At The King's Command by Susan Wiggs

they waited in the darkening yard for Kit to bring round his horse. “Tell me, where would a gypsy wench learn such manners?”
    “I know not. Nor do I care.”
    “She is fascinating to watch.”
    “So is a poison asp,” Stephen stated. “Here’s Kit.”
    The tall, sturdy lad approached with Jonathan’s horse in tow. “You’re good to the boy. He was getting lost amidst my wild brood.”
    “No chance of that here,” Stephen said, and a familiar ache flared to life inside him. “Kit is quick of wit and masters every art I introduce.” He forced a smile. “Though I trow, other arts will interest him before long. He can hardly pass through the hall without setting the maids and scullions to sighing.”
    Jonathan laughed. “Teach him chastity, Stephen. I’d not have him siring a brood before his time.”
    “He’ll learn no bad habits from me.” Stephen stood watching as Jonathan bade Kit good-bye and trotted off down the lane. Chastity. Stephen was reputed to be the most profligate of noblemen, frequenting the dives of Bath, the harborside stews of Bristol, the gaming houses of Southwark.
    He took no pride in his reputation, only a bleak satisfaction that it had made him distasteful to marriageable maidens. Now that Juliana had come into his life, he wondered what would become of the bad habits he’d cultivated so assiduously.
    For a long while, he stood in the formal garden with its cruciform walks enclosing fragrant beds of foxglove and woodbine. The clean fragrance of springtime enveloped him, and he paused near a fountain to gird himself for the coming hours. The stone basin still held the warmth of the sun.
    He pressed his fists against the basin, trying to banish all feeling, all emotion, forever. Yet he was like a rock in the sun, holding its warmth even as darkness surrounded him. He remembered Juliana’s smile when he had no business thinking of her at all.
    The sun slipped below the horizon. A few more minutes, and it would be time for him to go.
    Shuddering, he turned and went back inside.
    Juliana stood waiting in the entrance to the hall. She held a hooded candle in one hand. The diffuse light showered her eyelashes and hair with gold dust and carved mysterious shadows in the hollow of her throat, between her breasts.
    God Almighty, Stephen thought. Didn’t Jillie know a lady should wear a silken partlet there for modesty?
    Just below the overtly feminine hollow, the jeweledbrooch winked, its large center stone as darkly brilliant as fresh blood.
    “What do you do after supper, my lord?” she asked softly.
    Her question panicked him, and he lashed out in anger. “I’m sometimes wont to tumble a wench or two.” Narrowing his eyes, he let his burning gaze sweep over her. “Three are even better.”
    Her small teeth caught in the fullness of her lower lip. “I do not believe you.”
    “You know nothing about me,” he said.
    She shrugged, the motion of her shoulders as graceful as a waterfall. “How much I learn is up to you. I noticed a music room connected to my chambers. Perhaps I could play for you—”
    “The collection of instruments does not include gypsy bells and guitars.” Stephen saw the look that crept into her candlelit eyes. I have to hurt you, Juliana , he thought, wishing he could explain, knowing he could not. To show her kindness would be a far greater cruelty.
     
    Juliana came awake slowly. Just for a moment, she was confused by the lavish bed hangings that soared above her, the silky warmth of the fur-lined covers blanketing her.
    In that distant, half-aware realm between waking and sleeping, she fancied herself in the nursery at Novgorod, waiting for Sveta to come with a cup of warm honey-sweetened milk and a tray of soft bread and herbed sausages.
    The image drifted away and Juliana came up on her elbows. Lynacre Hall. She was here in this noble house, not in a bedroll under a tree, nor beneath the rank mildewed covering of Laszlo’s caravan. She lay in a