Page 31

But more of her thoughts were taken up by Roland than anything else.

He is betrothed.

Part of her wished to confront him. To ask Roland why he’d kissed her. But another part of her knew such a discussion was unnecessary. He’d kissed her because he wished to do so. Without regard for the woman he was to marry. Without regard to Amalia.

He was precisely as she believed him to be when they’d met, the sort of man Evelina had long warned her against. So why, if he was so wrong for her, did Amalia wish to speak with him still? Allow him to explain, as if any explanation was necessary?

Steeling her mind against any further thoughts of him, she used the wash bowl after undressing and wiped her arms and legs with lavender water. She chewed on a piece of mint, continuing to push visions of his kisses away. Amalia prepared herself for bed, despite not being tired. Lighting additional candles, she moved to the small hearth in the corner of her chamber. A chamber maid had lit a fire earlier, so after stoking it, Amalia sat on one of two chairs before it, grateful for a private bedchamber and nearly as much space as she’d had at Ashford Manor.

A knock on her door pulled Amalia out of her reverie. Though it was likely the chambermaid, Amalia paused before opening it.

“Amalia.”

Not a chambermaid at all. A male voice.

Roland’s voice.

Heart hammering, she opened it a crack and peeked through. Roland stood there, in less formal attire than she’d ever seen him . . . just an open linen shirt and hose.

“I wish to speak with you.”

“In my bedchamber?”

Why must the man look so handsome? He was betrothed. Betrothed. Amalia repeated the word over and over in her mind.

“Unless you prefer to come into the corridor?”

It was highly inappropriate to even consider allowing him inside. But neither did Amalia wish to speak to him in the corridor in her shift. And despite herself, she did wish to speak to him.

Opening the door wide, she scurried inside and hastily donned a cotte that closed and tied on the sides. It was loose enough to easily take on and off herself. By the time she did so, Roland had come into the chamber and closed the door.

Her eyes narrowed.

“I mean nothing untoward by being here,” he assured her. “Only to talk.”

A chill had her moving toward the fire. “Do sit,” she said, somewhat reluctantly. “None saw you coming here?”

“I’d not risk your reputation by allowing it,” he said, sitting on the wooden chair beside her. Roland leaned forward, warming his hands by the fire. Though the weather grew warmer outdoors each day, in here, the thick stone walls kept chambers cool. If it were not for the rugs, and tapestries—and the hearth, of course—it would be almost unbearable, even in spring.

“But you would kiss a woman despite the fact that you are betrothed?”

Roland rested his elbows on each knee, leaning toward her. “Precisely why I wished to speak with you.”

“You could have done so during the evening meal.”

“Privately,” he added.

Amalia waited, determined for his reasoning not to matter. Already she was too enamored with a man who could never be hers.

“I never agreed to the betrothal. My father brokered it before I was even knighted. Her father’s land borders our own. He is also a close confidant of the king and one of his inner circle. When I told my father I would not honor the betrothal, the argument drove a wedge between us that was made deeper by our differing opinion on Stephen’s reign. I told both the baron and his daughter in person, compensated them, and left, sending word to my father.”

Of all the things she expected to hear, the fact that he’d broken the betrothal was not one of them.

“So you are not betrothed?”

“Nay, I am not.”

“Lady Elara believes that you are.”