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.
The hour passed all too quickly. With regret, Erik stood to leave.
“You’re not going!” Dunston exclaimed. “Surely you intend to give us a chance to recoup our losses.”
Erik grinned beneath his mask. “I am sorry, gentlemen, but I have left my bride alone far too long already.”
“Yes, I’d keep an eye on that one myself,” Jordan remarked.
“My plan, to be sure,” Erik said. He slipped his winnings into his pocket. “Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure, as always.”
“Of course,” Fitzroy muttered irritably. “You won. As always.”
Erik sketched an exaggerated bow, then left the room. Taking a glass of wine from one of the footmen, he made his way to the ballroom, his gaze skimming over the crowd until he found Kristine.
She stood out from the other women like a rose in a field of clover. Her face was flushed from dancing, her eyes bright as she stood in the midst of a group of admirers. Lady Trevayne was the belle of the ball, he mused. Once he was gone, she would have suitors aplenty at her door, men eager to woo and wed her. And bed her.
“But for now, she’s mine,” he murmured, and placing his empty glass on a table, he crossed the floor to claim his bride.
“May I have this dance, wife?” he asked.
Kristine looked up at him, eyes shining. “I’m afraid I’ve promised it to Lord Hoxford.”
“Lord Hoxford can wait,” Erik said curtly, and before the lord in question could protest, Erik swept her into his arms. “You are my wife,” he said as he whirled her out among the other couples, “and I want to dance.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
He gazed down at her. “How much wine have you had to drink?”
“Only a few glasses.”
“No more.”
“My lord?”
“I don’t want you tipsy.”
“I’m not . . .” She hiccupped. “Tipsy.”
“Indeed?”
She looked up at him, obviously offended. “I’m sober as . . . as a judge.” She shuddered at her poor choice of words. A judge. All too well she remembered the dour-faced magistrate who had sentenced her to death, who had refused to believe she had killed Lord Valentine in self-defense.
“Kristine?” Erik frowned, wondering at the sudden change in her mood. “Are you sick?”
“No.” She looked up at him, her eyes filled with sadness. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“I know.” He drew her into his arms and held her close. “I know.”
The Gladstones’ butler chose that moment to announce dinner.
Because of the large number of people, and the rather cumbersome costumes of some of their guests, Lady Gladstone had decided on a buffet.
Kristine watched in amazement as the doors at the far end of the ballroom opened to reveal a dozen long tables covered with white damask cloths and laden with food: whole roast pigs, game hens stuffed with wild rice, racks of lamb, platters of seafood, huge bowls of vegetables in rich sauces, baskets of bread and rolls. Just looking at so much food made her feel suddenly queasy.
She placed her hand on Erik’s arm. “Could we go outside for a moment? I feel the need for a little fresh air.”
“Of course.”
Tucking her hand into his, he led her out into the vast gardens that surrounded the estate. “Better?”
“Yes, thank you.” She removed her mask and placed it on a wrought-iron bench. “It was quite warm in there.”
Erik smiled indulgently. How young and innocent she was, and how beautiful. An angel, caressed by moonlight.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“Like a hungry cat about to pounce on a poor little mouse.”
“Perhaps because that is exactly what I am thinking.”
“Really?” She blinked up at him, her eyes wide, her cheeks as pink as the roses that grew in profusion all around them.
“Really.”
She swayed toward him. “Will you not kiss me then, my lord?”
It was a thought to tempt a saint, but he could not indulge her now, could not remove his mask without revealing the ugliness beneath.
“My lord?” She took a rather unsteady step toward him.
“Kristine!” He reached out to steady her. “I think you are in your cups, my dear.”
“I don’t feel so good,” she mumbled.
“I’ll take you home.”
“But I don’t want to go home,” she protested. “I’m having such a good time. And I owe Lord Hoxford a waltz.”
“There will be no more dancing for you tonight, my sweet,” Erik said. “I’m taking you home. I shall send Brandt in to make our apologies.”
She looked up at him in horror. “You’re not going to tell him I’m . . . I’m . . .”
“Of course not. I shall say you’re feeling a little under the weather.”
“I’m fine, really.” She took a deep breath, intending to argue further, then pressed a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Erik, I’m going to be sick!”