Nevan
I caught myself smiling at the mirror when I reached my chambers, and the sight of it was so unfamiliar I almost didn't recognise the man wearing it.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone to bed with a smile on my face, but tonight had offered me something I hadn't anticipated: the sight of Rosamund Fletcher Wilder, Duchess of Wellspring, sprinting out of her bedchamber like the floor was on fire.
I sat on the edge of my bed and pressed the back of my hand against my mouth, trying to stifle the laugh bubbling in my chest as the memory kept replaying in my mind.
Rosamund, cornered against the wall, kissing me back with vigour. Then the moment she'd broken away from the kiss, the panicked look on her face and then the sprint. She had left me in the middle of her room, aching with desire.
