her mouth, shrank from her body.
If she no longer pleased him, then who did? He must have a mistress. There was no other explanation. During the weeks of her imprisonment in the Tower, Stuart had taken a mistress.
Pippa returned to her seat at the window. It could not be a superficial relationship, one entered into purely for mutual bodily pleasure during a time when he had no other sexual outlet. Otherwise he would not recoil from his wife.
His wife repulsed him.
It was a dreadful thought. Pippa believed she could accept and forgive a casual liaison. Men had needs after all, and through her own choice she had not been there to satisfy Stuart's. But a passionate love affair, one so all-consuming that he could not endure to touch his wife. No, that was a very different matter.
He needed a child, as all men did, so he possessed his wife in the dark, in her sleep, when he could be done with it without any real connection between them.
God's bones! What other explanation could there be?
Who was it? She racked her brain trying to think of some woman with whom Stuart seemed often in company, but she could come up with no one. Her brain seemed numb.
Robin. Robin would be able to discover.
Her languor disappeared, her headache with it. On a burst of energy, Pippa jumped to her feet and went in search of her stepbrother.
Four
Luisa gazed down at her embroidery, realizing that she hadn't set a stitch for half an hour or more. At the same moment she realized that Dona Bernardina was still solemnly reading aloud an account of the life of Saint Catherine, in her halting English.
“Aye, how clumsy this language is!” Bernardina exclaimed. “How do you pronounce this word,
hija
?”
Luisa blinked to rid her mind's eye of a strong face, a well-shaped curving mouth, a pair of startling blue eyes, and a thatch of unruly curls. She leaned over to look at the page where Bernardina's finger jabbed at the letters.
“Wheel,” she said.
Bernardina grimaced, then firmly closed the book. She considered it her duty to master English and since Luisa spoke the language with some fluency had hoped to divert the girl by using her as a teacher. But Luisa was not to be diverted by the lives of the saints or anything else, it seemed, this evening.
“Are you fatigued,
querida
?”
“No,” Luisa replied with a quick smile. Bernardina was always so watchful, so overly protective.
“You would not be so if you would take a siesta.” Bernardina ignored Luisa's answer since it didn't fit with her own diagnosis. “A siesta at midday, out of the heat of the sun, is necessary if one is not to be fatigued in the evening.”
Luisa cast aside her embroidery and rose to her feet. “Bernardina . . . dear Bernardina . . . what possible difference does it make if I am fatigued in the evening. There is nothing to do in the evening!” She flung her arms wide as if to indicate the great vacuum in which she lived.
There was the sound of the massive front door opening, hurried feet in the hall, then the voice of her guardian and the steward of the household. Luisa stood still, listening. Would he come in? She couldn't remember when she'd last had the chance to speak with him. And she most definitely wished to speak with him now.
Lionel finished giving his orders to the steward and hurried to the stairs, intent on changing his dress for something more suitable for a ceremonial evening at Whitehall. There was to be an elaborate musical entertainment. Lionel was not interested in the entertainment itself but Simon Renard and Ruy Gomez would be in attendance, not to mention Philip himself. They would be expecting to conduct business as usual tonight and he had to explain that after his conversation with Stuart Nielson there had been a change of plan.
He set one foot on the stair, then hesitated, glancing towards the closed oak door to the parlor. He was guiltily aware that it had been several days since he'd inquired after his ward's health and
If she no longer pleased him, then who did? He must have a mistress. There was no other explanation. During the weeks of her imprisonment in the Tower, Stuart had taken a mistress.
Pippa returned to her seat at the window. It could not be a superficial relationship, one entered into purely for mutual bodily pleasure during a time when he had no other sexual outlet. Otherwise he would not recoil from his wife.
His wife repulsed him.
It was a dreadful thought. Pippa believed she could accept and forgive a casual liaison. Men had needs after all, and through her own choice she had not been there to satisfy Stuart's. But a passionate love affair, one so all-consuming that he could not endure to touch his wife. No, that was a very different matter.
He needed a child, as all men did, so he possessed his wife in the dark, in her sleep, when he could be done with it without any real connection between them.
God's bones! What other explanation could there be?
Who was it? She racked her brain trying to think of some woman with whom Stuart seemed often in company, but she could come up with no one. Her brain seemed numb.
Robin. Robin would be able to discover.
Her languor disappeared, her headache with it. On a burst of energy, Pippa jumped to her feet and went in search of her stepbrother.
Four
Luisa gazed down at her embroidery, realizing that she hadn't set a stitch for half an hour or more. At the same moment she realized that Dona Bernardina was still solemnly reading aloud an account of the life of Saint Catherine, in her halting English.
“Aye, how clumsy this language is!” Bernardina exclaimed. “How do you pronounce this word,
hija
?”
Luisa blinked to rid her mind's eye of a strong face, a well-shaped curving mouth, a pair of startling blue eyes, and a thatch of unruly curls. She leaned over to look at the page where Bernardina's finger jabbed at the letters.
“Wheel,” she said.
Bernardina grimaced, then firmly closed the book. She considered it her duty to master English and since Luisa spoke the language with some fluency had hoped to divert the girl by using her as a teacher. But Luisa was not to be diverted by the lives of the saints or anything else, it seemed, this evening.
“Are you fatigued,
querida
?”
“No,” Luisa replied with a quick smile. Bernardina was always so watchful, so overly protective.
“You would not be so if you would take a siesta.” Bernardina ignored Luisa's answer since it didn't fit with her own diagnosis. “A siesta at midday, out of the heat of the sun, is necessary if one is not to be fatigued in the evening.”
Luisa cast aside her embroidery and rose to her feet. “Bernardina . . . dear Bernardina . . . what possible difference does it make if I am fatigued in the evening. There is nothing to do in the evening!” She flung her arms wide as if to indicate the great vacuum in which she lived.
There was the sound of the massive front door opening, hurried feet in the hall, then the voice of her guardian and the steward of the household. Luisa stood still, listening. Would he come in? She couldn't remember when she'd last had the chance to speak with him. And she most definitely wished to speak with him now.
Lionel finished giving his orders to the steward and hurried to the stairs, intent on changing his dress for something more suitable for a ceremonial evening at Whitehall. There was to be an elaborate musical entertainment. Lionel was not interested in the entertainment itself but Simon Renard and Ruy Gomez would be in attendance, not to mention Philip himself. They would be expecting to conduct business as usual tonight and he had to explain that after his conversation with Stuart Nielson there had been a change of plan.
He set one foot on the stair, then hesitated, glancing towards the closed oak door to the parlor. He was guiltily aware that it had been several days since he'd inquired after his ward's health and
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