Chapter 19
Ricard
The journey back from Dallas had been exhausting.
Remy's unexpected arrival, the weight of our conversation, and the implications of what he'd proposed swirled in my mind like a tempest, leaving me drained and disoriented.
Each mile of the return journey had felt like crossing between two worlds—the royal crisis temporarily behind me and the sanctuary ahead, which I knew would soon be lost to me forever.
As the sleek black car pulled up to the main building of Dove Canyon, my shoulders slumped under burdens beyond the physical.
“We’ve arrived, Your Grace,” the driver announced, his voice breaking the quiet of my reverie.
“Thank you,” I replied, gathering myself before stepping into the warm Texas evening. My legs felt leaden, weighted not just by the day's travel but by the knowledge that each step on these grounds was now numbered.
A different air lingered tonight, charged with energy I could hardly place. Music drifted from some place nearby, not the usual ambient melodies that played throughout the resort, but something more deliberate and refined. Vivaldi’s “Summer” floated on the breeze, bright and evocative.
As I made my way through the lobby, a wave of anticipation washed over me.
The usual tranquil atmosphere had been replaced with a certain excitement, like the hush before a theater performance begins.
Staff members moved with heightened purpose, their relaxed efficiency now touched with a ceremonial precision.
“Good evening, sir,” a young man greeted me, his smile bright yet professional. “Welcome back to Dove Canyon. I trust your journey was pleasant?”
“Thank you, yes,” I replied, the social mask slipping into place with practiced ease. “Pleasant” hardly captured the emotional turbulence of the past twenty-four hours.
He nodded, satisfied. “The soirée has already begun in the main plaza. Will you be attending, or would you prefer to retire to your villa?”
Ah, so that explained the music and the energy in the air.
Vincent’s monthly gathering, the one Julius had mentioned.
Under normal circumstances, I might have declined, preferring solitude to process the day’s events.
But the thought of being alone with my thoughts, preoccupied with Remy’s words and the looming decision awaiting me back in Avaline, suddenly felt unbearable.
“I believe I will attend, thank you,” I replied, surprising myself with the decision even as I made it.
As I approached the entrance to the plaza, the transformation before me stopped me in my tracks.
The space I had grown accustomed to, elegant yet functional, had been transfigured.
Hundreds of twinkling lights hung from above, creating a canopy of artificial stars that cast a warm, golden glow over everything below.
Tables draped in crisp white linen were arranged in intimate groupings adorned with flickering candles and elaborate floral arrangements.
Plush rugs in rich jewel tones lay partially over the stone tiles, delineating areas for conversation and dining.
But it was the people who truly brought the scene to life.
Men of all ages and types filled the space, their attire ranging from formal tuxedos to casual linen suits, and in some cases, nothing at all.
What united them was not their clothing but the masks they wore—elaborate creations of leather, feathers, sequins, and metallic accents that transformed their faces into works of art while concealing their identities.
These masks went beyond mere disguise to become expressions of hidden selves, some whimsical and playful, others darkly sensual or imposingly regal.
The effect was mesmerizing, a modern bacchanal filtered through the lens of a Venetian carnival, all set against the stunning backdrop of the Texas hill country.
I stood transfixed, absorbing everything before me, a mixture of appreciation and mild shock washing over me, as if I had stumbled upon a secret realm with its own peculiar magic and rules.
“Your mask, sir.”
I turned to find a young man holding a silver tray upon which rested several elegant masks. His own face was partially obscured by a simple black domino, his uniform marking him clearly as staff—black silk boxer briefs that left little to the imagination, paired with a small bow tie at his throat.
“Thank you,” I said, selecting a mask of burnished copper with subtle gold accents. It was less ostentatious than some others, but its understated elegance appealed to me.
I secured it in place, feeling the weight of the mask settle against my skin. Strange, how such a small addition could create such a profound shift in perception. Already, I felt less like Ricard, Duke d'Moncloud, and more like a man at a party, anonymous and free from expectation.
With a deep breath, I stepped fully into the plaza. The string quartet had moved on to Handel now, rich tones floating out from their instruments. Conversations ebbed and flowed around me, punctuated by laughter and the occasional exclamation of greeting.
Accepting a glass of champagne from a passing server, I took a moment to absorb the atmosphere. An art existed in navigating this social web, one I had been trained in since childhood. Assess the room, identify key players, determine the appropriate approach.
Even in a setting as unorthodox as this, certain principles of diplomacy remained constant.
As my gaze swept across the gathering, I noted details with practiced precision.
A cluster of older gentlemen near the fountain, their posture suggesting long-standing acquaintance.
A younger crowd by the bar, more animated in their gestures, laughter carrying across the space.
Scattered throughout were the companions, moving with practiced grace, their near-nudity contrasting sharply with the formal attire of many guests.
And then, cutting through the crowd with unmistakable authority, I spotted Vincent Stone.
Even without his trademark cowboy hat, tonight replaced by an elaborate mask of white leather adorned with silver studs and feathers, he was instantly recognizable.
His typical business attire had been traded for something more provocative: shirtless, his sculpted torso gleamed under the lights, silver rings through both nipples catching the light with every movement, paired with tight leather pants and his signature cowboy boots.
The combination should have looked ridiculous, but on Vincent, it projected an audacious sexuality that commanded attention.
He caught my eye across the plaza and offered a slight nod of recognition before returning to his conversation with a tall, distinguished man whose silver hair marked him as someone of significance, even behind his midnight blue mask.
As I sipped my champagne, now a Krug Grande Cuvée if I wasn’t mistaken, an unexpected warmth spread through me. Something deeper stirred, a connection I couldn't put aside. Would Theo be among the companions tonight? And if so, what would he think of this spectacle?
But those thoughts shattered as I spotted a figure moving through the crowd, carrying a tray of champagne flutes.
Even beneath the delicate white mask that obscured the upper portion of his face, I recognized him immediately by the set of his shoulders, the graceful movement, the curve of his lips as he smiled politely at a guest’s comment.
Theo.
His body language carried none of the practiced seduction that characterized more experienced staff; instead, there was an authenticity to his movements that seemed almost subversive in this environment of calculated fantasy.
Like the other companions, he wore only the black silk boxer briefs, the fabric hugging the contours of his body and accentuating his lean, athletic build.
A jolt of desire shot through me, mingling with something else, an urgency I didn’t quite understand.
Despite everything—the crisis with Remy, the weight of royal obligation, the fleeting nature of my time at the ranch—seeing him brought lightness to my chest that I hadn’t realized I was missing.
The warmth faded as I saw two men approach him, strangers to me, both handsome and exuding the easy confidence of wealth. They wore tuxedos with subtle differences in their masks—one silver and the other gold, suggesting they were a couple or at least arrived together.
The taller of the two leaned in close, whispering something in Theo’s ear while the other ran a possessive hand across his back, settling at the small of his waist. I couldn't hear what they'd said, but I noted the polite smile that graced Theo’s lips, the slight nod of his head.
He stepped away briefly, and relief surged through me, thinking he was declining whatever proposition had been made.
But then he returned without the champagne tray, my heart constricting as the two men flanked him once more, their hands now touching him with unmistakable ownership as they guided him back toward the main building.
The intentions were obvious. They wanted him, and he was willingly going with them.
A surge of jealousy hit me with visceral force, burning in my chest and tightening my throat with such intensity that I nearly gasped aloud. My vision narrowed, the periphery darkening as my focus fixed on Theo's retreating form. It felt almost like physical pain.
The rational part of my mind knew I had no right to such feelings.
Theo was a companion at Dove Canyon. This was his job, fulfilling the service for which he had been hired.
Whatever brief connection we’d shared was nothing more than an illusion crafted by circumstance.
I had been trained since childhood to master my emotions, to never reveal weakness or want, yet here I stood, undone by the sight of a young man walking away with other clients.