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.”
Rising, Trevayne went to stand behind her chair. He peered over her shoulder, his gaze skimming over the short message she had written.
“It looks fine, Kristine,” he assured her, and then, tempted by the slender curve of her throat and the flowery scent that clung to her hair and skin, he bent down and kissed her cheek.
At the sound of his voice, the touch of his lips, she went still all over. There had been no intimacy between them in the light of day. He came to her bed each night and left after she fell asleep. Except at breakfast, and the hour or two they spent horseback riding in the afternoon, she saw little of him until suppertime. A tiny flicker of hope peeked through the layers of self-doubt. Was he starting to care for her at last?
Startled by what he had done, Trevayne drew back. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to brush his lips across her cheek. Almost, he had gathered her into his arms. Would she have objected? With a mental shake of his head, he went to stand near the hearth, his back toward her. It would be best for them both if he remembered that theirs was a marriage of convenience. He did not want to care for her, did not want her to care for him. Once he had her with child, he would no longer be a part of her life. He would be wise to remember that.
“Have Chilton deliver your reply,” he said tersely. “And tell Judith you will need a costume for the ball.”
“Judith?”
“Mrs. Grainger. I shall see you at dinner.” Hands shoved deep into his pockets, he headed for the door.
“My lord . . .”
He paused, not looking at her. “Yes, Kristine?”
“You were going to walk in the gardens with me.”
“Not now.” He gentled his voice. “I shall teach you to dance after supper.” Without looking at her, he left the room.
Erik twirled her around the floor, faster and faster, until she was breathless. It was glorious to be in his arms. He was incredibly light on his feet for such a large man, infinitely patient as he taught her to waltz. It was dizzying, to be so close to him, to see the heat in his eyes when he looked at her. She had felt clumsy at first, tripping over her own feet, stepping on his, but he had counted the steps for her, urged her to relax, to forget about her feet and listen to the music provided by Mrs. Grainger’s sons, who were out of sight in an adjoining room.
As Erik twirled her around the floor, Kristine watched their reflection in the mirrors that lined the walls of the ballroom. There were no mirrors in any of the other rooms in the castle. She had been surprised to find them here, behind locked doors.
He moved effortlessly, gracefully, leading her through the steps. No longer needing to concentrate on her feet, she smiled up at him.
“You are a most wonderful teacher, my lord husband.”
“And you are a most apt pupil, my lady wife, and as light as a feather in my arms.”
Pleasure engulfed her at his words. Her heart began to pound as his steps slowed, and then he was bending his head toward her, his lips claiming hers.
With a sigh, she melted against him, her hands clutching at the lapels of his coat, her eyelids fluttering down as he deepened the kiss. Wordlessly, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to one of the plush couches that lined three of the walls. After setting her on the cushions, he moved through the room, extinguishing all the lights save one at the far end near the door.
She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, admiring the height and the breadth of him, his long-legged stride. She opened her arms in welcome when he returned to the couch and he sank into her embrace, his lips seeking hers, his hands loosening the ties of her gown, fondling her breasts as he removed her dress and chemise.
She yearned to caress him in return, but knew he would not welcome her touch. In all the months of their marriage, she had never seen him naked, never felt the touch of his naked flesh against her own. Always, his clothing stood like a barrier between them.
She ran her hands over his shoulders, her fingertips stroking the rich velvet of his coat, wondering if his skin would be as soft, as smooth. It never failed to astonish her that she could want him so quickly. How was it that one man’s touch could arouse her to heights of ecstasy she had never dreamed existed, while another’s evoked only loathing?
She moaned with delight as their bodies merged. She loved the weight of him pressing her down upon the cushions, the touch of his hand stroking her flesh, the urgency that caused him to groan with need as he drove deeper inside her, burning away every thought, until they melted together, one into the other, and she was complete at last. . ..
He held her close in his arms afterward, held her tight, as if he cared for her, as if he could not bear to let her go.
“Why?” he asked after a long while had passed. “Why did you not look under the mask the other night in the library?”
Startled by his question, she blinked up at him, though she could not see his expression in the dimly lit room. “Why, my lord? Why, because I promised I would not.” She sat up, her eyes narrowing with suspicion as she put her dress to rights. “You were not asleep, then?”
“No.” He sat up, his arm curling around her waist.
“You were only pretending to be asleep, then, trying to trick me?”
He lifted one shoulder in an elaborate shrug. “I needed to know if I could trust you.”
With a little humph of annoyance, she tried to thrust him away from her. It was like trying to move a mountain.
“Don’t be angry, Kristine.”
“Let me go!”
He laughed softly, amused by her show of temper. “Not yet.” He dropped tender kisses along the curve of her cheek, down the length of her neck, across her shoulder. “Not quite yet.”
She tried to hold on to her anger, but it evaporated beneath the heat of his kisses, banished by the husky tremor in his voice as he whispered endearments in her ear, his tongue a wicked flame as it moved across her skin.
She ignited like dry tinder in his arms, everything else forgotten as she clung to him. Once, turning her face to the side, she found herself staring at numerous shimmering images of the two of them reflected back at her from the mirrored walls. They were a study in ivory and ebony, she mused, her skin seeming extraordinarily white against the darkness of his clothing, his black mask and hair a striking contrast to her pale flesh.