“You had better not!” I scrubbed at my lips, still tasting the sour wine on Juan’s breath. Ugh, ugh, ugh, but I wanted a bath! Just a kiss, and I felt slimy all over.

“Gossip in Rome has it three to one that the Duke of Gandia goes to Naples soon,” Leonello volunteered. “Perhaps he’ll stay there.”

“For both our sakes, I hope so.” Ever since receiving his new papal territories, Juan had been swaggering all over crowing about his new acquisitions, boasting how one day he’d add Naples to those same acquisitions, and maybe he’d just march down with his armies and make himself king there by force rather than wait any longer. I didn’t want him king of anywhere, except maybe hell, but if he went to Naples maybe he’d stay there.

That odd gleam in Juan’s eyes kept coming back to me throughout the day. The bright gaze, and that enjoyment as he gripped me so tight and watched me struggle. What had he been thinking? Juan had always liked to ogle, but to kiss me in front of his soldiers, the maids, the guards, anyone in the palazzo who might talk—was he utterly mad? Did he really think his father would laugh it away as he did all of Juan’s other antics?

I scrubbed at my lips again. I didn’t really think Rodrigo would believe I’d encouraged his son in any kind of familiarity. Still, I decided I’d tell my Pope about this the very next time I saw him. I’d have to make light of it—“Oh, Rodrigo, that son of yours was tipsy again, you’ll never believe what he did!” But I’d make sure—very sure—he heard my version first, heard it and believed it, just in case Juan decided to make trouble . . .

I had very little patience for my Laura when she put up a fuss that afternoon about her lessons. Maybe because she looked startlingly like Juan when she pushed her lip out and sulked.

“I don’t want to learn letters! I want to sit in the garden and sun my hair—”

“You are too young to be sun-bleaching your hair,” I said shortly, marching my daughter along the loggia. “And today is not the day for sitting in the garden. Today you are to practice your letters. And I will have you start on French soon, too, because everyone says you will learn it faster if you learn it young.”

“Don’t like French,” Laura muttered. “Leonello says they’re poxy horses.”

“Horses?”

“I believe I said ‘whoresons,’” Leonello volunteered, swinging along behind us.

“Thank you for teaching my daughter foul language,” I said tartly. “Laura, you are going to learn French. And Latin and Greek too someday, just like ’Crezia. Wouldn’t you like that?”