Representing the Norse goddess Freya, Kristine wore a long white gown trimmed in gold satin, her short hair covered by a long blond wig. They made a striking pair, she mused, like midnight and moonlight.
The sound of conversation and laughter filled the air, vying with the music. She had never seen such a crush of people. She couldn’t stop staring. Zeus waltzed by with Cleopatra, a lion stood in the corner, conversing with a shapely ghost in a diaphanous gown. There were all manner of costumes. Some were comical, some were grotesque, some quite bizarre. Kristine would have melted into a corner if given a choice, but it was not to be.
“Come,” Erik said, leading her onto the dance floor, “let us see how well you remember your lessons.”
She moved woodenly at first, conscious of people staring at them. She didn’t belong here with these elegant people. They would be appalled if they knew they were entertaining a convicted felon. She tripped on her skirt, stepped on Erik’s toes.
“Relax, Kristine,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze. “You have nothing to fear.”
She gazed up into his eyes and everything else faded away. She forgot to watch her feet, forgot to count the steps. Effortlessly, he waltzed her around the room. She was aware of his hand, large and firm, at her waist, of his gaze burning into hers. They dipped and swayed as if they had been waltzing together for years.
When the music ended, there were a dozen men waiting to claim her for the next dance.
Trevayne surrendered her with good grace, though inside he was seething with resentment. Making his way to a shadowed corner, he watched her waltz by in the arms of another man. This was what he wanted, he reminded himself. He wanted her to get to know other men. She was young, far too young to spend the rest of her life alone. She would undoubtedly wish to marry again. She would want companionship, a man’s protection. His child would need a father. . . .
Jealousy rose within him like bitter bile as he watched the young fops fawn over her, vying for a smile, a dance, bringing her a cup of hot spiced punch, seeking to make her laugh.
Shy at first, she was soon at ease in their midst. He knew she had never been taught to flirt, yet she came by it naturally. The men swarmed around her like bears to a honey pot.
Trevayne watched as long as he could and then, unable to endure it a moment longer, he made his way through the crowd. Ignoring the protests of those paying her court, he led her away from her admirers.
“Are you having a good time, madam?”
“Yes, very.” She looked up at him, her eyes alight with merriment, her lips parted in a smile, until she saw the expression in his eyes. “Have I done something to displease you, my lord?”
He choked back the harsh reply that sprang to his lips. How could he chastise her? He had left her alone, like a fawn among a pack of wolves, and now he was angry because she had held her own, because she had not come running to him for protection.
“My lord?”
“No, Kristine, you have done nothing to displease me.” He offered her his hand. “Come, my lady wife, and dance with me.”
He was aware of the stares that followed them as they twirled around the floor, conscious of the whispered voices as his neighbors speculated on why he had not been seen in public for the last four years.
When the waltz ended, Lord Dunston claimed Kristine for the next dance. Erik kissed Kristine’s hand, inclined his head in Dunston’s direction, and left the floor.
It seemed odd to be in the midst of so many people after his self-imposed exile, strange to hear music and laughter. A few of his old cronies guessed who he was and urged him to join them for a game of cards. At first, he was reluctant, but the thought of being in their company again, of being able to pretend, if only for a little while, that he was still the man he had once been, was far too tempting. He sent one of the footmen to tell Kristine he would see her in an hour, and followed Gladstone into the card room.
“Erik, it’s good to see you out again,” Gladstone remarked as he sat down and began to shuffle a deck of cards.
“It’s good to be out.”
“That new bride’s been keeping him busy, I’ll wager,” Robert Jordan said with a leer.
“Ah, without doubt, without doubt,” Fitzroy said. “Our Erik always had a way with the ladies. Shall we remove our masks while we play?”
“I think I shall keep mine on,” Jordan declared.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Erik muttered with a wry grin. It was a well-known fact that Jordan was unable to keep from smiling when he was dealt a good hand. “I shall keep mine on, as well.”
They played with the ease of men who had grown up together and were comfortable with one another. Gladstone kept the whiskey flowing, Dunston relayed the latest court gossip, Fitzroy complained loudly each time he lost a hand.