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Chapter Seven
The Costume
“The Masque is an annual costume ball to celebrate the queen’s official accession,” Nicolo explained to me after he’d just announced there was to be a costume ball.
“And the whole court attends?”
“It’s not mandatory. But yes.”
“What will your costume be, sir?” I asked, turning to give him a curious glance as we rode horses through the woods that bordered the castle. As I had imagined, Nicolo was an expert horseman. And though I tried to downplay my own ability on the grand beasts, owing to the fact that I didn’t want to appear adept in all aspects, he still appeared impressed that I could handle the steed on my own.
Nicolo pulled a face as he looked over at me. “If I had my way, I wouldn’t wear one.”
I grinned, sensing an opportunity to test the boundary between us. Recently, I’d become more daring in my dealings with Nicolo—I was pushing the limits, trying to understand what was acceptable and what was beyond. Thus far, I still didn’t know where to draw the line.
“No costume at all?” I asked with a smirk. “That’s even better than what I had in mind.”
He looked at me and frowned. “You tempt fate, Charlotte.”
“How is that?”
“Because you speak as if you have experience in such subjects.”
“And you believe I don’t?”
“Should I believe otherwise?”
I then simply gave him a smile and spurred my horse to surpass his—another pushing of boundaries that could quite easily see me unseated and with a sore rump, to boot.
Based on the heat within Nicolo’s gaze whenever I pushed those limits, I realized he enjoyed these conversations and this rebellious, playful side of me, yet he still showed a maddening reluctance to throw me to the bed and take what I wanted him to take.
And that thought raised some concerns for me. Whenever Nicolo leaned in close to correct my spelling on whichever document I was writing for him, or when he made some minor adjustment to my uniform, his fingers lingering longer than they had to, unbidden images filled my head. My heartrate would increase, my breathing would hitch and I felt sweat on the back of my neck and sharp, bright sensations pricked at my core and even lower still.
I’d told myself I had to seduce the blasted man because such was the only way I could reasonably kill him. But now I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I had other reasons.
“Come in, your Grace.”
Every official protocol demanded that Master Nicolo should have stood and bowed when I opened the door for Duke Wylder. The Duke was related to the royal family (albeit tangentially and removed by multiple generations), while Nicolo was a peasant who had simply gotten lucky (well, if one considered being wrenched from his mother lucky), and who held no official office or social standing. But, regardless, Nicolo remained seated behind his desk, being deliberately rude to the Duke. If Wylder cared or even noticed, he made no sign of it.
The name of Duke Wylder had featured prominently in the conversations I’d overheard between Nicolo and Balduin and the content of those conversations suggested that Nicolo considered Wylder a potential threat, while Balduin thought him just another preening noble out to feather his own bed.
It was nice to actually get a look at the man about whom I’d heard so much, and my immediate impression was surprise. I’d pictured one of the rotund aristocrats who were a feature of the court, men who appeared older than their true years, faces red with liquor, so large, they appeared to be with child and always accompanied by nervous, bird-like women who might have been wives, mistresses or paid for by the hour.
In appearance, at least, Duke Wylder was not of this set. I imagined him to be in his middle forties and though he’d grown heavier with age, he still managed to cut a dashing figure, and was handsome enough to carry off the extra pounds. His black hair, singed with silver, was swept back from his strong features, which were enhanced rather than marred by the roguish scar that cut across his cheek.
Wylder was an old warrior and he walked like one. The sword which swung at his side wasn’t for decoration, and I was sure the blade bore the notches of old fights. It occurred to me that, though they didn’t look alike, in his bearing and attitude, this was how Nicolo might look in twenty years.
“Nicolo,” Wylder nodded curtly.
As Nicolo had chosen not to stand and give Wylder the greeting to which he was due, so Wylder chose not to refer to Nicolo as ‘Master’.
“Will you sit, your grace?” Nicolo asked, his tone flat.
Wylder did so.
“Will you take wine? Brandy?”
Wylder raised a hand to decline. “It’s too early in the day.”
