Painted Roses

The Stranger in The Mask

Rosalia turned at the hand on her shoulder, then looked up - goodness this man was tall, taller than Mr. Cliffwood, closer to Valentine or Luka's height.

His face was in shadow thanks to the hood of his costume and a black mask across the eyes but somehow she knew he would be easy on the eyes - if she could see them.

His costume was... well she wasn't sure what it was. A highwayman perhaps? A spy? He wore a crisp suit under a sweeping, tailored hooded coat. The waistcoat was a work of incredible craftsmanship, black and laced with glorious gold. Whoever had crafted the clothes was clearly an extraordinary tailor - who probably charged an extraordinary price - and yet the whole appearance had something of a shabbiness about it, as if decades old.

She frowned slightly.

This man wasn't usually seen at these events, if ever. At the very least, she didn't know him. He carried himself and spoke like one of them but she didn't know him.

She looked back at Mr. Cliffwood. Well, she might not have known him, but judging by Mr. Cliffwood's expression, he certainly did and he despised the newcomer.

His expression was like thunder, terrifying, dark and raging, muscles wound up like knots, body trembling. Rosalia automatically stepped away from him at the sight of his face, closer to the chest of the stranger without realising it and his gloved hand gently squeezed her shoulder, making her jump.

"What are you doing here?" Mr. Cliffwood hissed.

"Asking the lady for a dance, assuming her dance card isn't full, as you can see, I arrived later than planned," the stranger replied.

"You don't belong here."

"I think you'll find I do."

"Does she know?"

"I don't need her permission. I'm here for my own reasons. Miss." With that one word, he dismissed Mr. Cliffwood, turned Rosalia towards him and stepped back with a sweeping bow. "May I have the next dance?"

Rosalia just stared stupidly at him.

He glanced up through the shadows of his hood, eyes hidden though she just knew he was looking into her eyes.

"I have a message from someone you know," he muttered and Rosalia's brow creased, confusion overshadowing the surprise. "I only require a moment of your time." He held out a hand. "The dance will start soon."

"Wait," Mr. Cliffwood snapped and Rosalia took the offered hand.

The stranger straightened and they walked away to the centre of the hall, leaving Mr. Cliffwood behind, rage seething off him as he watched.

"Who are you?" Rosalia asked the moment they were on the dance floor.

The man wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, gently taking her hand in his as she settled her other hand on his shoulder.

"I'm here on behalf of, what do you call him, Mr. Frog," the man said and Rosalia almost pulled back.

He caught her, pressing her against his chest just as the music started and stepped forwards, moving her into the dance before she could move away.

"What are you talking about?" she hissed.

"He is worried about you, My Lady," the stranger said, his voice low as they spun across the floor.

Even with his shocking words, Rosalia couldn't help notice his dancing. He was a superb dancer. So smooth and elegant, very strong and steady, an excellent lead. She could think of very few men who would compare actually.