“Not as lovely as yours,” Jorgen said without hesitating.
Her heart seemed to fly out of her chest and soar around the arched ceiling of the ballroom of Thornbeck Castle. Jorgen Hartman, rescuer of damsels in peril, might . . . perhaps . . . love her.
But she should be ashamed of feeling joyful about such a thing! Jorgen was too good and kind, and he had seen too many tragic things in his life, for her to hurt him and break his heart. He should not love her. She should shun him, reject him now, before his heart was engaged.
But glancing up at him, she knew that her heart was in just as much danger. Oh, dear saints in heaven. It seemed just as likely that she was in love with him.
“How is Kathryn?” he asked.
Of course, he had no idea what she was thinking. With the mask covering half her face, she could think anything and no one would know. She felt almost as if she were someone else, someone bolder, someone who could be flirtatious and carefree. Tomorrow she could go back to being sensible, to understanding that no matter how strong and noble and kind and good Jorgen was, he was still a forester and not the person her uncle—or she—would ever choose for her to marry. But for tonight, inside this formidable castle and this beautiful, palatial ballroom, she could think outrageous thoughts and imagine the impossible.
“Kathryn is well. She is staying with Peter and Anna, as you know. She insists on sleeping in the servants’ room and helping them with their work and also with the children. Allowing her to work as a servant seems to be the only way to keep her from leaving.”
She peeked out at Jorgen through the eyeholes in her mask. He had no idea how many secrets she was keeping from him. Was he keeping any secrets from her? Or was he truly what he seemed: a hardworking forester, loyal to the margrave, who wrote stories and rhymes that children loved? Well educated for his station in life, he also danced well and was protective of women.
In her heart, she believed his conscience was as uncovered as his face, as untarnished as his clear blue-green eyes.
He nodded in answer to her information about Kathryn.
“There is the margrave’s sister.” Jorgen nodded toward a man and woman just entering the ballroom. “And that is her husband, the Earl of Augenhalt.”
Odette marveled at her beauty. Even with the mask, her perfect lips and translucent skin shone in the candlelight. Her gown was pink silk, shimmering with metallic embroidery and trimmed in fur. She smiled as she greeted the other beautiful people, moving gracefully about the room.
Her husband did not smile, and he was not as handsome as she was, but he had an air of deference as he walked beside her, as if he was ruled by her wishes as he allowed her to greet whomever she chose and talk as long as she liked.
“So much beauty,” Odette breathed, shaking her head.
Jorgen nodded, but he did not seem nearly as awed as she was.
Rutger stood on the other side of the ballroom. He was talking with a man. Odette wasn’t sure who he was, but he looked like Mathis Papendorp, wearing a strangely shaped hat and colorful robe.
The dance ended. The swish of the dancers’ shoes and hems ceased with the music. Jorgen turned to face her. “Will you do me the honor of dancing the next dance with me?”
“It would be my pleasure, my lord.” She bowed formally and placed her hand in his. The touch of his fingers sent her heart to dancing, and her mind flitted to being held in his arms after he had saved her and Kathryn from The Red House. How pleasant to be touched by Jorgen. She might have felt a bit of conviction and guilt at such a thought, but behind her mask, she smiled flirtatiously at him, letting the warm sensations spread all through her, from her hand to her cheeks.
The music started, and he led her toward the center of the floor. The dance was slower and more complicated than the folk dances they had danced at the Midsummer festival. Fortunately Rutger had made sure she knew how to dance them by hiring her a dance master when she was younger. Was Jorgen familiar with the more formal dances?
The dance started before she had time to decide whether to ask him. He moved with confidence, and she followed his lead. Even though the dance floor was filled with beauty and color enough to dazzle any eye, Odette had no desire to look away from Jorgen as she stepped toward him, clasped his hands, then let go as they stepped back. They turned around one way, then the other way, and then came back to the center to clasp hands again.
Jorgen, in his blue brocaded cotehardie with its ermine trim, looked every inch as princely as any prince or duke or margrave at the ball. And the look in his eyes made him even more handsome.