7. masks on
CHAPTER 7
MASKS ON
LINCOLN
Arranging for a bespoke mask to be overnighted from Venice isn’t cheap, but it’s well worth it when Ivy slips it on, the sculpted wool paper hugging the round curve of her cheekbones and coating more than half of her face in black. A gold streak parts the valley between her chestnut eyes, highlighting her crimson lips.
My breath catches in my throat as she steps out of her apartment and into the hall.
Her floor-length gown takes that red and paints her body in it. The barely there straps are bravely holding up a length of free-flowing velvet dotted in sequins, with a neckline so deep, magic tape has to be keeping it in place. Her dark hair is carefully plaited in a French braid and tied with a ribbon.
There’s no two ways about it—she’s phenomenal.
I take my time securing her mask, savoring the hitch in her breath as our chests touch.
It’s obvious there’s a craving in her that’s gone unfulfilled for too long. If tonight goes as planned, I’ll be able to show her exactly how well versed I’ve become in satisfying desire.
The way she waits, hands at her sides, while I stretch the moment out, is a good sign. “Thank you,” she says softly.
“My pleasure.”
As I pull back, I drag the tips of my fingers gently across her jaw. The soft sound of pleasure Ivy makes is only audible because we’re standing so close, and I can’t help but dip my gaze down to her lips.
“Did you know there is a history and meaning behind every mask?”
There’s a gentle shake of her head, and her eyes remain closed.
Not kissing her is torture, but I endure it. All the better for later.
“They were worn during festivals, which encouraged freedom and theatrics. It was a chance to become anyone you wished. It made for mischief.”
She licks her lips. Unadulterated want roars in my chest, filling the cavern there and reverberating like an echo. Christ, she’s so perfect it’s a physical ache.
“This,” I say, passing my thumb along her cheek where the mask sits, “is a Colombina, historically worn by women and inspired by early Italian theatre. Mine,” I say, referring to the white mask covering everything but my mouth and jaw, “is a play on the Bauta mask, and is rumored to be what Casanova wore.”
The curl of her smile is incredibly satisfying.
“Venice had some very interesting laws regarding masks,” I continue. “Including one which stated that by wearing a mask, you needed to become a mask, or more accurately, play the role. Something I believe you will be able to appreciate tonight.”
Ivy blinks her eyes open, clears her throat, and steps back, pulling her door closed with a soft click. “How do you know all of that?”
“In fear of ruining your good opinion of me, I was a horny young sod trying to impress a date.”
Her soft laughter settles warm under my skin. “Did it work?”
I lean in. “You tell me.”
Her gaze dips down to my mouth and back again. “The jury is hung. I think you need to try harder.”
She’s going to fucking kill me. I may be the one laying the trap, so to speak, but she’s definitely not going to make it easy on me.
* * *
Tenor House is beautiful. It’s good to see it put to use after years of lying dormant in our family holdings. I’ll try not to look too deeply into the kinship that is churning in my gut. It is not a night for doubt.
The eclectic heritage-listed Victorian was built back in the 1850s, boasts three floors, a grand staircase, six fireplaces, pocket doors, and oak flooring. It’s magnificent and not a little foreboding, which is rather fitting tonight.
Before I can impress this knowledge upon Ivy, she beats me to it.
“I couldn’t help myself,” she explains, and it’s an impulse I fear she’s held back for a long time. There won’t be any holding back this evening. “I did some research on this place. I mean, Emma told me your grandfather was Deacon Bradbury, but I hadn’t realized he was the original owner. It didn’t say what it had been used for before your brother donated it, though. Was your family always interested in art?”
She stuns in the moonlight as our invitation is checked and confirmed at the door. I’ll have a hard time finding my brother because I can’t take my eyes off her.
The entryway is narrow, the crowd moving slowly through the dimly lit hallways. It allows me to stay close to Ivy, one hand on her back, leaning in to speak quietly in her ear.
“Not exactly. Deacon’s interest only extended as far as his profits. My father is the only painter in the family. Nothing creative, only residential.” She smells of jasmine. It’s divine. “He’s always joked that he never had the patience for anything more.”
It’s not true. He’s nothing if not patient. Soft, where the rest of us are harsh.
Jaded.
“But I suppose you could say we were all raised with an appreciation for the arts,” I say. I only wish Reed’s appreciation didn’t mirror our grandfathers so directly.
“That’s really sweet,” she says. I’m glad to be standing behind her so she can’t see the tightness in my jaw. “That must be why every cent raised from tonight goes into art scholarships and mentor programs.”
“I didn’t know that,” I push out. It’s been a long time since I spoke to my brother for longer than a meal, and guilt sinks, uneasy, into my gut, layered over the building anticipation of this evening.
As if called forth by lady luck herself, Reed appears ahead of us, tall and slim, cutting a fine line in a plain black suit and mask, escorting who I assume to be Mum up the central staircase.
Diverting course, I steer Ivy into a side parlor, where a couple is silently analyzing a series of sketches. Soon, every room will be full of socialites and wealthy business associates attempting to impress my brother and each other with their “generosity.” For now, they gravitate to the bar in the main room down the hall and upstairs, where Reed is no doubt holding court. It’ll be impossible to talk to him tonight, let alone have a reasonable conversation.
Perhaps this was a terrible idea.
I return my attention to Ivy, who manages to shine under the glow of the carefully dimmed sconces. At least this evening won’t be a complete waste.
She stares up at me, her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing. “You don’t get along with him, do you? That’s what Manny meant when he called you a coward, right? What’s that all about?”
Christ, she’s observant. It’s impressive, even if it’s a topic I don’t enjoy talking about, especially when I’m meant to be the one plumbing her depths, not the other way around. “My brother and I haven’t gotten along in a while, and I’d rather not ruin a perfectly good evening.”
But she’s undeterred. It’s a trait I admire, when it’s aimed at more pleasurable pursuits than my familial wounds. “So you could have moved to anywhere in the world, but you chose to come here where your brother is, only to avoid him?”
She certainly doesn’t mince her words. Dad would love her. Manny would be having a right old time if he were here.
“It’s complicated,” I say, with enough edge that anyone would know I mean to end the conversation.
The thing I’m rapidly learning is that Ivy isn’t just anyone. “I’ll get it out of you.”
“We’ll see.”
Trusting that Reed will stay upstairs, I lead Ivy to the bar in the main room. Shadows crowd each room of the house. They linger in the corners, under the staircase, draping every surface in mischief and mystery. It’s a night for secrets. A night for truths.
Ever want to know a person’s real character?
Give them anonymity. Let them show themselves.
Unfortunately, once we have our drinks, I discover a new problem. Cursing under my breath, I’m hoping the din of conversation covers my slip, but ever vigilant, Ivy catches it.
“What is it? Is he here?” she asks, looking past me.
“No,” I say, pressing my hand to her waist to keep her back to him. “It’s Kyle. He’s a cousin on my mother’s side.” A Bradbury through and through, and thus, utterly awful. There’s only one reason Kyle does anything, so for him to be here… “He must be after something.”
Chauvinistic and opportunistic (an unfortunately common combination), Kyle has only ever spoken in declarative sentences while holding neither intelligence nor wit. It leaves arrogance in its wake, which he has in abundance, along with the mildly greasy residue of having been slobbered all over.
Ivy darts her eyes across the crowd, searching eagerly. “How can you tell it’s him?”
“I’d recognize the twat anywhere.” Hard not to, since he’s doing little to hide his appearance tonight. Kyle’s calling card is his surname. It’s the only connection to greatness he’s ever achieved, and it wasn’t due to any effort on his part (his favorite way to achieve anything, in my experience). “The last time I saw him, he tried to pry a cool fifty thousand from me.”
“What did he want with fifty G’s?”
“With him, it’s as much about what he can get as it is about proving what he can take from you.”
It’s only mostly his fault; entitlement is as much a part of Deacon’s legacy as the business is.
I will never understand why Reed looked up to our grandfather. He spent every summer soaking up Deacon’s lessons like sermons and nodding along like he knew he’d be quizzed on it someday.
Deacon naming Reed as his successor wasn’t a surprise to me, but apparently it hit the rest of the family like a ton of bricks. Kyle’s dad, Richard, as the eldest, threw a shit fit of epic proportions according to Darcy, huffing and puffing and threatening to blow the whole empire down.
Three decades spent as Deacon’s head of operations, and it wasn’t enough. But that’s Deacon for you. Reed had been smart enough to fire our uncle before he could follow through, but it’s been icy cold around that side of the family since.
Ivy’s eyes burn bright, lit up from within. “Point him out to me. I want to talk to this guy.”
I pause.I’m not used to anyone wanting to fight my battles with me.
“Please?” she whispers, and like magic, I know I’ll give her anything she wants. “It’s a night of mischief; you said so yourself. I’m only taking your direction.” Before the night ends, she’ll take more than that, and I’m looking forward to it.
I raise my hand to her shoulder, tracing the outline of her tattoo. Every piece of her speaks, sings, moves me. She’s art itself. “Ivy, you are as delightfully surprising as you are beautiful. We’re going to have a lot of fun together.”
“Is that a promise?”
I smile. It’s a guarantee.
Kyle has made it his personal mission to extract as many dividends as our lingering guilt might provide. If Ivy wants to have a go at him, he deserves it. I’ll enjoy watching him get eaten alive.
“All right. See the jackass in the bright red smoking jacket and transparent mask?”
She zeroes in on him immediately. I’ll wager she’s cocking a brow under that mask. “The one that defeats the entire purpose of a masquerade?”
“The very same.”
She hums, staring after him as he struts out of the room, her lips pursed to one side. “You’re right. He is a twat.”
Christ, I want to kiss her.
He’s also a complication. Getting my brother alone is looking like an impossibility now. Time to refocus.
“See all these people?” I ask Ivy after we’ve settled in the darkest corner with drinks in hand. “They’re going to be your audience tonight. They don’t know who you are, and you’re never going to see them again. All the versions of yourself that you sometimes wish you could be? Try them on. See how they feel.”
Low stakes, no consequences. A few white lies here and there, but no one will get hurt.
“You’re giving me permission to lie to everyone here, including your family. Isn’t that a little weird?”
“I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I’ve spent time bringing people’s fantasies to life. And do you know what I’ve learned?” I step so close I know she can feel my breath against her skin. “You can’t be good until you’ve first been a little bad.”
I hear the exact moment her breath catches in her throat, and while I long to follow its path, coax it to the surface with my lips, I don’t. There’ll be time for that later.
There’s power in wanting.
“Tonight is for you and you alone,” I tell her. “Don’t hold yourself back, and promise me one thing.” I allow myself a single touch, slowly trailing my fingers from her shoulder to her wrist. She shivers. “Say anything you like to the people in this room, but we don’t lie to each other.”
She nods. “Okay. I promise.”
“Good.” I raise her hand to my lips, an indulgence I can’t ignore. “Tonight,” I whisper against her skin, “I’m the only one who knows you.”