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“You did not need to.”
Of course, it was true. If her mother’s suggestion had made him imagine, only for a moment, waking up beside Idalia, blessedly naked and sated, it was his own stubborn fault.
“If you were a king, it would not matter.”
Lance looked up.
“If there is any man less willing to accept a chance at happiness than you, I don’t know of him. Not that I am suggesting your happiness should be found with this particular woman.”
He was becoming more and more impatient with this conversation. “My happiness does not matter. Nor does yours. What matters,” he said firmly, thinking of Lord Bohun’s inability to properly feed his people “is the Order of the Broken Blade.”
“If you truly believe that”—Guy’s expression softened—“then talk to her.”
Talk to Idalia about her father.
Such a simple request. But if Lance questioned her about her father’s loyalties, he knew it would forever mar their time together.
I could tell her everything.
Lance dismissed the thought as soon as it came to him. His duty was to the order and his country. Not a woman he’d just met, no matter how lovely, or kind.
He wasn’t coming.
Idalia waited at their usual spot, one which had been hers alone for so many years. And she’d been content with that. Until now.
When a crack of thunder sounded in the distance, Idalia took it as a sign it was time to leave. Either that or get her mother’s favorite gown wet as the rain looked to soon be coming. Lifting the violet material, she concentrated on memories of her mother instead of . . . him.
This gown had come as a surprise. A gift for May Day. She remembered the day her mother had given it to her—she’d burst into Idalia’s room. Roysa and Marina had both been with her, Roysa in a beautiful yellow gown. Marina had carried this violet confection in her arms.
Idalia had sensed her mother was eager to please her, so she’d exclaimed over the vibrant color of the new gown while listening to her sister’s exclamations of delight.
What a lovely day that had been. It seemed so long ago now.
When the rain came more quickly than she’d expected, Idalia ran to the hall. She made it through the doors, which the servants opened for her just before the rain turned into a deluge. The heavy doors were closed behind her, and Idalia nodded her thanks—only to reel backward when she saw her father turn the corner directly in front of her.
“Father,” she exclaimed.
“Ah, there you are.”
Dawson came running up from behind him. Apparently he’d been looking for her as well. Idalia’s heart sank. “Is it Mother?”
The two exchanged an inscrutable look, frowning.
“Of sorts,” her father said. And before he could utter another word, Idalia took off in the direction of her chamber.
“Hold, daughter,” he called behind her. “Your mother is well.”
She stopped.
“Well? But . . .”
“She bade me seek you out.”
No words could have alarmed her more. Had she told him about Lance after all? Her father would not, she was certain, share her mother’s sentiments.
Did it matter? If he didn’t come tonight, surely it was because he’d been repelled by her mother’s words.
Her father nodded to Dawson, who left them. The hall was far from empty as servants moved the trestle tables to the sides of the room to prepare for the night. Ushering her to a private alcove, her father indicated that she should sit.
