“Would you care for wine?” Chade asked me mildly. “It might calm you.”
“No.”
He raised his eyebrows at me.
“No. Thank you. After watching Shrewd `calm’ himself with wine this morning …” I let my complaint trail away. “Was that man never young?”
“Once, he was very young.” Chade permitted himself a small smile. “Perhaps he remembers that Constance was a woman chosen for him by his parents. He did not court her willingly, nor wed her gladly. It took her death to make him know how deeply he had come to love her. Desire, on the other hand, he chose for himself, in a passion that fevered him.” He paused. “I will not speak ill of the dead.”
“This is different,” I said.
“How?”
“I am not to be king. Who I wed affects no one but me.”
“Would it were that simple,” Chade said softly. “Can you believe you can refuse Celerity’s courtship without offending Brawndy? At a time when the Six Duchies need every bond of unity?”
“I am convinced I can make her decide she does not want me.”
“How? By being an oaf? And shaming Shrewd?”
I felt caged. I tried to think of solutions, but found only one answer in me. “I will marry no one except Molly.” I felt better simply by saying it aloud. I met Chade’s eyes.
He shook his head. “Then you will marry no one,” he pointed out.
“Perhaps not,” I acceded. “Perhaps we shall never be married in name. But we shall have a life together.”
“And little bastards of your own.”
I stood convulsively, my fists knotting of their own accord.
“Don’t say that,” I warned Chade. I turned away from him to glare into his fire.