And with that, Mary kissed Kate upon the forehead and bade her good night, picking up both empty milk mugs as she left the room. Kate sat on her bed, staring sightlessly at the wall for several minutes.
Mary was wrong. Kate was sure of it. She had much to fear.
She hated that she was not Anthony’s first choice for a wife, but she was practical, and she was pragmatic, and she knew that certain things in life simply had to be accepted as fact. But she’d been consoling herself with the memory of the desire she had felt, and she thought Anthony had felt, when she was in his arms.
Now it seemed that this desire wasn’t even necessarily for her, but rather some primitive urge that every man felt for every woman.
And Kate would never know if, when Anthony snuffed the candles and took her to be
