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“What are you doing? Stop that,” Hawkeye said, pushing his friend's hands away as the other man tried to adjust the pin holding his cloak in place. “Whose stupid idea was this?”
Phillip laughed. “It is tradition, Hawkeye. You should know this. No one should know it better than you. You were the king's son. Then you were the king's brother. You know what this is. This happens every year. You may have forgotten about it because you were at war for many years, but it is time for the annual masquerade again.”
Hawkeye shook his head. “No. I am not doing this. I do not care what you say. I do not care about tradition. I never have. I am not going.”
“Yes, you are. The royal family always attends the masquerade. You have to be there.”
“The queen will be there. My presence is not necessary.”
“The queen is not the royal family, and you can protest all you want but you should be there,” Phillip said, shaking his head. “I know this is not what you want to hear, but you cannot avoid it forever. The throne is yours. It was the moment your brother died. You cannot run from the responsibility. There is no horse—however much you value your steed—”
“No matter how much you hate my horse—”
“Lola is pregnant. Pregnant. Do you have any idea how terrible this is?”
Hawkeye shook his head. “There is nothing wrong with—”
“And you will not distract me. You are the rightful heir to the throne. You are the one who should be ruling. You have never wanted it, but it is yours, and you cannot avoid it. You have to claim your birthright.”
“No.”
“Yes.” Phillip blocked his path. “You are already a leader. You have been for years. You accept that role in war. This is no different. Politics is still war, just with less visible blood.”
“I am not afraid of politics.”
“Then what, damn it? Why are you standing back while your brother's killer runs our country? Answer me that, Hawkeye. I want the truth. Why did you let her live?”
Hawkeye could not answer that. He asked himself and could not answer. “I will not take the throne because it corrupts. There was nothing wrong with my brother before he became king. He was a good man. He used to protect me, but before he died, he would have killed me. I am already a monster, Phillip. You know what I have done in war. I will not make that worse than it already is.”
“This is supposed to be a masquerade.”
“Are you implying that it is not?” Natalia asked, looking around the dance floor. Many knights and ladies were enjoying the freedom of the anonymity, cultivating friendships and liaisons they would not have dared broach if the person were known to everyone. Some costumes had true style and grace—Virginia's was the best of all the room—and others were truly pathetic.
“If it is a masquerade, why are you the most easily recognizable woman in the room?”
“I am not,” Natalia said. That role belonged, she thought, to the busybody Lady Everhart, who had made her costume more revealing than her scandalous court dress, extending an invitation to everyone who had eyes. “She is.”
“No.”
She turned, looking back at Hawkeye. “I know how recognizable my hair is, yet you cannot see it. I know my face is known, but it is concealed as well. You are the first one who has known me all evening. You are mistaken.”
“And they are blind. Anyone could see it was you if they were only looking. You are unmistakable no matter what you wear.”
“I thought you would not attend.”
“I could say the same for you.”
She smiled, amused, and held out her hand. “I believe you owe me a dance, Lord Hawkeye.”
“Oh? And how did you come to that conclusion? The last time we spoke, you poisoned my meal. I owe you nothing except a quick death.”
She laughed. “That much is true. However, if you do not dance with me, I will reveal to everyone that underneath that absurd mask in the most eligible man in the kingdom, and every woman will throw herself at you, as usual.”
“You are heartless.”
“Then we are agreed.”
“Why did you want to dance with me?”
“Who says I wanted to?”
He shook his head. “You blackmailed me into a dance and yet claim not to have wanted to dance at all? You are a strange woman, my queen, but even you cannot deny the truth. If you did not want to dance, you would not have asked me.”
She smiled in that way of hers that was infuriating. “I did not ask. I commanded.”
“And you still have not explained why you did.”
“You have yet to explain why you have not killed me. You are recovered. I am recovered. Yet we both remain alive,” she said, her emerald eyes focused on his, the ones he would have known no matter what mask she wore.
“Did you poison my food?”
“You expect me to tell you that?”
He did not, actually. She enjoyed that, making him wonder, making him question, making him paranoid. He had seen her amusement, and he had wanted to do the same to her, though he would not find it funny.
Her hand tightened on his shoulder. “Why are we doing this dance?”
“Why do you think?”
“I am asking you.”
He smiled. He should not be here. He should not have come or allowed her to talk him into a dance, and there was something else he should not do, but he was tired of her playing games with him. It was time to play one of his own. He pulled her close and kissed her.
She did not fight him, did not resist or truly respond to the act. “What was that?”
“Oh, my queen, if you do not know already—”
“I should kill you.”
He smiled. “Then do it.”