There was work awaiting him, preparations for pursuit to be made, but first he would permit himself the indulgence of a moment's reflection. His lip curled. Self-pity by another name.
The fact of her choice had not surprised him; he'd known where her heart lay when he'd accepted her hand. But the manner of it had stung. So public, so unequivocal, so… cruel; the cruelty of impetuous youth. He felt, suddenly, a hundred years old.