by R. Cooper
“You did?” It was the barest squeak. Timothy could not fully believe what he was hearing but he had no reason to doubt it. Not even Prince Nathaniel was so polite as to pretend to be in love.
Nathaniel nodded. “You were awkward as a boy but so was I. At eighteen, I still had knobby knees and feet I hadn’t grown into. I’m sure you noticed.” Tim pretended that he had, watching Nathaniel in open fascination as he kept talking. “At sixteen, you were clumsy but your skin was starting to clear, and when I kissed you, you woke up. For a few moments, I feared you wouldn’t, and that Robin’s Egg had been wrong. But you woke and I knew then it was true. You were meant to be mine as I was meant to be yours. The night of your eighteenth birthday, I spent hours rehearsing ways to invite you into the garden with me. You dashed off to sleep with the horses instead.”
“Would you have kissed me in the garden?” Timothy kicked out in his excitement and Nathaniel caught his feet in his hands. His toes were still cold, Timothy was surprised to realize. He was aflame but his feet were chilled.
Nathaniel’s hands felt as hot as Timothy’s face. He slid his thumbs down to the arch of Timothy’s feet. Then he nodded.
“Oh, yes.” Nathaniel’s desire was dry, too—as dry as a tinderbox. “I was going to take my mother’s advice. I wanted to feel your mouth under mine again in better circumstances.”
“I have no memory of that kiss.” Timothy extended his toes and shivered all over in surprise when Nathaniel’s fingers pressed there as well, big and warm, first through the slippers and then without them after pausing to remove them. “My first and only kiss,” Timothy added, soft with embarrassment and something like hope.
“If you wished me to, I would kiss you again right now.” Nathaniel’s hands were doing things to Timothy’s ability to control his body. It seemed Nathaniel didn’t just have to be near; he could also touch Timothy to do this to him.
Timothy panted with hunger but turned his head. “What about your lover? This is your room but you have not been sleeping here.”
Nathaniel made a noise that was pleasingly rude. It seemed Timothy could spur the perfect prince as no one else could. “You do get ideas into your head, don’t you?” Nathaniel’s fingers curled around Tim’s ankles, hot as a firebrand. To think those servants had wondered about Nathaniel’s mouth when his hands were equally interesting. “I have not been sleeping, not a wink. I am—I was—two months from a wedding to the man I love, a man who hates—hated—me. If you tell me you’ve been sleeping well, I will accuse you of lying.”
“The man you love.” Timothy gulped. “But I am Little Prince.”
“My Little Prince,” Nathaniel countered and tugged on Timothy’s legs to bring him forward. Timothy’s hands landed on his shoulders, the same ones he had dreamt of night after night in his tower with his prick in his hand and no one to laugh at him. His heart was pounding, his skin raw with new sensations. He looked from Nathaniel’s eyes to his mouth. Timothy had succeeded in his best escape to date only to wind up here, his head tilted down for a kiss that was too slow in coming, a kiss he wanted among many other things. Things Prince Nathaniel might have given him sooner if he had only thought to ask.
“There is no curse,” Timothy murmured, letting the understanding shiver through him. “You’re my true love,” he realized all over again a moment later, and tumbled down from his seat.
Nathaniel fell backwards to the floor, taking Timothy with him, because somehow his arms were already around Timothy’s waist to help him take Timothy’s weight. His eyes were wide, his expression apprehensive as Timothy wriggled up to look down at him. Timothy could not blame him for that. He had given Nathaniel many reasons to worry.
But this time, he brought his hand up to gently brush his fingers over Nathaniel’s lips, and then his own, while wondering how it must have felt to have to kiss a sleeping, bespelled Timothy with no assurance that it would work.
“That was no way for us to kiss the first time,” Timothy decided aloud, in a voice that had gone husky. Nathaniel was very warm underneath him and Timothy wanted to press against him with an alarming urgency. “Me asleep, and you terrified. Then I ruined what would have been the second attempt.”
Nathaniel raised his eyes from Timothy’s mouth, his eyebrows up in a way that seemed pointed.
“We may try it again now?” Timothy asked, hopefully polite, although his voice was still strained and he could not seem to breathe normally. “Or,” he hesitated, “you will doubtless want to do what is proper and wait…”
Nathaniel, the very good and perfect prince, cupped the back of Timothy’s skull to urge him down for a kiss that did incredible things to Timothy’s body. Timothy’s stomach flipped. His heart raced. His toes tingled. He could not think or breathe until Nathaniel pulled back, and then Timothy’s only thought was that he had deprived himself of that for years now.
He licked his lips before looking up into Nathaniel’s golden eyes. “Or, we have so much time to make up for, and since the Regent is not on his way, it seems I will be here all night.” His breathless words made Nathaniel smile, which did even more to Tim’s already kiss-warmed body. Timothy traced the curve of Nathaniel’s mouth. “I don’t have to look away now,” he said, marveling.
Nathaniel startled him by kissing his fingertips. “You never really did,” he informed Timothy, charming and merciless. “But your wide-eyed longing had a definite effect.”
Timothy would have scrambled off Nathaniel in a huff and stalked away, if he hadn’t, in that moment, started to appreciate what Nathaniel meant.
“We’re two months from our wedding,” Timothy realized abruptly, shifting to better feel what he, Little Prince, did to Nathaniel. “And the advantage to this dress was that it was very easy to put on and to remove.”
Nathaniel stared at him, then pulled Timothy down again to press a soft, laughing kiss to his mouth, that quickly became another, and then one slower and warmer and heavier than the others.
After a while, Timothy forgot to count the number of kisses in favor of untying the laces of Nathaniel’s tunic and learning the stinging pleasure of love bites along his neck. He lost track of everything but the knowledge that his true love liked to be called so, and did not seem to mind Timothy’s lack of experience, and that his true love thought Timothy tempting enough to lay kisses all along his bodice and to slip his incredible hands beneath Timothy’s skirt.
Timothy had worried about the marriage bed all this time, but it turned out the floor would do just fine.
Clematis of the Cinders
THE MASKED BALL was the first of three masked dances to bring His Royal Highness, Prince David to the attention of all eligible—and suitable—parties in the kingdom of Madera. Of course, everyone was already well aware of Prince David, who was handsome and kind… and somewhat awkward, although only Maderan citizens were allowed to say so. The Prince had not been betrothed as a child, which only made him more desirable, and was likely one of the reasons he had been allowed to avoid the whole issue of marriage and keep to his education and university for so long.
One of the reasons, anyway. The Prince had also loved his time at university. Clematis knew that because the students often gathered at the nearby home of Lord Hyacinth, and the Prince and his entourage had been frequent visitors. The Prince had spent countless days using Lord Hyacinth’s library, and debating both his friends and Lord Hyacinth himself on philosophy and current political matters over luncheons and dinners, while occasionally indulging in too much wine. Lord Hyacinth’s most unusual house offered the freedom to think and discuss and learn, and the Prince had seemed very happy there. Were he not someday to be a king, Prince David likely would still be at college as some bespectacled and slightly befuddled professor, with his best friend and fiercest champion, Flor de Maga, by his side.
But Prince David had been called away by this unexpected push from the King and Queen for him to marry, or at least, to pretend to be interested in marriage. The Prince, who
had so far resisted all official matchmaking, had, for reasons of his own, agreed to play along.
Clematis happened to know some of those reasons. But it was not his place to speak of them, not that anyone would listen to a servant. And not that Clematis planned on speaking with anyone, no matter what Lord Hyacinth insisted he should do.
Clematis adjusted his costume, which included an arrangement of silver netting over most of his hair, as well as stiffer netting at his back that had been curved to resemble a dragonfly’s wings. His mask of silver and white went across his eyes but did not quite reach the bridge of his nose. Lord Hyacinth was not much one to care about current fashions, but, as this was a costume party, no one seemed to notice or care that Clematis was outfitted in something slightly old-fashioned.
Truthfully, Clematis was not certain what to make of the clothing, all of it soft to the touch but so revealing. Silver-buckled shoes, and embroidered stockings with green ribbon garters tied below his knees, and a short coat of silver, cut tight, that Clematis would have removed to give himself some freedom, except then he would have been even more exposed in his simple linen shirt, green waistcoat and breeches, and sparkles painted across the alabaster skin of his face and his neck.
Lord Hyacinth had declared him perfect. Clematis only had cold nerves in his stomach. He had felt stares since he arrived, and shivered for them, although he had safely positioned himself with his back to a wall.
He avoided the eyes of a curious footman and wondered if he could slink away to some forgotten, abandoned hall for the duration of the dancing. But he didn’t know this palace well. Clematis had worked in a few grand houses before he had found his way to Lord Hyacinth’s estate, but nothing approaching this. Though this house was only a summer residence for the royal family, it was still far more than Clematis was used to.
Despite that, he was grateful for the chance to see it, to look upon the glittering dancers, the beautiful lords and ladies displaying themselves for the unfortunate Prince and the slight, scowling, brightly dressed hummingbird at the Prince’s elbow.
Clematis helplessly turned his attention back to the dais where Prince David was nodding politely but without interest to some hopeful miss dressed as a butterfly. The Prince did not care for misses, but that did not stop them from trying, and the proposed marriage was only to be a political match, after all. The Prince looked as handsome as ever, but weary, burdened with a sadness that Clematis wondered if others saw. Flor certainly had, judging from his frown and how closely he had been watching Prince David all evening.
But this time, when Clematis looked for him, Flor de Maga was nowhere to be seen. Clematis straightened from the wall in surprise, searching through the ballroom for some sign of the iridescent green and black feathered wings Flor’s costume, the scarlet of his coat.
He didn’t find them.
Flor de Maga was known for his energy as well as the compelling strength of conviction so unusual in someone so young. His, at times, forceful manner drew people to him though he was not royalty or even higher-ranking nobility. It was not difficult to imagine he had found an interested eligible party of his own. Not everyone was here for the Prince. Some were here for a good time.
Clematis looked down at the floor in confused distress, then jerked his head up quickly when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone approach him. A man in a tiger costume was smiling at him, and Clematis’s stomach lurched with unease. Though he knew he was likely mistaken, that this was the harmless flirtation Lord Hyacinth wanted him to experience, Clematis fled without another thought, his steps too loud in his buckled shoes.
He would have removed them, but would never risk damaging his fine, borrowed stockings, although he did not care if they showcased his calves or not. He would have preferred not. Yes, Clematis had wanted this evening, this chance, had wanted it so much that His Lordship and his husband had noticed, but he did not want everyone to gaze upon him hotly. He wanted only one person to, although that was not likely to ever happen.
His heart hammering in his ears, Clematis rushed past a few startled footmen and through the first open door he saw. Thankfully, the room was empty, and seemed to be a waiting or sitting room, with a closed door in one panel that likely led to some even grander space. Clematis let his breathing even out before he wandered cautiously to the cushioned window seat and the small stack of books atop one pillow.
This room probably caught the midday sun, but it was filled with moonlight now. Clematis smiled a little as he bent down to peer at the books and found them to be novels. The young Princess’s, perhaps. Clematis picked up the top book and perched on the edge of the window seat while he flipped through the pages. There were a few words he did not yet know, although Lord Hyacinth had given him free run of his library and would encourage him to discover their meanings.
After a while, when no one came in, and Clematis wondered how the story began, he scooted farther back into the light and frowned down at the pages in earnest.
“Oh.”
Clematis was on his feet before he could blink or contemplate the husky, breathless quality in the voice of the man in the doorway.
Then he stepped back, shivering at the flush of heat that went through him when he realized exactly who had joined him.
Aside from the feathered wings, Flor de Maga hadn’t bothered with much of a costume. He had a red mask covering the top half of his face, but, at some point, must have grown impatient with the long hummingbird beak and snapped it off, leaving just a plain domino in the same iridescent red as his coat. His black hair was short, free of pomade yet filled with sparkles, as if someone had dusted him with crushed crystal. But with or without a costume, Clematis would have known him.
“Sorry,” Clematis offered belatedly. He had to force himself to speak, and that was a whisper.
“You don’t need to stop on my account,” Flor answered, as though Clematis was not already returning the book to the stack and planning how to slip away.
Flor was quiet. Many believed he couldn’t be. Clematis had witnessed Flor this way before, though never directed at him.
Clematis peeked carefully at the open doorway, but there was no one else hiding behind Flor. There was no one else around at all. Clematis’s stomach flipped, but it was not with apprehension or nerves. This feeling was much warmer, the sort of thing to make Lord Walter peer at Clematis knowingly from above his spectacles.
Flor, who should have forgotten about Clematis already and moved on, spoke again. “I assume you’re here for the same reason I am?”
That was so startling that Clematis couldn’t think of how to answer, and stared at him, his mind a blank except for the recurring, panicked, helpless realization that Flor de Maga was talking to him.
“There’s only so much greed and ambition I can take,” Flor revealed with an irritated sigh. He tugged at his domino. “Masks do nothing to hide it. No one here cares if he—” He stopped as if remembering his manners or, more likely, remembering that Prince David would want him to be polite. “Sorry, if those are some friends of yours out there,” Flor added, but it was stiff and clearly a lie.
Clematis remembered to blink, to take his focus away from the vibrating energy in Flor’s hands as he talked, the sweet, pink curve of his mouth, the shimmer in the air around him whenever he displaced some of the glitter in his hair.
Flor de Maga was as egalitarian as many of the other young, idealistic students who visited Lord Hyacinth, but this was still an odd conversation to be having with a servant he had last seen covered in ashes.
But, of course. Clematis finally came to his senses. Clematis was in costume, and even if Flor were able to look past the mask and the fine clothes, he would have no reason to remember anything about Clematis save for the soot and cold cinders Clematis had been sure to roll in whenever the students were about. It was safer to be hidden in ash and dirt from the kitchens. No one took any notice of him, even if Lord Hyacinth grew pinched and unhappy whenever Clematis men
tioned it.
“If you’re looking for the Prince, you picked a strange spot.” Flor studied Clematis for another moment, then stepped to the side of the doorway, as if just remembering he had blocked it.
“I’m not.” Clematis had to clear his throat. He shook his head to assure Flor of the truth. “I wasn’t.” Clematis could mimic posh tones, but he found his accent was less noticeable if he kept his voice low. It was not difficult to do now. His voice was naturally soft, and speaking up around Flor had always been a struggle for him. “I was hiding because I am supposed to be dancing.”
He hadn’t meant to admit that.
Flor’s chin came up. He was often belligerent and stubborn, but only ever for the sake of others. “Are you under orders to dance?” he asked in disbelief.
Clematis didn’t know what to do with his hands under so much of Flor’s attention. “In a way,” he explained at last. “Lord Hy—someone I know believes I should… that it would be good for me. He wants me to have fun and to… there is a list, you see.”
“A list?” Flor probably thought him ridiculous.
“Try any bon bon that looks good,” Clematis recited nonetheless. “Have a glass of wine. Dance. Be kissed by—” he took a breath. “Talk with a handsome man or a pretty woman, but leave them if it becomes too much.” He made a fluttery, nervous gesture. “Some are impossible. I have sipped wine. I have eaten a glacé plum—two,” he corrected himself guiltily, and glanced up to see Flor smiling, which left him breathless and flustered once again. “But I don’t know anyone, so I have not danced.”
“To the regret of everyone on the dance floor,” Flor murmured, and didn’t seem to notice how Clematis stared at him. Flor nodded decisively. “If you don’t like it, don’t do it.”
“Sometimes that isn’t a choice,” Clematis said softly despite the stirring in his chest, and didn’t know what to make of the fearless Flor de Maga looking abashed and then ashamed of himself. Clematis shook his head. “However, I don’t know if I don’t like it. I still haven’t done it.” Except for practicing with Lord Walter, who was much gentler about these things than his husband.
