Page 12 of A Wicked Duke's Redemption
This man wore a mask, but surely, Violet would have remembered encountering someone so handsome before. Gawain’s hair was as pale and fine as corn silk, and his blue-gray eyes reminded her of a stormy sky. His black mask and costume lent him an aura of mystery. Violet did not think she had ever before been so intrigued by a man’s presence.
A small, curious part of her longed for him to spirit her into one of the shadowed alleys and shower her with kisses and embraces. She knew that she could not indulge in such behavior. She was a respectable, young woman, and yet longing twisted so strongly in her that all her reasons for denying herself the connection she desperately wanted seemed utterly insufficient, foolish even.
“I do not often come to this village,” the man acknowledged. “This is a special occasion.”
“I see.”
Gawain was not a gifted dancer, something which Violet noted with amusement. She had assumed that he was being modest about his dancing talents, so he could impress and surprise her. However, it seemed that he truly did not know how to dance.
Violet moved through the familiar steps and said nothing. Even though Gawain was not especially talented, he was not so poor of a dancer that he stepped on her feet. It was endearing, in a way, to see that this mysterious, chivalric man was not perfect.
“You seem to know too much about literature to be from Oxeburgh,” Violet added. “I am certain that someone would have told me if there were a young man so invested in the written word as you, but no one has. You must not live in the village, then.”
“You are right. I do not.”
“So, where do you come from?” Violet asked.
She wanted to ask where he lived, so she might see him again after the dance. However, Violet knew that such a request was far too forward for a young lady to make. Perhaps that was for the best. If she could not find him again, he could not tempt her like he was. Certainly, that would be safer. Still, Violet’s curiosity bested her, as it always did.
“Where does Sir Gawain come from?” her dance partner asked. “I am sure that you know the stories as well as I do.”
She did. Sir Gawain was among her favorite romantic heroes. He was kind, chivalrous, witty, and handsome. “It depends on the tale,” Violet replied.
“I see.”
He offered no answer, and they kept dancing. Violet felt her face warm with his attentions. Sir Gawain seemed as though he wanted nothing more in the world than to continue staring into her eyes, and Violet had seldom experienced such attention before.
She was aware of every sensation, of his hand at her back and of her skirts as they brushed against his legs. Violet was also aware of her own body, which ached to have him touch her more intimately still.
“But you,” he said. “You are from the village?”
Her lips twitched into a small smile. She could tell him precisely who she was and where she lived, but she hesitated. What if he found it detestable that she was the daughter of a poor fallen aristocrat without a dowry?
His dress made it clear that he was a wealthy man, and he would certainly lose interest if he realized that her dress—made of that rich, lovely fabric—did not accurately reflect the present status of her family. She did not want to ruin the magic of the night. “Not quite,” Violet said.
“Oh?”
“I live near Inglewood Forest,” she said. That was where Dame Ragnelle lived in the story. “You know where your wife lives, surely?”
“Indeed,” he replied, smiling ruefully. “You have wandered far from home, my Lady.”
“I live near the village,” Violet said, deciding to be honest for a moment. Perhaps she could offer a little of the truth and judge his reaction. “Often, I come to the village, though. It is the nearest place with a market, after all.”
“It is,” he agreed. “How does someone become as well-read as you whilst living in such a small place? I cannot imagine there is a library.”
“There is not, but my father has a modest collection of books.”
“You must have read them all.”
“Many times over.”
Sir Gawain seemed to think over her answer for a few moments while they danced in silence. Violet found her eyes drifting to his face. What did the man look like beneath the mask? His was a large, black-feathered thing that obscured most of his forehead and his cheekbones. Only his eyes and jaw remained exposed for her to see. She wondered if she would recognize him if she saw him without his mask.
Surely, the man beneath it would be as appealing as the one before her. Violet flushed. She suddenly had the most delightful thought of retreating to a more deserted place and removing his mask with the utmost care, so she could gaze upon his bare face and meet his full lips with her own.
But then, he was not from the village. Violet imagined that he was only a traveler passing through, which would mean that Sir Gawain would leave soon. She may not see him again. A small romantic part of Violet wanted to ask if he would sweep her off her feet and carry her away into the moonlit night, which would preferably end with her being placed atop a white steed.
She knew she could not. As much as Violet loved the old romances, a small part of her knew that they were not real. Tomorrow, she would simply be Violet, daughter of impoverished once-aristocrats, and this man would return to whence he came.
