Veron had apologized to Bianca, but he’d still gotten his way, hadn’t he? Could he be trusted, or did he only wear a mantle of earnestness, beneath which only his mother’s will lived and breathed? Begging him had been awkward, but being rejected had been even more awkward. He rode just ahead, his hooded figure nevertheless identifiable by his broad shoulders and bearing, atop that massive beast he called a horse. She narrowed her eyes. He glanced over his shoulder in her direction. With a huff, she yanked the curtains shut and crossed her arms.
