Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
“The man is a beast,” Ophelia murmured, taking in her reflection, “However, I must say he does do well with men’s fashion.”
She turned her shoulders left, then right, taking in the fit of the black clothes and mask Tristan had sent her.
She had no idea how he had estimated her sizes, but everything about the suit and black leather shoes was a perfect fit.
It was tight enough to not make her appear childlike, but loose enough to hide her feminine figure- as long as she wrapped her breasts- which she always did anyways when working.
In place of her newsboy hat he’d sent her a black soft gambler hat.
The mask he’d sent her was, to her surprise, carved almost identical to his own.
At first she scoffed at his lack of thought into the mask, but as she slipped it on, she quickly changed her mind.
The carved features of the mask sealed away any trace of her feminine identity.
Unlike Tristan’s though, there was opening for the mouth, but instead included carved thin, sculpted lips so no one could see her plump real ones.
She tucked her hands into the pockets of her trousers, taking in the full view of her new disguise. Ophelia hated to admit it, but she looked very good.
At ten, she snuck out of her father’s house the way she usually did by way of her balcony and met the blacked-out carriage with matching horses at the back gate.
The driver said nothing to her as she climbed inside, as if he knew she was exactly who he was waiting for, and drove off the moment she shut the carriage door.
This time when she walked up to the doorman outside the club and showed her invitation, he did not bat an eye.
Instead he gave her a respectful bow of his head and motioned for her to go inside.
As usual there were already dozens of people inside, all in various degrees of nudity.
Some were just talking, others were already engaged in erotic acts.
She blushed a little less this time, and instead wondered what such courage would feel like.
“Much better.”
Ophelia jumped as she heard Tristan’s deep voice the moment she stepped into the main room.
She looked toward the sound of his voice, and found him in the same mask and type of suit he’d had on before.
Refusing to admit that he had good taste; especially after that nasty trick he’d pulled at lunch, she simply gave a nod.
“Not speaking to me?” He asked, his voice tinged with amusement.
Ophelia bristled at the tone.
“Well, your rules were quite clear. I am not allowed to disrespect you within these walls,” she answered with with an clipped, icy tone.
Tristan smirked, annoying her even further.
“Well, look who knows how to obey after all,” he goaded, then turned around.
“Follow me,” he added promptly as Ophelia gnashed her teeth together.
Her walk was stiff as she followed him once more to the hidden hallway beyond the mirrors as her mind teetered between giving in to thinking about their kiss, rage that he had somehow tricked her into kissing him back; and the fact that she still very much needed his money.
Tristan led her to the same room as before, where the same four women had gathered once again, and where her painting from the other night stood. The four women wiggled their fingers at Ophelia as she entered the room with Tristan, and she timidly raised a hand back.
“Look who got a costume upgrade,” the blonde praised, running her eyes up and down Ophelia’s person.
“Mmm…you may be fun to play with now,” the brunette purred, biting her lower lip.
Ophelia was suddenly thankful for the mask, for her entire face erupted with flames as her mind panicked on how to answer.
“Ladies, no more teasing the artist,” Tristan mused, coming to Ophelia’s aid in the most annoying fashion.
“Our talented friend is here to paint and paint only. There will be no playing.”
To Ophelia’s surprise, all four of them pouted. Then another heavy thought hit her- had Tristan bedded them all? Maybe even at the same time?
He was the owner of Devil’s Masquerade. It would make sense that he would enjoy such a thing.
And after the way they acted with him the other night, he must know them intimately in some way by the way they fawned over him.
Ophelia’s stomach twisted strangely at the realization, but did her best to ignore it. She did not care. Why should she?
“This will be your only posed painting,” Tristan explained, pulling her back to the present.
“These four lovely ladies have agreed to sit for you one more time,” he went on, “Then once you are finished, I will take you on a tour of the club.”
“What, why?” Ophelia asked, barely lowering the bass in her voice in time. She feigned a cough, hoping to pull her high tones off as just a tickle in her throat.
Tristan smirked again.
“I want you to capture the essence of our little erotic paradise, not our members. As you can possibly imagine, not many of them are willing to risk being identified.”
Though she was curious as to why these four particular women before her were so willing to take that chance, she kept her question to herself, and nodded, not wanting to risk giving her gender away again.
“Now I have some business matters to attend to,” Tristan went on, straightening his jacket, “But I will be back to check on your progress soon, so do not dawdle.”
Again, questions arose. What business? Was that code for bedding one or several of the other willing women in the club? Despite her curiosity Ophelia only nodded, telling herself that she should not and did not care what he meant.
Once the door closed again, Ophelia went about opening her case. As she did before, she set about putting her new canvas in an even sightline, and began her work. With the freedom that came with not being watching, Ophelia relaxed, and let her talent inspiration flow through her.
This time even she recognized that she was creating more than anatomical replicas of the posed women before her.
As she painted, she brought in the shadows and lights along their bodies.
She darkened the red of the silk brocade bedding, added shimmers to the highly shined wooden bedposts.
Tristan was right. Compared to this painting, her first painting was bad.
Ophelia was so lost in her work that she did not hear the door open and close, or the footsteps that drew toward her.
It wasn’t until she felt Tristan’s fingertips draw up her spine and to the back of her neck that she realized he’d returned.
His soft touch sent sparks through her body, the heat of the palms of his hands seeped through the layers of her disguise.
It made her tremble, and sent her brush dashing a mistake across the canvas.
She silently cursed, caught between the pleasure of his touch and the annoyance that such had caused her to make a mistake- even if it was a small one. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, cooling her temper.
Never matter. The mistake is small. I can fix it.
Ignoring the pleasure that radiated from Tristan’s touch at the back of her neck, Ophelia cleaned the shimmering gold paint from her brush. She then moved to dab it into the deep red that would that disguise the mistake- and then Tristan’s other hand closed over hers.
“Leave it,” he murmured, so close to her ear that she could feel his breath, “I like it. It adds something.”
Ophelia cleared her throat, readying herself to speak.
“Well then, I am finished.” she said in as low of a voice as she could go.
To her surprise, Tristan let out a throaty chuckle. She glanced back at him with a glare, sure that it wasn’t her words that amused him but the tone she’d spoken them with.
Grinning now, Tristan took a step back and slowly clapped his hands.
“Better,” he praised, “Much better.”
“May we see?” The raven-haired woman asked.
“Later, darlings,” he said kindly, “For now I must speak to our artist alone. Move along. We will see you out there.”
The surprisingly obedient women stretched as they did before after their posing, only this time they did not come to peek at Ophelia’s work. Tristan waited until they were gone and the door was closed before he reached out and pulled off Ophelia’s mask.
“Ah,” he said with a grin, “I thought I would find a glare under there.”
“You were correct,” she said icily. “You know it is very difficult for me to follow your rules when you goad me by laughing at me. You know I have to speak like that. I have to protect my identity.”
To her surprise, Tristan put a hand to his heart and gave her a slight bow.
“You are right, that was in poor taste,” he agreed. “I will try to refrain from now on.”
Ophelia shifted on her feet, uncomfortable with Tristan actually agreeing with her.
“You actually like this?” She asked, changing the subject. “You’re not being delicate with my feelings?”
Tristan snickered and rolled his eyes.
“When have I ever been delicate with your particular feelings, Ophelia?”
Ophelia gave him an exasperated look, but she knew it was true. With Theo’s feelings? Of course. Even their other friends. But her feelings? Never. Not that she’d ever given him a reason to.
“Come,” he said, tossing her mask back to her, “Get that back on, and we will go on our tour. The night is still young so there is plenty to see.”
Ophelia pulled her mask back on, but hesitated to move toward the door.
“Do you normally give tours to new members personally?” She asked .
Tristan cocked his head slightly, and blast him if it didn’t make him look more appealing.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Your customers here do not know your identity, but they do know your mask. Are you not worried that they will find it suspicious that you are giving a new member a personal tour? Perhaps it would be better if I looked around on my own,” Ophelia replied.
Tristan’s smile was slow to form, but positively wicked in effect.
“Why, dear Ophelia, are you worried for me?” He teased.
“No,” she countered quickly, blushing behind her mask. “I just do not want to raise suspicions. It would do no good for either of us.”
“Mhmm,” Tristan hummed through his smile.
“Well, you have nothing to fear. No one, not even those ladies that were just here, know that I am the owner of the club. They just believe I am a higher ranking member that may know the owner. So my mask does not matter. It will just simply look as if one member is showing another around.”
Ophelia’s eyes widened in surprise.
“But they called you Devil,” she replied, and Tristan let out a laugh.
“Our members are encouraged to take on the monikers of gods and goddesses, but there are only so many of those,” Tristan explained, “We have many men here that just go by ‘Devil’ as we have many women that go by ‘Angel’. Stop worrying and do as I say. I am not letting you roam this club alone. You might annoy me to no end but I still owe you my protection and will not be moved on that.”
“I do not appreciate your condescending tone,” she warned, “And furthermore, what is there to protect me from? I thought this club was all about finding willing partners?”
“It is,” Tristan agreed, taking a step closer.
He raised his hand to her throat, ran his fingertips underneath her jaw and to the back of her head, then gently tugged at her pinned up hair.
The sensation made her quiver with pleasure, and she clenched her jaw tight to stifle the whimper pleading to pour from her throat.
“However, this club is full of skilled lotharios and temptresses. You’d be surprised at how good some are at turning adamant nos into pleading yes’s.”
Ophelia trembled at his words. A day ago she would have never believed him, but after their kiss- after the way her body had betrayed her logic and feelings of loathing for him to give in to the pleasure he sparked in her? Yes, she now believed that such a power existed.
A power that, of all people, darling Lord Perfect possessed. Such knowledge still confounded her.
Flashes of that moment sparked in her mind. The way he’d kissed her first, throwing her off guard. Then the way she’d rushed back to him as if she couldn’t help it. Tristan, Lord Perfect, had been her first kiss…and it had been incredible.
“Let us go,” Tristan commanded, releasing the nape of her neck.
Ophelia shivered at the absence of his touch, hating that she’d liked it so much; but she squared her shoulders and followed him back to the main club room.