The Artist’s Masquerade

by Antonia Aquilante

  He started to answer but stopped. Did he regret last night? It was wrong of him to take Flavian to bed while betrothed to Velia, not fair to Flavian and not right since Cathal had made a commitment. No matter how unusual that belief might be among certain sets. And still, that wasn’t regret. How could he regret last night? “No, no, I don’t regret it. But I still shouldn’t have done it.”

  Etan waved a hand negligently, dismissing Cathal’s statement. “You keep saying that, but this betrothal isn’t a love match. No one would blame you, no one would even look twice, if you took a lover. I wouldn’t think badly of you, if this made you happy.”

  “Etan.”

  “You deserve some happiness, Cathal,” Etan interrupted. “Everyone does, and perhaps you more than most for shouldering all the burdens and pressures Father puts on you. I’m not telling you to abandon all your responsibilities and run off with this man, but to let yourself be happy. You can’t make yourself miserable to make Father happy.”

  “I’m not.” He wasn’t. He wasn’t making himself miserable. He was just fulfilling his obligations. “I’m not making myself miserable.”

  “You’re not making yourself happy.” Etan always had been stubborn, but he covered it so much of the time with a pleasant, easygoing exterior it was easy to forget that part of his personality existed.

  “You’re forgetting something important. Even if I wanted to keep seeing this man, he may have no desire to be my lover outside my marriage. Not everyone would want to be in that position.” And he doubted Flavian would. Flavian was impatient to leave the palace behind and start his life as an artist, not stay to be Cathal’s lover while Cathal married Flavian’s friend.

  “True, but if he feels something for you, if he knows you….” Etan’s voice trailed off as he watched Cathal. “Have you known him long? Will you tell me… who is he?”

  Cathal thought about it for a moment. Discretion said not to tell Etan, not to tell anyone. Flavian might not like him telling Etan any of it, probably wouldn’t. He shouldn’t reveal Flavian’s name to Etan. But Etan was his brother, and Cathal had already kept too much from Etan while Etan revealed so much to Cathal. He could trust Etan to keep what Cathal told him to himself, to understand why it was necessary.

  “It’s Flavian,” he said finally.

  “Flavian?” Etan looked confused for a moment, his brow furrowed as he thought, before surprise cleared his expression. “Flavian dressed as Flavia, traveling with Lady Velia? That Flavian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you do complicate things. I’d wondered,” Etan said, his words slow and measured, “before we knew he was a man. Because you seemed far more intrigued by Flavian than by your betrothed, though I didn’t know why.”

  Cathal hadn’t even realized he’d narrowed his eyes until Etan continued quickly. “Not that I don’t like Flavian, I do, very much. I have from the beginning. But Lady Flavia wasn’t the type of woman you normally gravitated toward. Not as flirtatious or as practiced at court, not voluptuous or conventionally beautiful. On the surface, Lady Velia is the type of woman you usually choose for your affairs.”

  “I know.” And that was something he still didn’t understand. He should have felt some attraction for her at least, but he didn’t, past an admiration for her beauty. He needed to try harder. Maybe then they could form some sort of bond.

  “But you like Flavian? Care for him?” Etan pressed for confirmation.

  “I—yes, I like him.” Liked him, wanted him, despite Flavian’s prickly, sharp exterior. Despite the fact that Cathal shouldn’t think of him that way.

  “And you enjoy being with him, in bed and out of it?”

  He wanted to tell Etan that it was none of his concern what Cathal did in bed with Flavian and whether he enjoyed it, but the sharp rebuke wouldn’t come. Memories of last night flashed through his mind instead—the sensations, yes, but more the way Flavian looked and felt. The soft, pale gold skin under his hands, the expression on Flavian’s face—the confusion, the pleasure and the slight softening of Flavian’s attitude that came with it. He wanted to see it again, wanted to make it happen again and often.

  “Yes, I enjoy being with him,” he admitted finally, his voice quiet.

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t close yourself off to it.” Etan’s voice was quiet as well. “I lost the possibility of being with someone whose company I enjoyed very much. Don’t let that happen to you.”

  FLAVIAN HAD no idea what to do. Going to bed with Cathal, while not the unmitigated disaster he’d thought it would be, was still an unutterably massive mistake. Cathal was betrothed to Flavian’s friend, and though the betrothal was not a love match, Flavian didn’t feel right carrying on an affair with Cathal without Velia knowing. Or perhaps not knowing for sure how Velia felt. The marriage had been arranged, and he knew Velia had acquiesced to it because she had no choice in the matter. She had to be as happy as he was for a way out of Ardunn. As cousin to the emperor, her life had been restricted and circumscribed even more than those of most daughters of noble houses. Velia hadn’t had feelings for Cathal when she’d arrived in Tournai, but had she developed them? If she had, she hadn’t told Flavian, and he hadn’t seen any indications of it. But he would feel terrible if she was coming to love her betrothed and he began carrying on an affair with him.

  Even without those worries, there was Cathal himself to be concerned about. Certainly, Cathal hadn’t reacted poorly last night or early that morning, and yes, Cathal had seemed sincere when he told Flavian that he was attracted to him, to men, as well as to women… could it really be true? Cathal had, as far as Flavian knew, only been with women his entire life. Every careful, almost reverent touch last night made him want to believe that Cathal wanted him, but how could he? Perhaps the fact that he was a man in a dress was what made Cathal want him. He couldn’t pretend that Cathal could ignore that Flavian was a man, not after last night. But maybe the attraction was the wrapping the male body came in.

  It seemed ridiculous, but on the other hand, Flavian couldn’t believe Cathal would discard a life of attractions to women who looked like Velia to be with a man. To be with him.

  He paced his bedchamber aimlessly, turning it all over in his head, and was surprised to find himself in front of the mirror in his small dressing room. But he stayed there and stared at the reflection in the glass. Even after all the time he’d spent in his disguise, he still found looking in the mirror and seeing a woman jarring. Normally, he looked only as much as required to make sure his costume was in place. Now he stared.

  He didn’t make an unattractive woman but nor would the person in the mirror ever be called a beauty—not like Velia or even Princess Elodie, though her beauty was of a different type than Velia’s. The woman in the mirror was pretty enough and well dressed, mostly through Velia’s experience and not Flavian’s limited and reluctant knowledge. Red-gold hair—his own—was loosely dressed to blend with a matching hairpiece. The gown, chosen by Velia, was an excellent color to play up the pale gold of his skin and the color of his eyes and managed to make his body look as if it had a female form, even if it still looked more lithe than curvy. They never would have been able to mimic lush curves like Velia’s in any way that would have looked believable. Only his eyes would have looked the same whether he was in costume or not.

  Would Cathal still be attracted if he saw Flavian as a man in the light? Abruptly, he wanted to know, and more than that, he wanted out of the gown. He wanted to be himself. His fists clenched. He needed it. The deception was never meant to last so long, and Flavian was ready to jump out of his skin.

  He had to get out of these clothes.

  He tore at the fastenings of the gown, stripping himself of it and the accompanying undergarments as fast as possible. His shoes hit the wall when he kicked them off. Hairpins fell to the floor as he ripped them from the hair piece they secured from his head. Naked, he strode into the bathing room and scrubbed the cosmetics from his face with a wet cloth
. Only then did he slump back against the wall, surprised he was breathing so hard.

  Closing his eyes for a moment, he forced himself to breathe slowly, to calm down. He should get dressed again—in women’s clothes. It was too risky for him to be without them, especially in the middle of the day, even behind locked doors. But he didn’t put the gown back on; he didn’t even pick it up from the floor. He stepped over it and the other articles of clothing littering the floor and went to the trunk pushed into the corner. He opened it with the key he pulled from its hiding place on a shelf and dug among the things left in the trunk until he found a loose white shirt and a pair of gray breeches.

  Flavian’s whole body went loose and calm as soon as he put the clothes on. He was relaxed in a way he hadn’t been since he began the ruse, relaxed in a way that made him realize just how tense being someone else was making him. He would never be actor or a spy; deception on such a scale just wasn’t who he was.

  Oddly, he found himself standing in front of the mirror again. Only when he looked, the person in the mirror was one he knew well; he was himself again. Well, his hair was a bit longer than he usually kept it. He’d started growing it when he and Velia began planning the charade as it would be easier if his hair were longer. It swung in waves to his chin, but one of the first things he would do as soon as he could get out of the mess he found himself in was cut his hair.

  The truly ironic part was that he perhaps looked prettier as a man than as a woman, his features not as strongly masculine as many, but that didn’t matter. He was looking at himself again. Even if he was locked away in his bedchamber to do it.

  The sharp knock on the bedchamber door nearly threw him into a panic. Velia was out of the suite somewhere with the princess, and no one else should be knocking on his door. Perhaps if he was quiet, they would go away, or perhaps whoever it was would find a key and come in. He couldn’t answer the door dressed as he was, but nor could he dress quickly enough to answer it.

  The knock came again, and Flavian pressed a hand to his racing heart, his head starting to spin.

  “Are you there? It’s Cathal.”

  Confusion swept away panic. What was Cathal doing at his bedchamber door, and how had he gotten into the suite? Flavian strode toward the door.

  Chapter 15

  CATHAL WONDERED for the tenth or twelfth time why he was doing this. Just hours ago, he had acknowledged that having anything to do with Flavian was a poor idea, despite how wonderful last night had been, because it could lead to nothing and wasn’t fair to himself, Flavian, or Velia. And yet, he was going to see Flavian.

  But he could still hear Etan’s voice in his head, leading him to the admission that Flavian meant something to him, that he enjoyed being with Flavian. So much, in fact, that he hated with everything in him the thought of losing the chance to be with Flavian in whatever way he could, for however long he could.

  Even if it was probably a mistake that would cost him dearly.

  So there he was, skulking around in the doorway to the secret corridor nearest Flavian’s suite, checking to make sure no one was in the corridor to see him. He was probably making it all worse just by acting so furtive. If someone did see him, they would be far more suspicious than if he just walked up to the door and knocked. Especially if no one knew that Velia wasn’t in the suite.

  He waited awhile anyway, making sure no one was nearby, and then he darted down the corridor to the door. He knocked, hoping Flavian would hear and come to the door quickly, before someone came along and saw Cathal. But Flavian didn’t. Cathal put his ear to the door, but he couldn’t hear anything through the thick wood. For all the thinking he’d done about whether he should come, if Flavian wasn’t there, it would be quite ironic.

  If Flavian had locked himself in his bedroom to find some privacy, he might not have heard. Cathal tried the door handle and was surprised when it turned in his hand, allowing him into the suite’s sitting room. He shut the door behind himself. The room was empty; the door to the bedchamber on the left, Velia’s, was open, but the door to the right was closed. Perhaps he was right about Flavian locking himself in his bedchamber. And if he wanted to be alone, Cathal would leave him alone—after he did what he came to do.

  Decision made, he strode across the room and knocked. He opened his mouth to call out but hesitated. It was doubtful anyone was in there with Flavian, but he shouldn’t call Flavian by name just in case. And if someone else was present, he’d have to come up with a reason quickly for why Cathal was in the suite.

  “Are you there?” he called out after knocking again. “It’s Cathal.”

  He heard quiet footsteps and the click of the lock, but the door didn’t open. “Cathal? What are you doing here?”

  “May I come in?” He didn’t want to spoil the surprise of his gift by telling Flavian through a door.

  There was a long pause during which Cathal began to wonder if he was about to be sent away.

  “Are you alone?” Flavian’s low voice was muffled by the door. “Is anyone with you? Is anyone out there?”

  Cathal frowned. “I’m alone. May I come in?”

  “All right.” The door opened slowly, and Cathal stepped through the opening. He turned around when it shut behind him and got his first look at Flavian. He caught his breath in a sharp inhale.

  A man stood in front of him. Cathal was so used to seeing Flavian dressed as Flavia that it took him a moment to realize he was seeing Flavian. Flavian how he was without the disguise. He looked… wonderful.

  Cathal had seen him out of the gown last night in the shadows of his bedchamber. But the light had been dim, and Flavian hadn’t been entirely out of his disguise. Neither of those things was true at the moment. Flavian’s face, still lovely, was devoid of the cosmetics that made him look more feminine, and his hair was loose around his face instead of in a careful arrangement.

  Cathal’s gaze tracked down Flavian’s body, over the loose white shirt that covered what he knew now was a smooth, sleekly muscled chest, over the gray breeches that clothed long legs to the narrow, pale feet peeking out from beneath the hems. He stared at them for a moment. They were nice-looking feet. He shook himself. He was staring at Flavian’s feet and thinking them attractive. He had no idea what had come over him.

  There was so much more of Flavian to look at than just his feet anyway, so much of his new—quite attractive—appearance for Cathal to absorb. So he let his eyes wander again.

  “Cathal?”

  His gaze snapped up to Flavian’s face at the sound of his voice and the tension in it. Flavian shifted slightly. He met Cathal’s gaze briefly, then looked away, but that instant gave Cathal a glimpse of something he hadn’t expected—anxiety, vulnerability. Flavian fiddled with the sleeve of his shirt and turned his face away entirely. That was when Cathal realized Flavian was worried about what Cathal thought. Perhaps Flavian even believed Cathal wouldn’t want him after seeing him dressed as himself, as a man. And Cathal had thought he’d made Flavian understand last night.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  Flavian’s head snapped back around so sharply Cathal winced. But Flavian just stared at Cathal, eyes wide. “I’m not.”

  “You are. Just as you are.” He emphasized those last words and watched Flavian, waiting until he saw something dawn in the cerulean of Flavian’s eyes. Cathal stepped forward, closing the few steps between them. Taking Flavian’s face between his hands, he kissed him.

  Flavian gasped, but in an instant, he wrapped his arms around Cathal’s waist and met him in that kiss. Cathal moaned his approval. He swept his hands through Flavian’s soft hair, over the lines of his back and down into the back of Flavian’s breeches, squeezing Flavian’s round backside and dragging him closer, pulling him up against Cathal. Flavian groaned and clutched him tighter as Cathal continued to caress Flavian’s backside, squeezing and kneading.

  Flavian seemed to push into him, into his hands, into his kiss, and his actions, his pliancy and eagerness,
sent heat rushing through Cathal. He’d felt the same last night, but he’d thought it at least somewhat fueled by annoyance at both of them at first, and he’d managed to rein it in, to slow them down. He’d wanted to take his time, to go slowly, because he wasn’t certain of his own footing and because he believed Flavian hadn’t had enough slow and tender. It had certainly thrown Flavian off, which amused Cathal as much as it made him want to give Flavian more, more soft, cherishing touches, until Flavian craved them and everything from Cathal. But he wasn’t ready to rein himself in, not yet, not with Flavian pushing against him so eagerly, as if he would merge himself into Cathal if he could.

  He pulled Flavian up against him until the shorter man’s feet left the floor and urged Flavian to put his legs around Cathal’s waist. He groaned when Flavian complied without argument, and those long legs wrapped snugly around him, Flavian’s arms winding around Cathal’s neck at the same time.

  “We shouldn’t,” Flavian finally gasped out as he tore himself from the kiss. But his body stayed pressed to Cathal’s, his limbs tight around Cathal, his hands clutching at Cathal’s back and hair.

  “I know. Do you want to?”

  Flavian stared at him for a long moment, breathing hard. Cathal hadn’t asked that question last night, and though he knew Flavian had been more than willing, Cathal should have asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is the door locked?” Cathal asked, trying not to show how relieved he was by Flavian’s answer. He’d begun to wonder if Flavian would stop them and send him away, and Cathal could barely contain his disappointment at just the thought.

  “Yes.” Of course Flavian had locked the door. Wearing what he was, Flavian wouldn’t take the chance.

  “Good.” Cathal dove back into the kiss. In one night, he’d become addicted to kissing Flavian. But it wasn’t only one night because he’d kissed Flavian once before—the ill-advised, spontaneous kiss that had led to Cathal’s discovering who Flavian really was. Flavian’s revelations and Cathal’s need for explanations should have pushed the memory of that kiss from his mind, but it hadn’t. He thought of it often, and he wanted more. More of the feel of Flavian against him, the taste of Flavian on his tongue. Flavian tasted sweet, almost surprisingly so for someone with such a sharp tongue.