A few weeks later, Spain

Don Juan had put on a proper charm offensive with Valencia's family lately. In the long term, he was aware, it didn't really matter... but time alone with her had been frightfully hard to come by the closer they drew to their wedding day, which meant he wasn't at all sure how much longer he'd be here before he had a chance to break things off with her. In the meantime, life was more pleasant for him if he could be on passably good terms the people who were always hovering around them, so he'd done his best to ingratiate himself. He'd found out her mother's favorite baked good and brought one with him every time he came to call on her. It hadn't earned him any more time alone with her yet, but it had earned him a much warmer reception. He'd taught one of her younger sisters the steps of a dance she hadn't learned yet. He'd practiced a particular hunting story at pubs until he felt confident telling it to her father, and he'd laughed at all the appropriate intervals. He was making progress on all fronts — except on the one that mattered most, of having a minute to talk to her alone.

He was sitting on the sofa in their parlor now, with Valencia across from him and a whole cadre of family members perched on the other side of the room. Still within earshot, he thought, though their primary purpose was probably to raise the alarm should he dare to move to her sofa. He was beginning to think he'd have to orchestrate an opportunity to talk to her privately, but he had no idea how to do so. He was lost in contemplation of this when Valencia asked him a question — he hadn't caught all of it, but something to do with the wedding and his family.

"Oh, no, don't worry about that," he assured her. "My family won't be coming."

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