Page 15 of Prince of Masks (Hearts of Bluestone #2)

In the dozens of times we have visited Monaco, we have seen and done it all.

These days, no one bothers with the museum, no one mentions the cathedral or the palace, and instead, we escape the very city we travelled to.

We escape on a yacht.

I’m tucked into the nook of a narrow walkway far at the back of the boat. My bare feet are flat on the foot-tall wall of the under cabin that both Dray and Oliver lounge on top of, and my back is pressed against the cushioned bench.

Behind me, the waves crash on the side of the boat. A mist of foamy water sprays me every so often, and it’s a lovely relief from the heat.

Monaco, and the surrounding seas, are not seasonally this warm. But with unknown elemental witches lurking in the city, clearing the clouds and luring out the sun’s heat, thrown in with Mr Younge’s heat bubble over the yacht, it’s a day that feels something like a sauna on the sea.

Rays of sunshine dance over me.

The pocketbook of modern compositions is parted on my lap. I turn the page of the score, now onto the introduction of Alexandra, a modern composer.

The words are dark and shadowy through my sunglasses, and my eyes are quick to tire, but it’s pleasant all the same. The wind lashes at me, a cool and welcome sensation over the beads of sweat and sea mist.

I must be careful not to let it fool me.

If I sit out in the misty breeze under the sunrays too long, I’ll burn.

I am the only one of my family who burns, and when I do, it isn’t unlike overcooked crackling. Leave me out long enough and I sizzle. I turn a ghastly bright red, and my skin peels. It’s quite ugly.

Oliver doesn’t have that problem.

So he soaks up as much sun as he can.

On the cabin roof opposite me, he lies on his back with tanning oil layered all over him. I suspect he’s asleep, since he looks so relaxed, so peaceful. Passed out after a long night of gambling at the casino.

Their night must have been a long one.

Even Father is quieter than usual this morning.

At the bow of the yacht, he and Harold rest on loungers as my mother and Amelia watch for dolphins and orcas through their golden binoculars.

I watched a while before I tired of it.

That leaves me back here with Oliver and Dray.

Dray lounges on the same roof as Oliver, but his arm his hooked under his head like a pillow, and his cheek presses to his elbow, his face angled my way.

I glance at him every other moment to see if he’s looking at me, but we are both hidden behind sunglasses, so it’s impossible to tell.

He could be staring at my breasts or the strip of fabric shielding my core, and I wouldn’t know.

I wear only my bathing suit, white and sleek, with cut outs down the back and at the waist. I should cover up, not only to shield myself from the possibility of Dray’s stare, but also to protect myself from the sun.

A heavy sigh deflates me.

I throw a longing look up the side of the boat to the bow, where my tote was abandoned two hours ago. I decide my shawl is too far away—and frankly, I can’t be bothered.

Mother is up there, and she has been a bit off with me since dinner last night. If I intrude on their commandeered spot, I’ll be a target for snide remarks, as I was at the start of the day before I snuck down here.

Then again, the bow is far away from Dray and Oliver.

And I’m torn between two evils.

Amelia and Mother will be fussing over my weight if I join them (I’m down only three pounds), or talking incessantly about upcoming fashion shows, my gown, or stupid Dray and his stupid scar.

I decide to stay put.

This is surprisingly the lesser of two great evils, because out here in the open like this, Dray and Oliver won’t touch me.

Besides, they are both resting, oblivious to my existence.

And I was here first. If anyone should leave, it’s them—

I blink, my lashes dragging on the insides of the sunglasses. I worked myself up too much, let my mind get carried away from me, soured.

All for nothing.

I return my tired stare to the page and try to focus.

I read nothing, not a word, and fleetingly wonder if I should sneak into the dining room for a nap.

The thought touches my mind—then the sun vanishes.

A dark shadow stretches over me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, once, twice, then squint up at the shadow.

Dray stands over me.

He tilts his head, his shades pushed back to sit on his damp, sandy hair, and a strand of hair fallen over his brow.

His tired blue eyes pin me.

The gloss of his chest sparkles like the waters overboard, sun-oils balmed all over him, and I give him another five minutes before his tan has been fully restored, while I sit here like a pasty squid.

Fisted in his hand is a white shirt.

I frown at it.

His white shirt.

He hands it to me. “You’ll burn soon.”

“I brought a coverup.” I look along the boat to the silhouette of either my mother or Amelia, I don’t know which one exactly, just that it is a woman with slender curves, topped off with a giant wide-brim hat that flaps in the wind.

It’s up there. The coverup. My bag is up there. My hat…

But so is Mother.

Dray leaves little room for argument. He plays the role of allied aristos, of a gentleman tending to my needs, and tosses the shirt at me.

It crumples on my lap.

“Put it on,” he says, voice rough, like his throat has been dragged over a grater. He sighs as he reaches for the folded black trousers on the cooler.

I watch as he climbs into them, concealing the chiselled definition of his legs, before he drops to sit on the storage box pushed up against the wall of the under cabin.

The toes of my feet, still pressed against the wall, curl on instinct.

He is close.

The side of his thigh is a breath away from my calf, his knee too close to mine. It’s a narrow spot, this little nook I conquered for myself.

I remind him of that. “There are other places to sit, you know. More comfortable places.”

Dray snags a glass bottle of water from the ice bucket. He unscrews the lid and gulps about half of it down.

As he draws it away from his glistening lips, he shoots me a tired look. “Put it on, Olivia.”

The shirt in my lap, still crumpled.

I sigh and snatch it up.

As I tug on the shirt, I glance over Dray’s head to Oliver. Still passed out on the roof of the under cabin.

Dray watches as I fix the sleeves at my wrists, rolling them back to fit the length of my arms better.

He tugs down his shades, resting on his head, and draws them over his eyes. Sawdust hair slides over his brow, somewhat frayed by the sea mist.

My hair is so ridiculously frizzed that I’ve had to wrestle it back into a loose plait, lazy and rushed and too many tendrils free from the braid. Those strands whip my cheeks in the constant breeze.

Dray pinches the bridge of his nose, far up enough that he’s digging into the corners of his eyes. Can’t see them behind the shades, but they looked almost bloodshot when he was standing over me.

The fatigue of his night—and all the drink I’m certain they had—has beaten him down today. It’s all too much for him to muster any violent loathing towards me today.

My gaze lingers over the scar on his shoulder. So faint and small, little teeth marks, some deeper than others, white nicks that interrupt the smooth beige complexion he wears.

It’s a funny thought that my bite remains on him, my mark stains his flesh, and he has every available treatment at his fingertips to wipe it away like nothing more than a smear of ink.

But he seems to have no awareness of it at all, that my mark scars him, and he loosens a weary sigh.

He hands me the glass bottle of water.

I take it with a huff, because now that he mentions it, I am thirsty.

His face is angled towards the horizon. He watches the water rush by as he slumps against the under-cabin wall. “My mother mentioned your gown is Oscar.”

Suppose he thinks it a waste to have such an extravagant, special gown made for me, a deadblood, all so I can attract a gentry suitor.

He doesn’t have to say it.

“Yeah.”

“Couture?”

I nod, then screw the lid back onto the glass water bottle. Empty, I toss it aside and it thumps onto the towel I earlier discarded.

Dray’s back stays slumped on the polished wood wall. His face is still angled to the horizon, but he peels off his sunglasses and reveals that his gaze is on me.

Bloodshot eyes, a faint pink that’s not unlike the hue of his lips, but bordered by thick lashes. He keeps the shades pinched between his fingers, makes no move to put them on again.

His murmur comes with a swallowed yawn, “You’re sulking.”

My frown is mostly hidden by my own shades.

“Because you were denied an invitation to the casino?” His words are teasing, mocking, but his tone and the look he aims at me are serious—like he’s considering me, working me out, and I feel like we’re back at Bluestone again, where I’m cornered and he has too much power.

I fiddle with the edge of the page. “I hardly think it’s fair.”

He shifts to better recline against the wooden wall of the under-cabin. “Fairness is something children squabble over.”

Soft footsteps come down the way.

I look up as the steward carries a tray of fruit, cucumber-tuna sandwiches and a fresh pot of coffee. He sets it down on the bench I lean on, just within arm’s reach.

As the server pours us each a coffee, Dray says, “It was bold of you to ask your father if you could tag along.”

I thin my lips and, silent, take a mug into my clammy grip. “Will you let Asta play? When you are married, I mean.”

Dray reaches for a mug of his own. “Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“It isn’t the way.”

“But she can gamble in casual society—like our mothers were doing on the roof by the pool.”

“Yes.”

“How is it different?”

“Are you not capable of differentiating? The company, Olivia. That is what is different.”

“What about school?”

The look he gives me is tired. “What about it?”

“At Bluestone, Asta gambles, Mildred, Melody, even Serena sometimes. You all do, together.”