“Everything is context,” Isobelle agreed, distantly aware that she’d adopted Gwen’s trick of echoing words when she wasn’t sure what was happening.

“Yes!” Gwen’s voice grew louder. “Are you really trying to tell me that you, of all people, don’t see why I might object to kissing someone in front of all her friends, on a dare, to practice for whatever nobleman eventually wins her hand in marriage?”

Isobelle couldn’t seem to disengage—couldn’t break her gaze away from Gwen’s. “I . . .” she began. “Well, I . . .” Heavens above, was she stammering? What had Hilde put in that tea?

Some of the heat drained from Gwen’s gaze, her defenses lowering a touch at the sight of Isobelle scrambling for words. “I suppose I just don’t kiss people for practice.”

“I thought . . .” Isobelle heard herself say, as though someone else—someone particularly insipid—was speaking. “I thought it might be quite nice.”

Gwen’s lashes dipped into a slow blink, and she spoke so softly that Isobelle had to lean in to hear her. “If someone kisses me,” she whispered, “I want it to be because they want to. Because they need to.”

Isobelle couldn’t remember how to breathe.

Gwen was gazing at her lips now, and she didn’t bother to conceal the fact. “I want it to be because they can’t take another second wondering, dreaming about what it would be like.”

Isobelle was watching Gwen’s mouth too—watching the way her lips shaped the words—and she was mesmerized as they curved into a hint of a smile.

Gwen’s voice was soft. “Quite nice isn’t quite enough for me.”

“No,” Isobelle agreed, breathing the word. She was pinned in place now. There was something magnificent about Gwen, gilded by the sunset, seeming to glow from the inside out.

Gwen stepped back. “And given what we’re trying to protect you from—how little choice you’ll have if we fail—I don’t think it should be enough for you, either.”

Without another word she turned and strode back inside. Isobelle could hear her footsteps, softened by the rug, until the door of her room closed behind her.

Slowly, Isobelle turned and leaned back against the edge of the balustrade. Then she gave up and let her legs fold, slithering down and pulling her knees in against her chest.

She felt she was on the edge of understanding something truly important, but her head was still spinning when she turned it too fast.

What had Gwen said? You, of all people, don’t see why I might object to kissing someone in front of all her friends, on a dare, to practice for whatever nobleman eventually wins her hand in marriage?

Perhaps that was it, and Gwen was hurt because Isobelle had made her think that she expected one of the men to win the tournament. That she should make herself ready for him.