She crosses her arms over her chest, pulling the two halves of her robe closed tightly again. "I apologize," she says, and this time she knows she's taking refuge in the royal formality that was forced down her throat by tutors as a child. "I grow frustrated. I am not angry with you, Count."

That's a lie. She's angry that he's sticking to the old traditions, assuming that they're going to be married. She's angry that she is promised to him and no one seems to think she has any choice in the matter. She's angry that he won't stop following her, won't stop believing in her, won't just leave her alone.

She's angry that he's such a good man.