Had Ambrosia been the sort of woman prone to demoralising self-deprecation then the thrill that shot through her body when her husband took her in his arms might have been the cause of furious contemplation when she was alone. She tried valiantly to ignore it as best she could – it was maddening that the first thing her mind conjured up was putting him through his paces in quite a different way – but still she felt her body soften, lean in to Trystan’s hold, otherwise become his.

She only hoped he was oblivious: it was bad enough that every maid that received a smile immediately went weak at the knees the very last thing she wanted was to boost his ego to further heights of uncontrollable arrogance by letting him know he sometimes had the same effect on her.

“If you insist,” she said with feigned reluctance, raising an eyebrow at him. “The first move is usually yours, my dear.”

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