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The night had been wonderful so far. He was pretty sure he’d guessed most of his suitors by touch or scent—or in Lord Hugh’s case, by the little hopping step he made every time he had to turn.

But then the ballroom had gone silent, and the man taking Yves’ hand was strangely familiar.

Yves had felt that hand on his before. He’d felt the warmth, the steady assurance of his steps, the weight of his dominance, but no matter what client or suitor ran through his mind, none of them fit.

The song was one of his favorites, an old country dance they still played in dance halls in lower Duciel, and Yves didn’t need sight to follow it.

Even so, the man who held him guided him through the steps with a firm touch on his lower back and a steady grip on his hand, and Yves felt a rush of heat roll through him as he followed.

He wasn’t laughing like he had through the other dances.

This was different, more somber, as though the man guiding him was too intent on Yves to even smile.

Yves tilted his head up, trying to get a glimpse of him through the slit at the bottom of his mask, but all he saw was a flash of black and gold.

“All right,” Yves said at last. “I give in. Who are you?”

The man didn’t answer. He lifted Yves as he turned, possibly to avoid a dancer at the edge of the circle, and Yves shivered at the way his hands wrapped around his waist. He should have been terrified of falling, like he’d been when someone tried to swing him in the first dance.

He should have objected. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t afraid to fall.

The man set him down, and Yves’ breath left him as he was turned again, led back down a line.

He felt flushed and strange, and he itched to take off his mask.

He hadn’t felt this way with anyone—not even as his favorite clients took him in the House of Onyx, bringing him to a glorious release on a bed of silks.

His waist burned with the touch of his partner’s hands, and his breath came short and hot.

Tears were stinging the corners of his eyes, and he felt a strange ache in his chest, a low, deep yearning that left him dazed and unsure.

He stumbled, and his partner stopped to steady him. A hand touched his cheek, reverent, light, and Yves impulsively stretched up on his toes, lips parting in a silent expectation.

He heard a faint sound, and he could tell, almost instinctively, that the man holding him felt the same ache as he did.

“Please,” he whispered. But before he could say, tell me who you are, warm lips pressed his, and Yves reached up to clutch a silk cloak sliding over strong shoulders as he kissed back. It was hot and fierce and tender all at once, and Yves clung to him as he was lifted off his feet a second time.

“Please,” he said again, before his breath was taken again in another warm kiss. “Please, please, tell me, please.”

The man kissed him one last time, gently set Yves down, and withdrew. The silk cloak slid out of Yves’ hands, and he suppressed a groan of dismay as footsteps clicked across the floor.

He ripped off his mask. A cry rang out from the suitors behind him, but Yves was too busy searching the crowd. Cloaks swirled everywhere, black and red and gold, too many to count among the flowers and crystal ornaments lining the ballroom. Yves stood there, clutching his mask in both hands.

“Yves.” He turned. Lord Theobold Marteau was there, smiling warmly, one hand extended. “If we’re done with this pretense, perhaps the rest of us might have a turn.”

Yves looked at him. “That wasn’t you.”

“Of course it wasn’t. I would never take such liberties unless you wished me to.” Lord Marteau leaned in with a conspiratorial wink. “Would you?”

Yves stared down at his hand. Music was playing again. He turned to the men eagerly waiting for a dance, and up into Lord Marteau’s eyes.

It was probably a fluke, the sensible part of him said. Anyone could get carried away during a dance. Someone being a good dancer didn’t make them kind or thoughtful. Raul was atrocious at dancing, but Yves had thoroughly enjoyed himself, hadn’t he?

He put the mask back on, and the line of hopeful suitors disappeared.

Yves tried to lose himself in the affection of his suitors and the thrill of the music, but it wasn’t the same.

He kept forgetting the steps—something he hadn’t done since he was a boy—and even though a few partners tried to kiss him after they were done, Yves gently turned them aside.

None of them gave him that same warm, aching feeling, and when he finally took his mask off, he couldn’t bring himself to smile and fawn.

He just stood there, awkward and uncertain, looking into the eyes of men who only wanted to possess him.

“Thank you for…” Yves cleared his throat. “For an engaging night. For now, please enjoy yourselves.” He gestured to the far edges of the ballroom, and courtesans emerged to pull the prospective suitors away. Only Raul didn’t follow, and Yves was surprised to find pity in his big, soulful eyes.

“Can we talk?” Raul asked. “Privately?”

Yves didn’t want to talk. All he wanted was to ask Laurent who had danced with him after Raul, but years of politely acquiescing to his clients took over his body. “Of course.”

He led Raul to a balcony, trying to smile at the nobles and wealthy suitors eyeing him as he passed, and then he twitched the balcony curtains closed. It overlooked a small courtyard, where a courtesan was not-so-discreetly dragging one of Yves’ suitors into the bushes.

Yves leaned on the balcony railing and looked Raul up and down.

He seemed nervous, as usual—the most he’d ever spoken in Yves’ presence had been around Oleander’s cat, and Yves wasn’t sure he had it in him to have a true conversation.

Still, he might be the only suitor who would be honest about the man Yves had kissed.

“Who was the man I danced with after you?” Yves asked, right as Raul blurted, “I used to work in the House of Silver.”

Yves stared at Raul. Raul stared back.

“You were a courtesan?” Yves was thrown.

Raul was so touch-averse that he tensed if Yves even stood too close.

How would that work in the House of Silver?

Unless, Yves thought with an unpleasant shiver, that was where it started.

Being a courtesan was work, and it sometimes involved doing things that weren’t to one’s personal taste, but most house lords had ways to protect a courtesan if a client went too far.

Most, but not all. The current lord of the House of Silver was a good sort, but his predecessor had a notorious reputation. “When?”

“Years ago. You were just starting out in the House of Onyx.” Raul twisted his hands together, and a distant memory stirred in Yves’ mind of an anxious face in a tangle of black hair, and finger-shaped bruises along the jaw and throat. Yves squinted at Raul, who cringed back.

“You were the man I gave all my pocket money to,” Yves said.

It had been a foolish risk, but Yves had been certain that he could winkle a few extra gifts out of his clients to make up for it.

He still felt a little sheepish about handing all his money to the first sad-eyed former courtesan he’d met.

Percy had laughed at him for it— you really are a country boy at heart, aren’t you— and Yves had told no one else.

Generosity wasn’t exactly a virtue among courtesans.

“So you made it out,” Yves said.

“Yes!” Raul’s face lit up in another rare, small smile.

“Yes, I did, thanks to you. I made it home, and it turned out my brother…my brother had an accident, and he couldn’t make glass anymore, but I still knew the old ways.

I’ll be the head of the house officially when I marry, which means I’ll own most of the glassmaking houses in Kallistos. ”

And Kallistos supplied glass almost everywhere. Yves gave Raul a long, considering look. This bashful, shrinking violet was probably richer than the king. “Why couldn’t you tell me this before?”

“I don’t know. You’re just so…” Raul gestured helplessly. “So beautiful, and nice, and you make me laugh, which I haven’t done in a while. I know you don’t love me, though.”

“Oh,” Yves said, automatically. “Of course I do.”

“You don’t,” Raul interrupted. “That’s all right.

I only want to repay you. I would have gone to the quarries otherwise, and they would have killed me there.

I know you still have the rest of your contest, and I understand if this is too presumptuous, but I can offer you something the rest of them can’t.

” Raul rocked forward, then back, then finally forward again.

He shakily took Yves’ hands in his. Yves could feel his fingers trembling.

“I can give you security. I must marry to keep my position. You need to ensure that you don’t have to cater to nobles for the rest of your life.

I can provide that. You’ll have all the money you’d like, and you can live anywhere, love anyone.

You’ll have the space to do it. You won’t even need to visit more than once or twice a year, for holidays. ”

Yves blinked slowly. Raul let go of his hands and started wringing them again.

“I can write a contract,” Raul said. “If I break it, guild law entitles you to half of my fortune.”

“And you’d do that for me,” Yves said. “All because I helped you once?”

“Because I like you,” Raul said, “and I think you deserve it.”

It was the strangest proposal Yves had ever received. Dozens of past clients had begged for his hand with vows of eternal adoration; Raul wasn’t offering that. He was being practical, but he cared about Yves, and he was willing to risk half his fortune to prove it.

He just didn’t love him.

Still, it wasn’t about love. None of the other suitors loved Yves, did they?

Yves thought of the person who’d swept him so carefully across the dance floor, and the hollow ache in his chest returned.