Flavian leaned down and gave Cathal a soft kiss. Cathal smiled and forced back the voice inside telling him it was a bad idea to feel so pleased that Flavian had liked one little gift so much.
Chapter 16
FLAVIAN HADN’T seen Cathal since the man left Flavian’s bed the afternoon before, after he saw Flavian dressed as the man he was, took him to bed, then gave him a very thoughtful gift. Leaving Flavian unsure which part left him the most confused, but with no idea what to make of any of it anyway.
Cathal had seemed reluctant to leave yesterday afternoon, saying over and over that he needed to go, but snuggling back into the bed each time and curling himself around Flavian. He’d kissed and nuzzled and touched Flavian, almost purring when Flavian hesitantly touched him back. Finally, Cathal had glowered at the time and torn himself away to attend some sort of meeting with Prince Philip. Cathal had told Flavian that he wouldn’t be having dinner with him, Velia, and her aunt and uncle that night because of a dinner obligation with the princes. But he had said Flavian could use the passageways and come to Cathal’s suite later at night. Cathal’s hopeful expression was almost enough to make Flavian melt all on its own.
Cathal had seen him without the gowns and the cosmetics and the hair that transformed him into Lady Flavia, and it hadn’t changed anything. Cathal still desired him after seeing him as a man, that much had become clear. Sort of clear. Flavian still didn’t really understand why Cathal wanted him, but he had to admit that Cathal did.
But he hadn’t gone to Cathal’s bedchamber last night.
He’d wanted to, so much. He’d stood in the center of his own bedchamber, paralyzed by indecision. Wanting to go to Cathal, knowing it was a poor idea. Finally, he forced himself to take off his gown, less violently than he had earlier in the day, and readied himself for bed. Then he had gone to his own bed, alone. And lay awake most of the night wishing he had gone to Cathal.
He liked that Cathal wanted him, more than liked it, a little voice whispered. But it would get him in trouble. It had to. There was no other way it could end if he let himself care about Cathal, if he let himself become enmeshed in Cathal’s life and world, because Cathal was going to marry Velia. More and more, Flavian realized that marrying Velia was nothing more than an obligation for Cathal—one Cathal would fulfill to the best of his abilities, just as he seemed to every other obligation he had. Cathal hadn’t chosen his marriage, but he would go through with it because he was a man who knew his duty. And Flavian would be left without him.
It shouldn’t have been a problem. All Flavian wanted was to disappear and create a new life for himself. A new life that should not include a too-proper, or perhaps not-quite-proper-enough, heir to a royal duke. He shouldn’t want it to include such a man. He shied away from the feeling that perhaps he did, or that he could, given time. He shouldn’t spend more time with Cathal, shouldn’t let himself become more entangled with a man who could never be his.
And yet he was wondering when he could see Cathal again. And he hadn’t told Velia that Cathal knew about Flavian, let alone that he and Cathal had gone to bed together. Twice.
He had gotten himself into quite a mess.
The garden had become Flavian’s refuge. A place he could go and be by himself because a lady could stroll in the garden or sketch there without it seeming odd. He would be happy for that pretense to end. He wandered the paths for a long time, turning everything over in his mind again, wondering if maybe it was time to leave after all, even without the prince’s permission.
Somehow, his feet brought him to the little walled garden he’d discovered during that first garden party, where Cathal had discovered him. Cathal had followed him that day, Flavian was almost certain of it, though he wasn’t positive why. The little voice whispered that perhaps Cathal had been attracted even then, but he pushed it aside.
The vivid purple roses he had admired on his first visit were still in bloom. He’d wanted to paint them then, and the impulse hadn’t waned. They were unlike any flower, any color, he had ever seen. He’d found a lot in Tournai that was unlike anything he had ever experienced. The roses were perhaps the simplest for him to contemplate.
Painting them still wasn’t possible, but he had the means to draw them with color. He glanced down at the box of pastels he carried with his sketchbook. A surprising and thoughtful gift. He hadn’t quite been able to fathom it or Cathal’s motivation for giving it to him at the time—he still couldn’t. When he’d seen the quality of the materials in the box, he’d considered not accepting the gift, but, well, he wanted them. His artist’s heart craved them, and his man’s heart fluttered that Cathal had thought to buy them for him.
Flavian tried to concentrate on the artist’s feelings.
Seating himself on a stone bench near the roses, he tried to make himself as comfortable as possible. He longed for the time when he could sit any way he chose because he didn’t have to worry about a gown and appearances. Opening the box of pastels, he was dazzled once again by the array of colors and greedy to begin using them. His fingers hovered over the sticks before he settled on one and turned to a blank page in his sketchbook. He would try to capture the colors of that rose, the greens of the leaves, the shadows of the gray stone wall behind… the magic that rose seemed to represent for him.
The pastels glided smoothly across the page as he drew, the colors vivid and true. Cathal had not only bought him a thoughtful gift but also spent the time to make certain he got Flavian the best quality and variety of colors. He wondered if Cathal had had to ask for help. Probably—he didn’t think Cathal knew much about an artist’s tools, so Cathal had put a lot of effort into something he called a little gift.
And Flavian had no idea what that thoughtfulness meant. He wasn’t one to be wooed by expensive gifts, not that anyone had ever tried, so if that was what Cathal was doing, he was doomed to failure. Flavian just couldn’t understand why Cathal would do it at all.
He smiled wryly and switched colors. His confusion wasn’t stopping him from using Cathal’s gift, was it? He shaded with his fingers; he would end up with smudged fingerprints all over his skirt, and he didn’t care one bit. Velia would care. She would scold him for ruining the gown. Then she would scold him for jeopardizing both of their futures by sitting out in the garden and ruining his gown.
He should just tell her that Cathal and the princes knew. Then maybe she would relax a little, at least as his deception pertained to her. But something kept holding him back, and he had no idea what it was. Yes, if he told her, he would have to tell her how Cathal had found out, and he couldn’t even contemplate telling her about kissing Cathal. Flavian feared how difficult the conversation could be, feared how Velia would react—mostly because he had no idea how she would react. He had been friends with her for years, and he still didn’t know what she would say when she found out.
So he kept putting off finding out. It was wrong. He had to tell her. He wondered if he should tell Cathal what he was going to do first, but he didn’t see how that made a difference. Unless Velia broke their betrothal and returned to Ardunn saying horrible things about the royal family of Tournai and how they insulted her. He couldn’t see Velia doing that. She was happy to leave Ardunn’s restrictions behind, almost as happy as Flavian was.
But if her aunt and uncle found out, the outcome might be different. The duke was a loyal supporter of the emperor. If he found out Cathal was having an affair, well, it would be bad for all of them. He would take it as an insult to his niece and to Ardunn. No good would come of that for Tournai. No good would come of it for Flavian either. He would end up dragged back to Ardunn and whatever punishment the emperor decided was appropriate, and there would be nothing he could do about it.
That couldn’t happen. He couldn’t go back.
He stared at the vivid purple rose, but he wasn’t seeing it anymore. He had no idea what to do.
FLAVIAN DIDN’T come to Cathal’s suite for several days, despite Cathal doing his bes
t to renew the invitation with significant looks or comments when he did see Flavian. Cathal had to be subtle, furtive even, about it, because he only ever saw Flavian while surrounded by other people who couldn’t find out what they were to each other.
Whatever that was.
It shouldn’t be anything, Cathal knew. He knew he should acknowledge Flavian was smarter than he and forget the thing between them, but for some reason, Cathal couldn’t. He took a chance one day when he realized Velia was with Elodie and went in search of Flavian. But maids were cleaning the suite Flavian shared with Velia, and Cathal didn’t find Flavian in any of his usual places in the garden. To Cathal’s chagrin, Etan realized what Cathal was doing and told him to check the library. His embarrassment didn’t stop him from following his brother’s direction.
Cathal stepped into the library’s main room and glanced around. No Flavian, and Cathal would have been able to see him in the large, open room. The two windows flanking the ornate fireplace were the only windows in the room, but they lit the space amply. The rest of the walls were covered in bookshelves, reaching up two stories, some only accessible from a balcony running the perimeter of the room. It was all gleaming wood and stained glass and the scent of books. The library had always been the place Etan felt most at home, but Cathal loved the room too. Thick rugs muffled his footsteps as he traversed the marble floor, weaving around tables and comfortable chairs.
Cathal walked through a doorway and began to search the warren of rooms that made up the rest of the library. They were smaller, some windowless, but no less comfortable or charming or filled with books. He didn’t see another person until he came to a small room near the back of the library, and there was Flavian.
Flavian turned when Cathal stepped into the room, and surprise, pleasure, and trepidation chased each other across his face. Cathal hung on to the pleasure.
“Cathal.”
“Flavian.” He closed the door.
Flavian watched him, suspicion predominant in his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” Because Cathal was watching closely, he saw Flavian begin to soften, saw the skepticism that tried to take over. That wouldn’t do. “I missed you.”
“You just saw me at lunch.”
“Surrounded by other people.”
“So?” Flavian turned back to the bookcase to replace a book.
“You know what I mean.” He walked closer and leaned against the edge of the table. “I miss being with you alone, getting to talk to you.”
“Just talking?”
“Not just talking, but not having to pretend.”
“I like not having to pretend too.” Flavian leaned against the table at Cathal’s side, settling the skirt of his gown around him. “Well, mostly.”
Cathal smiled and looked around, trying to remember what was shelved in this section of the library. Etan would know. “What are you doing in the library?”
“Prince Amory and I have been discussing glass art, but I don’t know much about it. I thought I’d see what I could find.”
“Have you had any luck?” He remembered finally that the books about art were back in this area, but he wouldn’t have been able to say exactly where books about glass might be.
“Yes, some. Etan pointed me in the right direction.”
And that explained how Etan knew where Flavian was. “Etan would be able to. I think he knows the library better than anyone. It might be his favorite place in the palace.”
“But not yours?”
“Not the way it is his, but I enjoy it much more now than I did as a child. There’s a small reading room that I like on a chilly night—the furniture is a little older but comfortable, and with a fire, it’s cozy there. Quiet.” A nice place for a quiet night alone, but now his mind put Flavian into the chair next to Cathal’s. He wondered if he would get the chance for that pleasant vision to come true. “But when I was a child, I was more interested in hiding behind the furniture and pouncing on my brother while he was trying to read.”
Flavian stared at him for an instant and then laughed, a delighted, genuine peal of laughter that Cathal was immediately charmed by. “You didn’t.”
“I did. And then we would end up wrestling and chasing each other all over the library.”
Flavian was grinning and still laughing quietly. “Gamboling about like puppies.”
More like kittens. “You seem surprised.”
Flavian’s laughter died away. Cathal missed the sound immediately. “I just pictured you as a more serious, proper child.”
“I suppose I was, when I had to be.” Father wanted him to be.
“A bit like now.” Flavian stared up at him, his eyes far too perceptive.
“Hmm.” He lifted his hand to Flavian’s cheek, stroking lightly. “Flavian.”
Flavian murmured something as Cathal leaned in to kiss him, but it was lost in the kiss. On a groan, Flavian clutched at Cathal’s shoulders and pulled him closer. Without breaking the kiss, Cathal moved to stand in front of Flavian, grabbed him up, and lifted him to sit on the table.
Flavian tore his mouth away with a gasp. “Cathal—”
But Cathal just dove back into the kiss. He didn’t want to stop now that he’d gotten to taste Flavian again. It had only been a few days, but it was already too long. Flavian seemed to feel the same. He gave up trying to talk as his hands clutched at Cathal’s arms and shoulders. Flavian finally wrapped himself around Cathal, arms and legs, fusing them together.
As he moved his hands over Flavian’s body, he wished Flavian’s skin wasn’t covered by the heavy silk of the gown he wore. Flavian arched into his hands, even as he pushed into the kiss, deepening it, taking control from Cathal. Cathal let him, happily let himself drown in Flavian’s kiss, even as he snuck his hands under Flavian’s skirt and up along his legs.
“Cathal,” Flavian gasped as Cathal took him in hand, stroking slowly. He wanted to watch Flavian’s face, loved how open he was in his passion. Beautiful. “Yes. You too.”
Flavian’s hands fumbled at the front of Cathal’s breeches, but Cathal pushed them aside and took care of the task himself. Cathal took them both in hand, pressing their lengths together and stroking them both. He moaned at the feel of Flavian’s hardness against his own, but the sound was lost as Flavian pulled him back into a kiss, more passionate and desperate than the last.
It didn’t take long after that. But they kept kissing, kisses gentling as their hearts slowed, as they calmed. Cathal slipped his arms around Flavian, content to rest there with this man in his arms, and Flavian seemed to be too—for a moment.
Flavian pulled away so quickly he set Cathal off balance. “We shouldn’t have done this.”
Cathal couldn’t speak for a few heartbeats. “Flavian—”
“No, we shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have. And especially not here. Anyone could have come in and seen us. We both would have been in trouble then.” Flavian hopped off the table and swayed. Cathal reached out to steady him, but Flavian shook off his hand. “I have to go.”
“Flavian—” But Flavian was already out the door and rushing away.
Cathal slumped against the table. What had just happened?
OVER THE next few days, Flavian reminded himself repeatedly that the interlude with Cathal in the library had been a mistake. The reminders had to be frequent because he thought of it constantly—every time he saw Cathal and often when he didn’t, when he was sketching or reading or not thinking of anything in particular. And it would have been one thing if all he thought about was the time he’d spent in Cathal’s arms, but he also thought about how they’d talked, laughed.
Cathal said he’d missed Flavian, and Flavian missed Cathal too. They saw each other all the time, and Cathal made a point of talking to Flavian every time he saw him, but they weren’t alone. They couldn’t really talk; they couldn’t be themselves. Flavian realized at some point that he wasn’t the only one putting on a different face in public, thou
gh his was more obvious, and something in him went warm and soft at the thought that Cathal dropped that face for Flavian.
He was tempted every day to slip off to Cathal, and every day he forced himself not to. He couldn’t let himself care for Cathal.
And yet Cathal was the first person he thought of when he wanted to get away. Or, really, hadn’t thought. As he stormed out of the sitting room, ignoring Velia calling after him, his feet just carried him to Cathal’s door. He hesitated there, his hand poised to knock, but he’d come this far, and there was nowhere else he wanted to go. A sharp rap on the door, and he waited, glancing up and down the corridor, hoping no one would turn the corner before Cathal opened the door. Hoping Cathal was there to open the door. He hadn’t even considered Cathal wouldn’t be. Or that Cathal might not be alone if he was.
But just as he was beginning to think he would need to hurry away, the door opened to reveal Cathal. “Flav—Flavia? What are you—Come in here.”
Flavian slipped inside, and Cathal shut the door behind him. Cathal turned back to look at him, the surprise on Cathal’s face giving way to pleasure and then concern. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
Cathal hesitated. “You look upset.”
Flavian just looked at him for a moment. Cathal standing there, somehow more handsome in the loose shirt and breeches than in his court finery, with concern for Flavian softening his features. “I am upset. I shouldn’t have bothered you though.”
“Yes, you should. You can always come to me.”
The quiet, simple statement stunned Flavian and left him floundering for words.
“Would you like some wine? Then you can tell me, if you want. If not, we’ll just sit and sip our wine.” Cathal brushed his fingers over Flavian’s cheek.
The Artist’s Masquerade Page 21