As a Domme, I couldn’t remember the last time a lover had requested I wear anything for them—it was I who did the requesting, it was I who set the scene, selected the costumes, and tread the stage. But I couldn’t muster too much unhappiness about it because everything had fit perfectly. Exquisitely.
When I put on the dress, when I was all pale skin and black hair and green silk and gold wings, I looked like the ethereal woodland fairy my ex-husband used to tease me about being.
Morgan le Fay.
Even after everything—the divorce, the loneliness, the regrets—the memory still brings a smile to my face.
So no, I couldn’t be wholly upset by the costume. It was and is objectively perfect.
And the masquerade as a location for my blind date is actually a stroke of genius, as much as I was initially reluctant to admit it. Other than Lyonesse itself, there is no more perfect venue for anonymity than the Constantine estate—not only because all the guests will be masked, but because it’s also one of those rare, exclusive gatherings where a sitting veep will be one of the less interesting guests anyway.
Also, I’ll have plenty of chances to escape if I feel like Mark has set me up with someone I can’t stand.
So, if I’m not actually embarrassed or fearful for my privacy, then I suppose Mark was right all along, and I am nervous.
Fuck him for being right again.
As if he’s reading my thoughts—which he probably is—he takes hold of my hand. The limo turns down the long, curved drive leading to the Constantine’s Georgian mansion, and the fresh glow of lights sends glimmers dancing off my dress and wings.
“I will take you home the minute you want to go,” Mark promises. “Understood?”
We’ve been friends a long time, him and me. And in him, I’ve always recognized something of a kindred spirit; I may not be a monster, but I’ve been called a witch more times than I can count.
I muster a smile back at him, feeling like a girl going to her first dance and not a forty-two-year-old world leader. “Understood.”
The front of the massive house is decked with flowers and lights, and guests in masks are laughing their way up the stairs. “How will I know whom I’m supposed to be meeting?” I ask Mark as our limo finally rolls to a stop. Mark had kept the name of my date a secret, claiming that it went against the spirit of a masquerade to reveal such things too early.
“I think your date is arriving much later than us,” Mark says, tying a simple black domino around his head. With his sun-bronzed skin and dark blond hair, he needs little other ornamentation to look dashing and dangerous as hell. “Until then, you are under strict orders to enjoy yourself.”
Now I finally do glare. “You know I don’t take orders.”
Mark just laughs at me, his eyes dropping down to my dress, to the ridiculous wings spreading behind me. “Oh, is that right?”
I’m ready to deliver a scathing retort when Mark’s bodyguard opens the door for us, and it’s time for us to get out. “Thank you, Tristan,” I say as the silent ex-soldier hands me out of the car.
He’s got the same lightly suntanned skin as Mark, but dark, dark hair and beautifully tragic features cut right out of a Victorian fairy tale. And when he helps Mark out of the car as well, I don’t think I imagine that Mark keeps his hand in Tristan’s for a beat longer than necessary.
“Here,” Mark says, producing another domino from his pocket. He hands it to Tristan. “This is for you.”
Tristan’s face doesn’t change, but I can sense the discomfort rippling through him. “I’m not dressed for a masquerade, sir.”
“You’re in a suit, and that’s good enough. Plus, you’ll have a mask. What else do you need?”
“I was given to understand the Constantine security was sufficient for tonight, and that you would not require me inside—”
“Then you were mistaken. I require you inside very much. Whom else will I dance with?”
Even in the velvet evening, with only the lights from the house pouring onto the drive, I can see Tristan struggle with a response to that. He flushes. “Very well, sir.”
“Good boy. Meet me inside after the car is safely parked.” And without a glance backward, Mark takes my arm and leads me up the shallow front steps into the mansion, stopping at the front door to help me affix my gold mask. A faint breeze finds its way through the high slit in the tulled skirt of my gown and caresses the skin exposed by the deep V of my bodice.
“He’s young,” I remark after Mark’s finished with my mask. “And thank you.” I almost wish I could stop and attend to some of the more invisible parts of my costume, which are both deeply uncomfortable and strangely stimulating, but I assume I’ll have time once we get inside and start circulating.
“You’re welcome. And I haven’t fucked him, if that’s what you’re trying to ask.” He hands the doorman our invitations, and then we both proceed inside, trailed discreetly by my Secret Service detail. Neither Mark nor I pay them any mind.
“Do you want to fuck him?” I ask.
We move easily through the foyer, following the elegant strains of music coming from the ballroom. “I wouldn’t object to it, no,” Mark says. “Would you?”
I think of Tristan’s pout-shaped mouth and his haunted eyes…and all those rippling, ex-soldier muscles. “Of course not.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“I’m a woman of simple tastes—oh.”
Oh.
We have just reached the ballroom, and it is like something out of a movie, like something out of a poem. A play. A Shakespearean fever dream of glittering crystal, gilt everything, and tumbling roses of ivory and dipped gold. White wisteria and roses hang from the chandeliers, entire trees have been moved into the corners, and there are small alcoves carpeted in what appears to be fresh moss. The ballroom—already a cathedral-sized space, already richly adorned—is now a hymn to sumptuousness, to extravagant beauty.
And the guests?
I see swans and nymphs, pirates and nereids. A woman in a full porcelain mask sails past us, her petticoats swishing as she’s chased by a man wearing a brightly checkered harlequin’s costume. As we descend the grand staircase down the ballroom floor, couples swirl in froths of feathers and eddies of silk. Some are in waistcoats, some in dresses, some in bodysuits, and everywhere are elaborate hats and headdresses trimmed with feathers, veils, bells, flowers. Several people have wigs with model ships and tiny birdcages lodged in the curls, and several others have opted for crowns or tiaras instead. The guests are dripping with jewels, all of them to a one. The crowd shimmers and sparkles even more than the ballroom itself.
“You were saying about simple tastes?” Mark asks with some amusement.
“Shut up.”
“Ah, Morgan Leffey. Brought low like the rest of us by mortal pleasures.”
“What,” I say, turning to him with an eyebrow raised behind my mask, “about any of my time in your club has ever made you think I don’t enjoy mortal pleasures?”
“I didn’t say ‘didn’t enjoy’, I said ‘brought low’—oh, there is our hostess. Shall we go and make our gratitudes?”