Standing in the foyer of Averre House, Romeric Esard listened to the argument going on upstairs and could not repress a smile. The angry words did not drift down the two flights of stairs so much as ricochet, reverberating off the marbled floors and paneled walls, off the life-size statues of bronze and copper and mirrors hung strategically to cast light throughout the vast, imposing entry hall. It was a house designed to amplify the status of the family who lived there. Right now, it only amplified their discord.
Cael’s words were the only ones he could make out distinctly, his anger sharpening his words to a sword’s point. “He’s lewd and treacherous!” “He tried to murder me! Twice!” “He’s nothing but a lecherous Jurati–the only thing he’s interested in is what’s under her skirts!”
He was talking about Romeric. By rights, he had cause to challenge for such insults, though the rules were somewhat squishy for situations like this, when the words were spoken in presumed privacy. And anyway, Romeric was more amused than offended. He’d known what he might expect when he’d set out this morning to keep his appointment with Calette. To be honest, he had been looking forward to it.
Calette, though quieter than her brother, was intractable in the face of his ire. He couldn’t hear what she said, but he imagined her, stubborn and willful, defending his honor, insisting that he be allowed to stay despite Cael’s objections. He imagined her grey eyes flashing, her delicate chin tilted up in defiance, lips pursed and firm. Ahh… He hoped he would have a chance to kiss those lips soon. He imagined that, too. Her mouth softening against his. The sweet taste of her breath as her lips parted. The heat of her body, pressing into his…
A door slammed upstairs, jolting him out of his reverie. There were footsteps on the stairs, hard-heeled boots slamming angrily against the marble, and he knew it must be Cael. He straightened his shoulders and pretended interest in the large portrait hanging in the foyer, a look of mild interest plastered on his face. Cael stopped on the first landing, and Romeric counted in his head to five before turning to meet the expected scowl with a bland smile.
“Is this your sister’s work?” he asked, gesturing at the portrait. It showed a middle-aged man, hair going gray at the temples, in a suit of clothes that was surely two decades out of date.
Cael snorted. “Not hardly.” His eyes never left Romeric, as if he could sear him with his gaze alone. With obvious effort, he forced himself to say, “You can come up.” His lip curled with annoyance. “Calette always gets what she wants.”
“Pretty girls usually do!” Romeric smiled brightly, genuine this time. He headed for the stairs with a spring in his step, excited that his reunion with Calette was imminent. He took the steps two at a time, but Cael blocked his path at the landing.
“I’m warning you, Jurati cur,” he growled in a low voice. “If you touch her, I’ll kill you.”
Romeric managed not to laugh in his face, but he couldn’t help grinning. The thought of Cael laying a hand on him was ridiculous, as was the idea that he had any say over who his sister could or could not be intimate with.
He leaned close and murmured, “I thought you said she always gets what she wants.” He offered his most lascivious smile, and slid past Cael without waiting for a reaction.
“That color is all wrong.” Calette studied Romeric through half-lowered lids. Her smoky eyelashes batted against her cheeks as she considered. “I’ll get something to wrap you with.”
“You do not like my shirt?” Romeric plucked at the billowy, bright blue fabric. He’d picked it out especially, guessing that, as an artist, she’d appreciate its dramatic character.
“I don’t want anything to distract from your eyes,” she said, rummaging in a trunk on the far side of the room. She pulled out a length of dark, woven fabric and brought it over to him. They were in one of the front rooms of the house, Romeric sitting in a straight-backed chair near a wide window that spilled sunlight over him like a cloak. An easel was set up nearby, and a table crowded with paintbrushes, oils, and jars of pigment. Calette had been serious when she’d said she wanted to paint him.
Across the room, Cael sprawled on upholstered settee, watching like a hawk as Calette settled the wrap around Romeric’s neck and shoulders. Whether he’d been assigned as chaperone or taken the duty on himself wasn’t clear. When Calette bent close to tuck a corner of his collar out of sight, Romeric murmured into her ear, “Does he have to stay?”
She only smile, unperturbed, and put her hand on his chin to position his head. “Have you ever had a portrait painted?”
“Once,” he admitted. “A few years ago.”
“Right after your victory at Warden’s Shore, no doubt,” Cael sneered lazily.
Romeric snapped his head to spit out a retort, but Calette caught his chin firmly with her fingertips and moved it back where she wanted it.
“Don’t move,” she admonished. And then her eyes caught his and held them, and he forgot why he’d wanted to move in the first place. She looked at him so long and so intently, that he began to think she was going to kiss him, right there in front of her brother. At least, that’s what he very much hoped was going to happen. When she broke off the gaze at last, and released her hold on his chin, he breathed a sigh of disappointment.
“Don’t move,” she said again, then took her seat behind the easel.
It turned out that sitting for a portrait was exactly as dull as he remembered it to be, even when the artist was a pretty girl you thought you might be in love with. Calette, her attention fixed entirely on the canvas in front of her, wasn’t even the least bit entertaining. If he tried to start a conversation, she shushed him immediately, and if he moved more than to blink his eyes, she reprimanded him with a sharp command to be still.
At least he could look at her while she painted. That was something. She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered from the day they met. She was wearing a simple linen dress with a paint-spattered smock over it, her black hair tied up in a wispy knot on the top of her head. She kept sticking brushes in her mouth to hold them, and somehow she had gotten a dab of yellow paint on the tip of her nose. She was absolutely wonderful, and only his wayward fantasies of what might come later kept him seated and unmoving for the duration.
It was almost perfect, except for Cael. Romeric could see him over his sister’s shoulder, watching with undisguised menace. While he wasn’t afraid of Cael, he was annoyed by his presence. It was unfair, really, how much he looked like his sister. Cael was taller and sturdier than Calette, but they had the same rounded features and heavy-lidded gray eyes that smoldered with suppressed feeling. Their combined fixed attention for hours on end was almost more than he could bear.
The sun had disappeared from the window by the time Calette finally sat back from the easel. “It’s done,” she said with a breathy sigh. She looked over her canvas with a dreamy smile that made Romeric’s heart throb. “You can move now.”
“I’m not sure I can,” he laughed. “I may be stuck here forever.” He stretched carefully, mindful of the stiffness in his neck and back. “Perhaps we might take a walk, you and I, to loosen up a little?” He smiled. Charming. Hopeful.
“Oh, that’s a nice idea. But I have to clean my brushes.” She stood up and began gathering her paintbrushes. “Cael will show you out.”
“Thank you so much for coming, Romeric. I’m sure we’ll see each other again sometime.”
“Sometime…?” he asked, but she was already gone through the door, leaving him staring after her in bewilderment.
Cael rose form his seat across the room, cackling lowly. “Let’s see what she’s come up with now.” He stepped to the easel to inspect the canvas Calette had left behind. “Oh, perfect.”
“What?” Romeric asked, suddenly suspicious. He pulled the wrap off as he stood and circled around the easel. The canvas there was small, not much more than a hand-span in height, the paint on it still wet and glistening. But what it showed was nothing he could understand. He’d been prepared for something amateurish, and he would have found something to praise regardless how poor a portrait it might have been. But it wasn’t a portrait at all. It was just a swirl of colors on the canvas, yellow and gold, mostly, with hints of brown and orange and green around the edges.
“I don’t understand,” he said, brow furrowed in consternation.
“I think it’s supposed to be your eyes,” Cael said, glancing towards him. Their gazes met briefly, and then Cael did a quick double-take. The look lasted longer this time, and Romeric did not miss the sudden flush of Cael’s cheeks, or the quick intake of breath.
Or the way his own heart sped up in response.
They had never stood so close to one another before, without swords or barrels or Calette between them. For the first time, he saw Cael just as himself, not an obstacle or opponent to overcome. There was no prideful disdain, no angry sneer. Just a young man, as taken aback by a moment of unexpected attraction as Romeric was himself.
He could have kissed Cael then, a kiss that would have been enthusiastically reciprocated. He could tell Cael wanted him to, the tension between them pulling him closer, the subtle parting of his lips. He was probably an excellent kisser, too. Part of him very much wanted to find out.
Instead, he forced himself to turn back to the painting. Said something suitably vague and confused about the abstract muddle of colors Calette had made.
He felt more than saw Cael take a half-step away, the tension between them snapping with an almost palpable recoil. When he spoke again, it was even more snide than usual. “Calette has a unique way of looking at the world,” he said. “It tends to lead her to trouble. Like you. Aren’t you supposed to be leaving?”
Romeric smirked at the gibe, but didn’t respond. It was better this way. He’d tried once before to woo a brother and sister at the same time, and it had ended badly. Better to keep Cael at an arm’s distance. Besides, his enmity only made his pursuit of Calette all the more interesting. Another hurdle to overcome, along with her own perplexing behavior.
Still, he allowed himself a margin of regret as he followed Cael back downstairs. That swordsman’s physique, after all. Not to mention how much fun it would have been to discover what shapes all that bluster and bravado would melt into under the heat of desire. Blessed Aratanne, he said in silent prayer, why do you test me this way?
“Don’t hurry back,” Cael said as he held the door open. His words were terse, his glare hard.
“Tell Calette it was a pleasure to see her. I look forward to spending time in her company again soon.”
Judging by the scornful expression on Cael’s face, he didn’t think the message was likely to be delivered. That was all right. He would make his own opportunity to see her again soon. He left Averre House with a jaunty step, taking perverse cheer in the force with which Cael slammed the door shut behind him. The afternoon hadn’t gone as expected, but no one had tried to kill him either, which made it a fair improvement over the last time he and Calette had met. The next time…well, he would just have to make sure there was a next time.
He stopped in the street and looked up at the house behind him. There, in the window he’d sat beside while posing, he saw the figure of a woman in a white dress. It was Calette, he was sure of it, and when she saw him, she placed a hand up against the glass, as if waving farewell. In response, he bent in grandiose, flourishing bow. He thought—he couldn’t be sure, from this distance—it made her laugh.
Romeric grinned. “Until next time, ailenia,” he said, even though he knew she couldn’t hear him. “Until next time.”