What was she doing? What if one of the maids found her in there? With a shake of her head, she opened the door. She was, after all, the lady of the house, and Erik was her husband. She had every right to be there.
She closed the door quietly behind her, then stood there a moment, her heart thundering in her ears. This room was even larger than her bedchamber. A huge bed with wine-colored hangings and a matching counterpane stood directly across from the entrance. Several large pillows were propped against the massive oak headboard. There were tables on each side of the bed. There was an armoire of carved oak to her left, a stone fireplace similar to the one in her room to her right. A small round table and a single chair stood to the right of the hearth. High, narrow, leaded windows were located on either side of the bed. Draperies the same color and material as the canopy hung at the windows. Tapestry rugs in muted shades of wine and blue covered the floor.
Moving farther into the room, she ran her hand over the counterpane, slid her fingertips over one of the pillows. He slept here. Did he ever think of her, dream of her?
Feeling like a thief in the night, yet unable to resist, she went to the armoire and looked inside, noting that her husband seemed to have a preference for coats and breeches in somber hues. The top drawer held a number of shirts in a variety of colors, all made of finely woven wool. Did he always wear wool, she wondered, even in summer? The second drawer held handkerchiefs of fine linen, a wide assortment of cravats and gloves. The third held at least a dozen masks, all fashioned of black silk.
Her breath caught in her throat when she picked one up. It was featherlight in her hand, made so that a portion of it fit over the top of his head. Narrow ribbons served to hold it in place. Why did he wear a mask, she wondered again. What was he hiding? A horrible scar? The disfiguring marks of the pox? A deformity of some kind?
She shook her head. He was such a large, vibrant man, she could not imagine that someone who exuded such power could be anything but perfect.
She held the mask by the edges and lifted it in front of her face, peering through the slits cut for his eyes as she tried to imagine what it would be like to wear such a thing day and night.
“What are you doing in here?”
She would recognize that gruff voice anywhere. It split the stillness with the force of a thunderclap. Kristine felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment as she whirled around to face him, the mask dangling from her hand, forgotten.
Dressed all in black, her husband loomed over her like a dark, angry cloud.
“I . . .”
“You have no business in here.”
She stared up at him. Tall and broad, he blocked the doorway, effectively shutting off her only means of escape.
“I asked you a question.” He spoke each word softly. Slowly. Distinctly.
She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat, tried to form a coherent sentence, and failed.
He held out one gloved hand. “Give it to me.”
Kristine looked at him blankly. “What? Oh!” She dropped the mask into his outstretched hand.
“Get out.” His fist closed over the silk.
“I’m sorry.” She stared up at him, willing him to move. She wanted nothing more than to flee his presence, but he stood in front of the door, blocking her retreat.
“Get. Out.”
“I will. I would. But . . .” She glanced longingly at the door. “I can’t.”
He stared down at her and then, realizing her predicament, he took a step to the left.
With a wordless cry, she picked up her skirts and ran out of the room.
Trevayne stared after her, engulfed by rage and an overpowering sense of hopelessness. He had never meant to care for her, had not thought it possible. But she was so young, so innocent. She stirred feelings within him that he had thought long dead, crushed beneath the bitterness, the hatred, that had been his constant companions since Dominique’s death. He had married Kristine because she was a stranger, because she had no ties to his past. He had thought he could wed her and bed her and forget her. Now her very presence threatened to bring down the walls he had so carefully erected between himself and the rest of the world.
He paced the floor, the mask he had taken from her crumpled in his hand. He would go to her tonight and plant his seed within her. If there was any mercy in the world, his seed would take root and he could leave here, leave her. He could not bear the pain of his reawakened emotions, could not let himself care for a woman who would recoil in horror if she but knew what lay behind his mask, what kind of monster came to her bed in the dark of night.
The day passed slowly. With Kristine in the house, he felt like a prisoner in his own chambers. He wished, futilely, that he might go downstairs and engage her in conversation, but the mask he was forced to hide behind was like a wall between them. He could not abide the curiosity in her gaze, could not answer the unspoken questions in her eyes, could not pretend that their marriage was anything but what it was—the means to an end. He dared not let her become important to him for fear it would weaken his resolve and that, when the time came, he would be unable to end his life, that he would be unwilling to leave her once the child was born. It would be far better for her, and for him, if there were no tender feelings between them. If he were wise, he would cultivate her hatred. He wanted no one to grieve for him when he was gone. At his death, she would become a wealthy woman. She could remain a widow or marry again at her leisure.
The thought of another man savoring her sweetness filled him with rage. It was part of the curse, he thought, that horrible fury that rose up within him more and more often of late, urging him to strike out, to destroy those who elicited his wrath.
Filled with black despair, he paced the floor, waiting for darkness to cover the land so that he might go to his wife’s bed.
He stared out the window, willing the sun to set, willing the night to come quickly and cloak the land in shadow. He, who had once loved the light, now sought the sheltering cover of darkness.
Was it a lifetime ago that he had hunted the woods with his companions, spent his days at his club, his nights drinking and carousing or pursuing the pleasures of female flesh? Hard to believe he had once been rather vain of his looks, harder still to recall that beautiful women had once sought his favor, that he had been the envy of his peers. Once, secure in his youth and virility, he had attended numerous balls and cotillions where women old and young, married and single, had vied for his attention . . . and then he had married Dominique and that life had come to an end.
A bitter laugh that resembled a growl more than human amusement rumbled deep in his throat. His days of youth and innocence were gone now, forever gone. He was no longer the man he had been, but a freak, half beast, half man. A heavy sigh rose within him. Soon, too soon, there would be nothing left but the beast. . ..