Rosamund
At the end of the morning assembly, we returned to the room in silence.
Nevan closed the door behind us, and I drifted to the bed without thinking, sitting on its edge still fully dressed in my gown. I pressed my hands against my upper arms and began rubbing them, a slow, absent motion, as though I could smooth away the tension coiled beneath my skin.
My mind wouldn't stop spinning.
It kept replaying the garden. Julian standing between the yew trees, his fists curling at his sides, his jaw locked. And Nevan's words, delivered with that calm, amused contempt. How can someone as disciplined as Julian Whitmore stoop so low as to lust after another man's wife?
And Julian, who argued everything, who always had a response sharpened and ready, hadn't denied it. He hadn't said Nevan was wrong. I'd expected him to laugh it off or deflect the way a man accused falsely would, but instead he'd said: I like your wife.
As though it were a fact he was tired of concealing.
