His heart leapt happily. She was free, yet, as she said, not wholly innocent. He need not feel quite so guilty about the passionate thoughts he had been having about her. And as for marriage between them being unthinkable, she did not know that none of the great houses of France would consider a daughter of theirs taking the name de Gobignon. Her nonclerical family might be of low station, just as the pope's father had been a shoemaker, but Sophia was the niece of a cardinal, a prince of the Church.
It was love, not thoughts of marriage, that had brought him here tonight. Still, he must respect her honorable widowhood. Since she had loved her husband, she might be more susceptible to him, and he must guard her virtue all the more steadfastly. Perhaps she thought that he respected her less as a widow. He must reassure her.
She was not holding him any longer. He could stand up without tearing himself away from her. He sprang to his feet and strode to the center of the room.
"Believe me, I think you just as pure as if you had never been married at all."
She looked up at him, surprised, her hands still folded in her lap, her dark eyes wide.
"I am delighted to hear that. But"—she cast her eyes down and smiled faintly—"does that mean there is to be nothing at all between us?"
"I love you!" Simon declared. "I will always love you. I think of you night and day. I beg you to love me in return."
"Oh, Simon. How beautiful." She held out her arms to him. But he stayed where he was and raised his hands warningly.
"I mean to love you according to the commandments of l'amour courtois. With every fiber of my being I yearn to be altogether yours, but you must restrain me."
"I must?"