Masquerade [Kuskovo Estate]

[Noémi Jourdain]

He did not smile, and nor did she. Neither of them were prone to the more whimsical affectations of attachment. And yet the air changed around them, like puzzle pieces clicked silently into their rightful place side by side. His entrance was not unexpected, despite the explanation of security protocol that brought her to stand alone in one of the estate’s many rooms. Amidst the finery and quiet, Noémi had spent the time waiting in consideration of what she wished to say to him. She had never wanted to be a powerful man’s mistress, and the rumoured cause of Nikolai’s brief disappearance tonight only stirred that bitter reminder of what it was like to be one among many. Whatever she might wish, or how dearly she might wish it, Noémi knew she would never be his wife. She was not suited to the public scrutiny; her past came with littered questions and shame, and the only thing she could offer to the union was a love that was written into her soul without the need for vows to bind it so. Yet one day he would marry – for the necessary wholesome image, when such a thing became prudent, and more importantly for the political advantage of the Custody. Noémi would never argue against his choices in that regard, nor with whom or how he chose to spend his time even before then. But she would ask that he not flaunt it where it would hurt her. For all the things she accepted they could never have together, she would ask that of him at least.

She was not surprised by the intensity with which he defended what was between them, but she was touched that it was her wellbeing he inquired about rather than a need to first sooth his ego with her loyalty. Most men liked to treat beautiful women as possessions, but if Nikolai proved possessive, it seemed more a reaction to her discomfort than from jealousy at the attention. “I am,” she told him simply. It was unlikely to be the last time a man’s interest was received uneasily by her, and while she did not brush the incident off, it was also a simple reality. Tonight she had accepted the invitation knowing it might risk Dmitri’s notice. “It is an old thing. He has struggled to let go.” She offered no details on the nature of their relationship, or how such a thing had ever come to be. She was quite certain Nikolai’s staff had her entire history at their disposal should he ever wish to peruse it for himself, though by her clear-eyed expression he only had to ask to hear the truth directly from her lips. There were no shadows inside of her where he was not welcome to tread.

Instead he shifted, pulled her closer with need and reverence. She had watched him all night, the perfect blend of charm and command. The Ascendancy made the performance seem effortless, an armour so secure there were no flaws or chinks, even to Noémi’s eye. This was the Vasiliev’s ball, and yet it was him at the centre of it. But she knew the beating heart which lay beneath, knew too the loneliness of such service, even if he would never call it that. She cherished the brief moments he existed without the burden of it. Her free hand came to cradle the back of his neck, fingertips soft as he rested against her. The touch was quietly intimate, a promise and reassurance in one gentle gesture. I am yours. You are mine. The world cannot touch us until you are ready.

When he finally looked up the moment intensified into something else, sharper and brighter. His expression might have looked angry on another man, yet Noémi fell into his embrace without hesitation or misunderstanding. Nikolai rarely indulged his emotions in the heat of them. His acts of care were usually calculated, though no less genuine or ardent. Noémi was likewise a measured woman, unprone to rashness of the heart. But with him she was easily and willingly consumed.