Beauty’s Beast(20)
Author: Amanda Ashley

“You seem so far away.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was going to ring for a cup of tea. Would you care for some?”

“I would rather have a brandy.”

She nodded, a flicker of concern giving her pause as she recalled the night he had come to her, intoxicated. That had not happened again, though she knew there were nights when he sought solace in a glass of whiskey.

A few minutes later, Nan entered the library.

Kristine relayed their wishes, then closed the book she had been pretending to read. For perhaps the hundredth time, she wondered what was troubling Erik. What secret was he keeping from her? It was more than just whatever disfigurement he hid behind the mask. She had hoped he would come to trust her enough to confide in her, prayed that, in time, he would come to care for her, as she was learning to care for him.

She knew there were times when he was in terrible pain, but he would not reveal the cause. She knew something weighed heavily upon his mind, but he would not divulge the reason. And yet she could not help but be heartened by the gradual change in their relationship. He seemed to genuinely enjoy her company. They ate their meals together, spent time together each day. Made love each night. It was a victory, of a sort, and she reminded herself again to be patient.

Nan returned a few minutes later. She handed Kristine a delicate china cup of peppermint tea sweetened with wild honey, and handed Erik a snifter of brandy.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“No. Thank you, Nan.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy and left the room.

Kristine regarded her husband over the rim of her cup. He drained the glass in a few quick swallows. Placing the empty snifter on the table beside him, he rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. She saw the tension drain out of him as the brandy’s warmth seeped through him.

Slowly, she sipped her tea, watching him all the while. His gloved hand relaxed in his lap, the tension went out of his shoulders. Was he asleep? She watched a few more minutes, but he didn’t stir.

Almost before the thought crossed her mind, she was on her feet, tiptoeing toward him, the temptation to peek beneath the silk covering on his face overpowering in its intensity.

She stood beside his chair, her heart pounding so loudly, she wondered that it did not awaken him. Now was her chance to see what lay beneath the mask. She took a deep breath, held it for the space of a heartbeat. Now. It had to be now. She might never get another chance.

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.