“He might have,” Rosamunde complained. “But he didn’t. He was jesting. He acts like a beast—I suspect he enjoys it—but he can actually be pleasant when he stops snarling and barking.” “Pleasant! You’re joking. He is so large and so…so…manly.” Rosamunde shuddered. “What if he’d been serious? What if he’d forced me to marry? I can’t imagine having to lie down with him. If he touched my private parts, I’d die of embarrassment.” At Rosamunde’s dramatic comment, Anne chuckled. They were both very old to still be maidens. Husbands had never been found for them. Anne hadn’t wanted one, and while Rosamunde would have liked to wed, Geoffrey was the only fellow who’d ever caught her fancy, and he was unsuitable. Their father had been more interested in courtly intrigues and had refused to bother with such paltry issues as finding a spouse for his daughter.
