“You are well-versed in literature, indeed,” Leo said. “What is your opinion of the piece?”
“I believe that any poem which emphasizes a woman’s right to self-sovereignty is a work which ought to be held in high opinion.”
“I quite agree.”
The young lady curtseyed, her eyes never leaving his face. “My Lord Gawain,” she said. “I am Dame Ragnelle, and it is an honor to make your acquaintance.”
“I can assure you; the honor is all mine.”
“Dame Ragnelle” curled her hands in her skirts and gazed at him from beneath her eyelashes. The pale yellow mask made her eyes look even brighter in contrast. A lump rose in Leo’s throat. This woman did not seem like one who had spent her entire life in a tiny village in the country. She was learned and lovely, and it seemed that she—like him—hoped that she could spend the night being something other than her usual self.
Leo sensed that she was a kindred spirit, and all the harshness inside him, all the insistences that he did not need to acquaint himself with the villagers, melted away in the gentle warmth of her gaze.
“What shall we do now?” she asked.
Leo hummed. “I think I am supposed to solve a riddle,” he said.
“But you have already read that romance,” the woman said. “You know the answer to the riddle.”
“That is quite true,” Leo said.
The music stopped, and for a long moment, time itself seemed to halt around Leo. He felt as though he would have been happy if he could simply stare at this young lady forever and lose himself in the softness of her violet gaze. A fissure of pleasure traced the path of his spine.
“Then, what?” she asked.
He found the same silent hopefulness in her expression that he felt in his own heart. When tomorrow came, the masquerade would end, and their lives would resume how they had the day before.
Now, however, they were Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle, two lovers from a medieval romance. Of course, that romance concluded with the happy couple retreating to the bedroom and enjoying the fruits of marriage. Leo’s trousers felt uncomfortably tight. That would not happen tonight.
Leo silently offered his hand, as the first notes of the next song rang in the air, and with a shy smile, the lady placed her hand in his. Did she feel the same heated passion that he did? It was impossible to tell, for her gaze was longing but sweet.
Without a word being passed between them, Leo led her towards the ring of dancers. As they faced on another, the lady’s eyes shined. Leo felt heat rise to his face. It had been years since he had danced with a young lady. A lump rose in his throat, and he laughed, the sound edged with anxiety.
“I am not a very good dancer,” he confessed.
Not with these village dances.
She only smiled kindly. “I am sure that you shall be fine. You are likely better than you think, my Lord.” The young woman added a sly wink. “And being a lady, I would never dare mention that you are a poor dancer, even if you are.”
“How kind.”
The music started, and the two of them—hand in hand—began to dance. Warmth spread through Leo, as fierce as a phoenix taking flight. It had been a long time since he had danced with a lady, since he had felt a woman’s warm body pressed against his and inhaled her sweet, floral scent.
He had not longed so ardently for a young lady since Lydia was alive, and in the intensity of Dame Ragnelle’s violet gaze, he felt his grief melt away like frost in the face of springtime.
Chapter 6
A delighted shiver traced the path of Violet’s spine as Sir Gawain placed his hand carefully on her back. Her dancing partner was the most handsome man Violet had ever seen in her life. She remembered Liza’s words from earlier in the night. Violet might meet her Prince Charming.
Sir Gawain’s hand was warm and steady between her shoulder blades as they moved through the first steps of the dance. She tried not to think about the heat curling in her stomach, her mind whirling with old stories of knights being overcome with love and lust at a single glance from a lady, who eagerly responded to the suggestion of an amorous congress.
The air seemed alive with the force of her desire. Violet felt as though she were walking along the coast before a coming storm, when the air was cool and charged with energy. She scarcely knew this man, but something about him drew her attention. Violet was like a moth to flame, and she longed for the dance to last for the entire night, perhaps longer. She scarcely dared to think of all the wonderful things which could occur after the dance.
“You are not from the village,” Violet surmised.
Gawain smiled sheepishly. “I am not. How did you guess?”
“I do not think I have seen you before.”
