain if Etan’s shock came from the idea that Cathal had bedded a man or that he had done it while betrothed to someone else. “But I shouldn’t have.”

  “You regret it?” Etan tilted his head to the side, contemplating him.