Don Juan raised an eyebrow at his mother. She was trying to make him blush — a fool's errand. He did not blush. Certainly not at the mere suggestion that his parents had slept together — there was evidence enough of that already. Or did she think he would be shocked by the setting, as if he hadn't ever slept with anyone in a church? She should have known better; no one would ever have accused him of being pious. A church on a weekday was actually an excellent venue; easy to find privacy, and with a wealth of acceptable excuses should one be caught wandering around, provided one could manage to avoid the vicar. "I would imagine the view would have been degraded in that case, not improved," he said dryly. "As a significant portion of it would have been blocked."

His mother's efforts to embarrass him might not have had the intended effect, but he was annoyed by this turn of the conversation — they were getting off topic, and he'd been waiting an age for a good opportunity to bring up Valencia. Now that he'd done it, this was his only chance to finish the conversation — bringing her up again would have been suicide, as it would have let on he was thinking about this far more than he would have admitted. How to steer back towards her, without seeming too pushy? He'd really been counting on his mother being at least a little interested in why he'd brought her up in the first place; if she refused to ask he didn't know what to do. But surely she was interested, and just being stubborn? He couldn't risk letting the topic die, though, in case she failed to resurrect it. k

"Suffice it to say I found the architecture more compelling than her company," he said, tone aloof. "Though in fairness I never put them in such direct competition as you apparently did."

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