Two pages of poems had been finished in restless unease. The quill still twitched in his hand as he scribbled the lines in his head down on the parchment.
A knock on the door made him freeze in his tracks. The candle beside him wavered as he set down the quill.
"Come in." He called out.
A guard opened the door, ushering the person in.
He didn't need to look up to know exactly who it was.
And for once, she was on time. Had she been anticipating the evening as much as he had been, or was she punctual because duty demanded it?
"Your Grace."
He looked up. Then he wished he hadn't.
Yeren didn't recognise the dress she was wearing. Had he sent such a beautiful dress without realising it? Or had someone gifted it to her? The latter thought made him shift in his seat.
The only man he knew that was wealthy and bold enough to offer her such a gift was Lord Bronan's son.
As if the necklace was not enough, he scoffed inwardly.
