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A swan moved toward her and Szeretni paused to scrutinize the strange apparition. The woman’s costume consisted almost entirely of feathers. A white feathered bodice, a white-feathered cap and a black-feathered mask—how it must have tickled. Pretty, yet somehow comic. Who did she know that fit that description? Recognition came with a smile. “Anne! You clever girl. It’s a beautiful costume.”

Knees bent, wobbling, yet somehow graceful, Anne gave her an exaggerated curtsey. “Your servant, Majesty.”

The butler’s voice rang out again, his tone one of grudging respect. “His Majesty Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary.”

The servant’s announcement took her completely by surprise—this was something she hadn’t anticipated. Curious to see what kind of man dared portray such a legendary figure, Szeretni turned to see her king. The crowd parted to reveal him and she gasped—it was as if the man had stepped right out of the gallery portrait. Clothed in royal splendor, his costume fit him to perfection. She couldn’t help noticing how his black velvet tunic gaped slightly at the neck to reveal dark, curling wisps of hair. Silk hose, also black, covered his legs, accentuating their form. A scarlet mantle, embroidered with golden ravens, flowed majestically from very broad shoulders, to end in a swirl around short kidskin boots. A golden crown rested in his thick, ebony hair.

She thought him a magnificent sight. In truth, she could only find one flaw, and this flaw was an old mystery. As with the portrait, his face remained secret, the upper half completely concealed by a silver mask. But this enigma would answer at the time of unmasking. Finally she would see the face of her king.

Szeretni wondered if his face might be anything near the perfection of his body, then blushed at her crassness. What was she thinking? Never before had she scrutinized a man in quite this way. Certainly hers were not the actions of a theologian’s daughter, even one whose father’s main interest was the occult. But then this was a night for alternate identity. If Beatrice’s king had been anything like this man, she was a fool to leave him.

Open-mouthed, Anne stared as her feathers shook with her trembling. Szeretni nodded. Anne wasn’t the only woman in the ballroom bewitched by the king. She surely was and this enchantment was pleasant sensation indeed. Awestruck, she watched the royal mystery walk grandly forward, to stop in the center of the dance floor.

Come to me.

“What did you say?”

Anne seemed puzzled. “I didn’t say anything. Are you all right? You look pale.”

“It’s my porcelain skin.”

Come to me.

An eerie sensation—the voice seemed to come from inside her head. Her gaze caught that of the king’s. His eyes held her.

Come to me, my queen.

The statuesque monarch held out his hand, strong fingers outstretched in a gesture of command. The crowd stared, clearly eager to see if this Beatrice had the courage to take up the gauntlet thrown so obviously in her face.

She felt a tingling of anticipation. This challenge she could not resist.

Outside the manor, trees swayed with the might of the gusting wind at the arrival of an unexpected storm. The gale’s force drowned out the whispered speculations of the merry-makers, their attention riveted to the drama unfolding before their curious eyes.

Szeretni cloaked herself in dignity as she walked toward him. Whatever Beatrice’s motives, she meant to do better by this man than her cruel ancestress. She knelt before him, suddenly shy in the vital power of his presence.

Taking her hand in his, he drew her to her feet.

Lightning ripped the sky outside the large picture window, a visual display of the electricity that coursed through her body at his touch. She stood trembling, head bowed, no longer eager to meet his gaze. His fingers were warm when he placed them under her chin and lifted her face. The king looked into her eyes and she felt her secrets revealed, vulnerable to her very soul. Realization choked her. His eyes were a beautiful golden brown, the same as her wolf-prince.

The king turned toward the waiting orchestra. “Why do you stare? Play for me—I wish to dance with my queen.”

The room burst to life as musicians scurried to do his bidding, striking up an elegant waltz. Celebrants caught up in the masquerade stood respectfully by, waiting for the royal couple to begin the first dance. The powerful monarch swept her into his arms and whisked her away. Bewitched by his touch, she felt they were floating as they moved gracefully to the music’s spell. She cherished the feel of his hand around hers—flesh to flesh, it took her breath away.

Szeretni could not tear her gaze away from the tall, dark stranger’s. Nothing else existed but those arresting eyes. This ruler yielded a haunting familiarity, something beyond the costume. Unlike other men she had met, he bestrew a masculinity that drew her like a thirsting woman to cool water. She felt powerless to resist.

He moved his face closer to hers. His warm breath caressed her cheek. “It seems an eternity since I’ve held you in my arms.”