Nor was this in any degree lessened when it became clear, because Rheva made it clear, that she’d spent the night before with Kevin. It was evidently a triumph in a continuing game of one-upmanship, and Rheva was exploiting it for all it was worth. It was aggravating in the extreme, and Jennifer, abandoned, was in no mood to be aggravated.

So when another of the women gave a sulky toss of her hair and inquired whether Jennifer had any idea why Paul Schafer had been so indifferent to her—“Does he, perhaps, prefer to spend his nights with boys?” she asked, with a barb of malice—Jennifer’s brief laugh was entirely humorless.

“There are more obvious possibilities, I should think,” she replied, aware that she was making an enemy. “Paul is somewhat discriminating, that’s all.”

There was a brief silence. Someone tittered. Then:

“Are you suggesting, by any chance, that Kevin is not?” It was Rheva, and her voice had gone very soft.

Jennifer could handle this. What she could not handle was having it continue. She rose abruptly from the window seat and, looking down on the other woman, smiled.

“No,” she said, judiciously. “Knowing Kevin, I wouldn’t say that at all. The trick, though, is to get him twice.” And she moved past them all and out the door.

Walking swiftly down the corridor, she made a very firm mental note to inform Kevin Laine that if he took a certain court lady to bed once more, she would never speak to him again as long as she lived.

At the doorway to her room, she heard her name being called. Her long skirt trailing the stone floor, Laesha came hurrying up. Jennifer eyed her inimically, but the other woman was laughing breathlessly.

“Oh, my,” she gasped, laying a hand on Jennifer’s arm, “that was wonderful! The cats in that room are spitting with anger! Rheva hasn’t been handled like that for years.”

Jennifer shook her head ruefully. “I don’t imagine they’ll be very friendly the rest of the time I’m here.”

“They wouldn’t have been anyway. You are much too beautiful. On top of your being new, it’s guaranteed to make them hate you for existing. And when Diarmuid put out word yesterday that you were reserved for him, they—”

“He what?” Jennifer exploded.

Laesha eyed her carefully. “Well, he is the Prince, and so—”

“I don’t care who he is! I have no intention of letting him touch me. Who do they think we are?”

Laesha’s expression had altered a little. “You mean that?” she asked hesitantly. “You don’t want him?”

“Not at all,” said Jennifer. “Should I?”

“I do,” said Laesha simply, and flushed to the roots of her brown hair.