Free Masquerade by Fornasier Kylie

fire, don’t you? How did you manage to escape her?’
    Bastian poured himself a drink. ‘I’m too ashamed to say.’
    ‘Tell me you didn’t.’
    ‘I had no choice. It’s the only thing that works on a woman like her. You have to make them feel that you want to be with them, but can’t. And the best way to do that is to tell them that your best friend is in love with them.’
    Marco downed his drink in one mouthful. ‘You need to come up with a new story or soon half of Venice will think I am in love with them.’
    ‘If it’s any consolation, you won the bet.’
    When Marco raised his eyes, there was a glint in them brought on either by too much alcohol, or the mention of gambling. He and Marco had been making bets with each other since they had learnt to count money, even though their bets rarely involved money.
    ‘Which bet?’ asked Marco. It wasn’t that he had forgotten, rather that they had so many bets going at once it was difficult to keep track.
    ‘The bet that no one would understand my costume.’ As Bastian spoke, he slid a ruby ring off his finger and held it out to Marco.
    ‘It’s hardly a bet worth winning,’ said Marco. But he slid the ring onto his finger with a satisfaction that suggested every bet, no matter how small, was worth winning. The ring was how they kept track of who had won the last bet. The ring had once belonged to a cardinal from Rome. Bastian and Marco were ten when the cardinal had visited the Palazzo Ducale, where Bastian lived with his father, the Doge. Marco had bet that Bastian couldn’t steal the ring. It was the very first bet they had made and the very first bet Bastian had won.
    ‘Someone even asked if I was a Faun. Do I look half goat, half human?’
    ‘In a way, you do.’ Marco chuckled. ‘But where is your mask? The one Signor Zafoni sent you as a gift.’
    ‘It didn’t go with my headdress. I thought together it was a bit excessive,’ said Bastian, his voice falling flat.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Marco.
    ‘It’s Regina. She is becoming a serious problem. Why do women do this? I never promise anything more than a night of pleasure. Why do they fall in love with me?’
    Marco laughed. ‘They do not love you. It is obsession, not love. In fact, I don’t think you could get a woman to fall in love with you.’
    ‘I certainly could.’ Bastian looked at his reflection in his wine glass. What was there not to love? Every woman in Venice would die to be his wife or lover. This was proven last season when a rumour circulated that he had married a fisherman’s daughter in secret. One of the daughters of a patrician had thrown herself from her third-storey balcony upon hearing the rumour. She had survived the fall with a few broken bones, and a broken heart. If that wasn’t love, what was?
    ‘Care to bet on that?’ said Marco.
    Bastian crossed his arms across his bare chest flecked with gold. ‘Always.’
    ‘I bet that you can’t get a woman to fall in love with you by the end of Carnevale.’
    ‘Any woman?’
    Marco shook his head. ‘Not just any woman. It has to be someone who isn’t familiar with you. Someone you haven’t already been with, which limits the possible candidates considerably.’ A smile began to form at the corner of Marco’s mouth. ‘The woman you danced with. I’ve never seen her before. She looked like she had some sense to her, since she didn’t instantly swoon over you. The looks she was giving you could have frozen the Canal Grande.’
    Bastian didn’t know what to think of Orelia. She seemed to embody so many contradictions. She seemed foreign
and
Venetian, awkward
and
graceful, meek
and
fiery. There was something about her green eyes and flame red hair . . . Bet or no bet, he had to have her.
    ‘Seems fair. I wouldn’t mind seeing her again,’ said Bastian. ‘What proof of her love shall you require?’ asked Bastian. ‘A love letter?’
    ‘Oh no, love letters are not worth the paper they are written