Miss Weston's Masquerade

‘That’s another house,’ he explained. ‘Every building is crowded in against its neighbour, land is so scarce.’ He turned away and mounted the staircase in the wake of the major domo, trying not to think about the alluring woman so close and the temptations of the one even closer.

Chapter Thirteen

Cassandra mused to herself that she was certainly learning a great deal about the world. She could hazard a guess at the woman’s profession, but somehow the broad daylight made her state of undress seem even more scandalous. Nicholas had not seemed to react at all. Perhaps he hadn’t seen quite as clearly as she had.

They were shown into a suite of rooms overlooking the canal at the front and the courtyard at the side. Nicholas’s bedchamber faced directly across from the courtesan’s balcony and Cassandra closed the carved wooden shutters and jammed down the locking bar. ‘The sunlight is bad for the draperies,’ she explained, as he blinked in the sudden gloom.

‘The perfect housewife,’ he remarked drily, but made no move to re-open them. ‘Baths and hot water for myself and for my valet,’ he said to the major domo, but the man was already ushering in footmen with hip baths and brass water jugs.

Cassandra retreated to her own room which adjoined Nicholas’s with a shared balcony between them. As she closed the shutters, she peeped across at the opposite window, but it, too, was shuttered now.

The magnificence of her chamber stunned her with its cool, high ceiling adorned with cherubs and gods disporting on swirling clouds. The walls were lined with painted and gilded panelling interspersed with vast, cloudy mirrors and the bed was piled high with silk-covered pillows and hung with billowing draperies.

Cassandra caught a glimpse of herself in the glass and shuddered. Her hair was dark with dust and perspiration and her skin was dirty, too. Under the grime she suspected that she was not only tanned, but freckled also. She tore off the restricting waistcoat with a sigh of relief and threw off the rest of her clothing. The wide boards were cool under the soles of her feet and she wandered naked across the room to peer more closely at her reflection.

Her shoulders and breasts were milk white in contrast to the golden tan of her face and hands. The poor food and the strains of the journey had honed her already slender body and the unaccustomed freedom of striding around in breeches had sculpted her leg muscles, chasing away all traces of girlish plumpness.

Suddenly self-conscious, Cassandra crossed to the door onto the landing and turned the key. The major domo would not be inclined to knock before entering the room of a mere valet. Doubtfully, she contemplated the tall double doors connecting her chamber with Nicholas’s. There was no key in this escutcheon.

Need she worry? Nicholas had always been scrupulous in respecting her privacy, even when they were sharing a room. But yet, she felt uneasy. Perhaps it was the opulent femininity of the room, the air of decadence hanging over the whole city. She carried the painted and gilded chair from the dressing table and wedged it as best she could under the door handles.

The bath was deep and hot and, when she had washed all over once, she unlocked the door, retreated behind a screen and rang for more water. Clean at last, she let her mind drift as she luxuriated in the scented warmth. It was remarkable how quickly being clean lifted her spirits and improved her temper. Why, she felt quite in charity with Nicholas again.

Unbidden, the memory came back of lying against his long body, safe in the shelter of his arms, and more disturbing, the recollection of that kiss in Paris, the response it had kindled in her…

Idly, she squeezed out the sponge and saw how wrinkled her fingertips had become. It was time to get out before she resembled a prune. A pile of large linen towels were heaped on a chest and Cassandra draped one around herself under her armpits, tucking it in at the front. She found a smaller one and began to rub her wet hair, so much easier to dry now in its boyish crop.

Glancing up, she gazed at the ceiling once more, the painted scene suddenly making sense, revealing itself not as an innocent pastoral scene as she had thought but as a naughty playground where gods and satyrs chased naked nymphs through wooded glades. And when they caught them…

Her mouth dropped open at the explicitness of what was depicted there. Did men and women truly do that, like that? And, if they did, was it as pleasurable as it was depicted here?

Fascinated, Cassandra walked slowly backwards, her head tipped right back as she followed the unfolding scene.

‘Cassandra?’ Nicholas’s voice called, but she was scarcely aware of it. The next second there was a crash, a curse and Nicholas was lying on top of her, inexplicably entangled in a chair.

‘What the devil?’ he gasped. ‘Why was that chair there? Are you hurt?’

Cassandra pushed the wet towel from her mouth and the hair from her eyes. He had knocked the wind out of her as they had fallen together and for a moment she couldn’t speak.

‘Cassandra?’ His green eyes, full of concern, were very close and her damp limbs were entwined with his.

‘I’m all right,’ she managed to say. ‘You squashed the breath out of me. Why didn’t you knock?’

‘I did, but there was no reply. I was worried about you, thinking you might have fallen asleep in the bath and drowned yourself.’

It seemed to Cassandra that indeed Nicholas was concerned for her. He was pale, his breath uncertain and he held her to him strongly. He was stroking her bare shoulder, almost as though he was unaware he was doing so, and his gaze was on her mouth.

‘Nicholas…’

‘Yes?’ His voice was husky, his face so close that his breath fanned her cheek.

‘I wanted to ask you something, but I think you will be shocked.’

He brushed the wet hair away from her temples and smiled down at her. ‘You can ask me anything, Cassandra.’

‘Well… this ceiling.’ She freed an arm and pointed upwards. ‘I… I mean… does that sort of thing really go on between men and women? I thought I knew… you know, what happens. But nothing like that.’ She pointed to a particularly rapacious and inventive satyr.

Nicholas was silent, following her pointing finger. Then he broke into helpless laughter, rolling over and releasing her as he did so. He sat up, hands on knees, and regarded her as she gathered up the folds of towelling.