She was reaching for the bottom edge of the mask when she suddenly drew back, hands clenching at her sides. She had promised to respect his privacy; if she peeked beneath the mask without his consent, she would be breaking her promise, violating his trust. And trust, once shattered, could never be fully regained.
Fighting the urge to stamp her foot in frustration, she returned to her chair and finished her tea.
Kristine stared at the invitation in her hand. It was addressed to Lord and Lady Trevayne. It seemed odd to see her married name in writing. Lady Trevayne. She rarely thought of herself as such. In spite of her luxurious surroundings and elegant gowns, she was just Kristine.
She turned the envelope in her hands. Dare she open it? She ran her finger over the heavy vellum. Why shouldn’t she? It was addressed to her, after all. She broke the seal and withdrew a sheet of monogrammed stationery. It was a handwritten invitation to a masquerade ball to be given by Lord and Lady Courtney Gladstone in three weeks’ time.
“What have you got there?”
Feeling suddenly guilty, Kristine whirled around, startled by the sound of Erik’s deep-throated voice. “An invitation.” She thrust it toward him, wondering if he would be angry that she had opened it.
Trevayne perused it quickly, then crumpled the page in his hand. There had been a time when Gladstone had been his best friend.
“I guess you don’t want to go,” Kristine remarked with a wry grin.
“I don’t go out. You know that.”
She nodded, her gaze intent upon his face.
Trevayne regarded her thoughtfully a moment. “Is it your wish to attend?”
“No!” She shook her head vigorously. The thought of mingling with all those highborn people was intimidating in the extreme. She had no social graces to speak of. She didn’t know how to dance. She considered herself lucky that her father had taught her to read and write.
Trevayne grunted softly. Perhaps they should attend. When he was gone, Kristine would be mistress of Hawksbridge Castle. She should know who her neighbors were. In spite of her former station in life, she was Lady Trevayne now. He needed to make sure that she would be treated with the respect due her title.
“I was just going for a walk in the gardens,” Kristine said. “Would you care to join me?”
Trevayne smoothed the paper in his hand. “I want you to send a reply to Lady Gladstone and tell her we shall be pleased to attend.”
“What?” Kristine stared at him, certain her ears were playing tricks on her.
Trevayne nodded. “It’s time you met your neighbors.”
“But I don’t want to go. I can’t go.”
“I thought it would please you.”
She shook her head again. “I don’t like meeting strangers. And I can’t dance. And . . . and what if someone should recognize me? I was in prison, condemned.”
“I doubt you need worry about meeting anyone you would know,” he remarked dryly, “or anyone who would know you.”
“I would rather not take the chance.”
“Enough. We’re going. I shall teach you to dance. Leyla and Lilia can teach you anything else you need to know.”
His gaze ran over her. She was young and artlessly beautiful, her heart-shaped face devoid of the garish paint and powder so many women hid behind. She wore a day dress in muted shades of green that made her eyes glow. Her hair had grown out a little, framing her face in a cap of short, dark blond curls.
“But we never go out,” she said. “Why do we have to start now?”
“Ah, but Kristine,” he replied, his voice tinged with bitterness, “a masked ball is the perfect place to start.” He took her hand in his. “Come along,” he said, “you can write our reply, and then we can take that walk.”
With a sigh of resignation, Kristine let him lead her into the library. She sat at his desk, her brow furrowed, as she endeavored to pen a proper reply.
Trevayne sat in the chair near the fireplace, watching her. She had torn up her first two responses and was now laboring over a third. He could have done it for her, but something kept him from offering.
At last, she put her pen aside. “How does this sound? Dear Lady Gladstone, thank you for your kind invitation. Lord Trevayne and I will be most happy to attend your masquerade ball on June first.” She looked up at him. “Is it too short? Too curt?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Amelia doesn’t require a lengthy reply. She merely needs to know how many people to expect.”
“I wish you would write it,” Kristine said petulantly. “Your handwriting is so much neater than mine.”