Pale Painter Ch. 03

Prince Kutberth Alexandrio Lothair was absolutely fascinated by the painting Kosette presented to him on the morning following the latest meeting Rosanda had with the king.

He was given the painting in a small drawing room, and there weren't any servants about. Rosanda peered at the scene from behind an open doorway. She could have gone into the room. There wouldn't have been anything wrong with that. Still, she was feeling a wee bit nervous, and she wanted to observe the prince's reaction to her painting from a distance, without him noticing her presence.

Her breath was practically scraping against her windpipe. Her gloved fingers were tightening on the elaborately carved door frame. Behind her glasses, her pale blue eyes were shining with a mixture of pride and disquiet.

The prince was giving all sorts of compliments, including, beautiful, magnificent, perfectly detailed, and even ingenious.

Ingenious, huh?

Rosanda pressed a hand to her hidden lips, trying not so smile, even though her face was veiled. The prince bent over the painting. She loved the sight of his breeches stretching against his backside. She shivered as the prince's fingers, so dark when compared to the woman in the painting, traced over the canvas, as if he wanted to touch Rosanda's flesh.

"Your Highness," Kosette said, "please don't touch the painting with your bare hands. You could damage it."

"Ah!" His hand sprung back as if in pain. He straightened up and brought his feet together. His clean, but slightly crooked teeth were very charming as he smiled. His lips were fairly plump, not too plump, though. They were the right size for his seemingly well carved face. "I'm so, terribly sorry, Mrs. Lunai." He nodded to her. "You have a very satisfied customer. I look forward to the next painting."

After Kosette thanked the prince, she left. She gave Rosanda a curious look, but she didn't say anything as she walked on. Rosanda watched her turn a corner and disappear into the luxurious labyrinth that was the palace's floor plan. Then she sighed as she made a decision.

She was going to approach the prince.

Timidly, her hands wrenching into themselves, Rosanda stepped into the drawing room, closed the door, and she said with a small voice, "Your Highness?"

The man turned around and faced her with open arms, as if he was expecting an embrace. "Miss Lunai?"

She curtsied. "Good afternoon, Sir. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Of course you're not. Rise, Miss Lunai." His arms relaxed, hands brushing against his thighs. His high cheekbones looked so impressive to her. Rosanda wanted to make a portrait of him. She knew she couldn't, but she chewed on the thought, imagining the process.

"I was curious about your opinion of the painting."

"It's perfect." Rosanda made a soft little gasp at the hunger in his voice. "Please," he said, "please don't think ill of me. If this painting accurately portrays you, then you are ethereally beautiful."

She wanted to show him just how beautiful she really was.

Rosanda took a deep breath, and then she held out her right wrist. Her left index and thumb went to the glove there, and she pulled the glove away, revealing her nearly colorless hand. Her fingernails were short, but she always cleaned them after a session of work. Her right hand was slightly rougher than her left, since that was the hand that held her brushes and pencils, but she had always tried to scrap away the calluses and massage away the bruises.

If the prince thought her hand was ugly, then he must have been an expert actor. He snatched her hand up as if it were a coveted treasure, and he put the back of her hand to his lips.

Rosanda's body became a quietly quivering thing. The powerful, yet tender sensation that came from his mouth's touch sent loving little signals up her arm, her throat, and then to her brain. Her nipples were begging to be released from the prudent prison that was her clothing, puckering and throbbing in the hopes of experiencing what her hand was feeling.

She wanted to say something, anything, but all that came out of her mouth was, "Oh."

He released her hand.

Then she was being held.

A prince was hugging her.

Rosanda's glove slipped from her fingers and silently landed on the floor.

He smelled of flowers and forests, sweetness and invigoration. One of his palms pressed its heat against the back of her head, over her veil. His lips kissed her forehead; he didn't seem to care that he was kissing her veil too.

Then he murmured against her brow, "If you consent, then I will hurry you away to a private place, and I'll give you all of my attention."

A great, trembling rush came over Rosanda, as if cool water glided down her naked body. She wanted to go wherever he wanted. According to what she had heard, the prince was a widower. He was once married to a foreign princess, who sadly died of an incurable illness. He was single and in play; he was also physically attractive and respectful.

But ... guilt put a sour flavor on her tongue and deep in her throat.

She sniffed and said, "Your Highness, I have a confession."

"Whatever it is, I don't care! Please come with me!" His hands were pressing up and down her back, putting delicious warmth in her pussy.

"Sir, His Majesty has been making demands of me."

The prince's body stiffened. His fingers were like claws against her body, their tips sinking in. His voice was almost smoky. "What? What demands?"

"I'd assume you already know, Your Highness. He's summoned me to his bedchamber twice."

He gripped her shoulders, and he started down at her with something that wasn't quite cruelty, but it wasn't affectionate either. His jaw and cheek muscles moved as if he was grinding his teeth together. Was he angry at her? She wasn't in a relationship with him. She wasn't being disloyal.

Still, Rosanda thought he was angry, and her heart bled from it. A few tears escaped.

He released her. His eyes softened.

She reached into a thin, hidden pocket in her skirt and pulled out a soft handkerchief.

First, she removed her glasses. Then, she dabbed at her eyes.

Rosanda was wiping her glasses when Kutberth II said, "I suppose one can't easily refuse a king."

She put her glasses back on and returned the handkerchief to its home in her pocket. She looked down at her gown's hem, mortified at her own emotions, but she was still thinking.

"You ... you should know that His Majesty has yet to see my face."

"What?"

Rosanda reached up to her head and pulled at some pins. The veil loosened. She pulled it off her head, wrapped the cloth around the pins, and pressed the bundle together, her hands at her bosom.

He actually licked his lips at her.

"By the gods, Miss Lunai, you truly are beautiful."

She nodded her head and grinned so earnestly that she got a headache. She didn't care, though. His compliment touched something in her, something thirsty and hopeful.

He approached her again. The backs of his fingernails lightly grazed her cheek. His thick eyelashes seemed so lovely to her, just long enough to frame his eyes elegantly, but not so long as to seem too feminine for her tastes.

He leaned over her.

And he kissed her.

He sucked her tongue right into his mouth, caressing it, perhaps even loving it.

Her limbs seemed to melt. She dropped her veil. It slithered down between their bodies and softly thudded onto their shoes.

She pulled away only a little. She stepped on the veil as she moved.

His fingers were sweeping up and down her form, somehow making her feel weaker yet happier. Her back was soon against a wall. It was the most peculiar thing, being between a hard wall and a hard body, her mouth at the mercy of a prince.

Rosanda turned away and weakly said, "Your Highness!"

"Alex! I'm Alex right now!"

Seriously? Rosanda's pale brow furrowed. Then she gasped, because the man was tugging her skirts up.

"Please, Your Highness!"

His forehead connected with hers. His green and gold eyes were zealous as they met her uncertain gaze. "Call me Alex!" His hand went right under her skirts, and he kept the eye contact as his hot flesh sunk into her pubic hair.

A strangled, watery noise erupted from her.

He pinched her clitoris with little mercy.

The irrational part was how much she loved it.

"Rosanda! Call me Alex!"

Little circles, wicked little circles, roughly pressing into her clit. Rosanda whimpered. Her left hand, which still had a glove over it, flew to her teeth so she could bite a little bit of loose fabric. She groaned out something low and demanding.

A finger sunk and curled into her, ruthless, unforgiving, as it pushed onto her favorite spot. She made a gasp that slowly transformed into a vulgarity.

The man hissed a complaint out between his teeth. "Say it! Say it! I won't allow you any relief until you say it!"

Rosanda knew that Alex was short for Alexandrio, his middle name. Hidden somewhere in her cognition, there was the idea that he was trying to have her separate him from his father. They had similar, although not exact appearances. Even their voices were a little bit similar, yet there was a more youthful, sweeter hint in the prince's speech.

He wanted her to recognize him as special.

And so, she whined out, "Alex! Alex!"

It turned out to be an excellent move on her part, because he rewarded her very well. His thumb pressed into her clitoris. He added another finger to her aching, soaked passage, stretching her and filling her brain with delightful nonsense. His mouth returned to hers, caressing, kissing, licking into her.

Rosanda gripped his shoulder to keep herself from collapsing. Her core was weak, helplessly rejoicing at his clever fingers.

And then she was in a state of something similar to rage, screeching against his tongue, squirting liquid onto his hand.

He tore his mouth away from hers, and then he let his teeth drag against her earlobe. He whispered to her, "Tomorrow, after lunch, tell your step-mother that you have an engagement with me. A servant will guide you. Come alone."

This would eat into the time allocated for work commissioned by the king.

Well, she could always give an excuse about needing a bit of leisure. It was generally believed by all classes that if one did not take an occasional moment to relax, then one would turn mad.

Rosanda nodded and gave her consent.

And once she was composed and veiled again, her glove returned to her hand, her hair readjusted, Rosanda left the drawing room.

She eventually found Kosette, or rather, Kosette found her. The older woman was fidgeting, seeming to be on a very sharp and metaphorical edge. "The queen herself has sent someone after me," she informed as she nibbled on her fingernails. "I told the man I'd rather wait for my favorite model to come with me. What were you doing all this time?"

"If you can't figure it out, then you're lost in general, and there's nothing much I can do for you." Rosanda ignored the offended wince in her step-mother's eyes. "Don't think you're in a position to judge me, or my attitude, Kosette. I'm the one with the power here."

Kosette's face deflated. It was true. If Rosanda decided she wasn't going to paint anymore, as unwise as that decision would be, Kosette would be in trouble.

As they left, following a servant to wherever the queen was, Rosanda recalled what she knew about the woman.

Her Royal Majesty, the Queen, Aquitelle Francine Lothair had been a princess from a foreign land, and she married Kutberth I for political reasons. It was, apparently, an arranged marriage, and both were fairly young when it happened. Rosanda had heard the servants whisper rumors about how the queen had more lovers than the king had ever hoped to have.

The two women were led into an office that seemed to be more for showing off. It was a large room, too large. The only separation between sections of the rooms were aisles of bookcases, and there were bookcases everywhere. Even the walls seemed to be bookcases. Rosanda couldn't see what the actual walls looked like.

The queen was seated at a shiny white desk. Her skin was darker than an average Navian, which made sense, since she had been born in Athelan, a place full of darker people. If Rosanda had to describe the queen's skin color, she might call it a medium brown. It was quite beautiful, rich and lacking in any blemish.

Queen Aquitelle smiled at the women with only a hint of mild confusion. Her lips were very plump and lovingly painted a dark red. At the women's polite curtsies and greetings, she flicked her gloved fingers and told them to sit down. There were two cushioned chairs waiting for them, and they took the seats after thanking the queen.

"It seems that one of you dresses as a desert dweller would." The queen's black eyebrow quirked up. "I suppose it doesn't matter." She turned to Kosette. "Are you Kosette Lunai?"

With a nod, Kosette answered, "Yes, Your Majesty. I'm pleased to meet you."

The queen's black coiffure glittered with sparkly combs as she gave her own nod. "I heard that my husband, and my eldest son, have made commissions of you. I asked His Majesty to show me the painting he recently claimed. It's very well made."

"Thank you, Madam," Kosette said, smiling with completely undeserved satisfaction.

Under her veil, Rosanda frowned.

"I would like to put a commission on your list, if it wouldn't be any trouble."

Oh no. Rosanda's sneaky little fear was coming up.

Kosette's eyelid switched a teeny bit. "Is that so?"

"I had hoped you would paint a portrait of me, and then, perhaps, my younger children."

The most awkward silence of Rosanda's life stretched on for a while.

There was no way to make a portrait of any of those people without them watching the artist work.

Even as she was quietly panicking, Rosanda's brain was coming to a conclusion.

She took a deep breath.

Then she looked at her step-mother, and she said with a calm voice, "Kosette, either we offend Her Majesty by refusing her, or we reveal the truth. Which is more dangerous?"

Kosette shot up from her seat. Her face turned red so quickly that she seemed ill. "What do you think you're doing?!"

And even as Kosette screamed at her, even as she begged, humiliating herself before the queen of the nation, Rosanda explained their deceit. Kosette was weeping when it was over with.

The queen stood up very gracefully, her tasteful gown rustling in the air. Her face was blank. Rosanda didn't know what she was thinking.

"I'm willing to write an official pardon for your step-mother, Miss Lunai, if you will swear not to paint for her anymore."

Kosette sank back into her seat as if she had ran a marathon.

Rosanda's head tilted to one side. "I assumed you would be angry, Your Majesty."

The queen shrugged. "I don't care too much, but I still want a portrait."

***