Consider a wife. Someone else's wife

"You are overestimating the patience of the court, Irmtraud," you continue, stopping your pacing at the foot of the bed. You look down at her, your gaze shifting from her tired face to the tiny boy greedily nursing at her breast. "A legitimate wife brings a legitimate family, and a legitimate family brings expectations. If I marry a duke's daughter, her father will want our son to have land, titles, perhaps even a claim to my brother’s throne if things go awry. A bastard is simple. The court can ignore a bastard, but they cannot ignore a rival heir."

She opens her mouth to protest, but you hold up a hand, cutting her off before she can speak. "I already said about the risks it will pose to you and our child. My lust is my own affair, and if I need more to satisfy it, I will find it where the political stakes are non-existent. There are plenty of women in the capital, especially those who are already bound to other men."

Your mind drifts to the capital, sorting through the faces of the women you have observed during your rare trips to the city. The first is Lady Sibylla, the young wife of the aging Count von Hohenfels. Her husband spends his months in the high alpine fortresses, leaving her alone in their city manor. You have seen her at the cathedral, her fingers tightly clutching her rosary while her gaze lingered on your shoulders. She is starved for the touch of a young, hot-blooded man, and her husband's long absences mean his bed is frequently empty and waiting for a thief.

The second noblewoman is Countess Beatrix, whose husband is a fierce, boastful warlord currently securing the southern borders for your father. Unlike Sibylla, Beatrix is a creature of sharp wit and vibrant ambition, hosting grand feasts where the wine flows until dawn. She wears silks imported from the far east that cling to her full hips, and she possesses a bold, mocking laugh that challenges every man in the room. She knows her husband's crude nature all too well and actively seeks sophisticated distractions to spite him. Bedding her would be a dangerous game of cat and mouse, a thrilling chase where the prize is a voluptuous body wrapped in royal luxury.

Meanwhile, the merchant's wife, Gisela, offers a different kind of temptation. Her husband is a wealthy cloth merchant, a stout man who leaves his ledger books only to travel the trade roads to the western seas. Gisela is a woman of solid, lush proportions. She manages the grand shop in his absence, her clever eyes calculating prices while her low-cut bodices tease the wealthy patrons. She has wealth enough to buy whatever she pleases, but as people say, you covet what you cannot get, and she has dropped hints through your servants that the royal spare is always welcome to inspect her finest imports in the private back rooms.

Near the city barracks, the wife of the town guard captain presents a more rugged, forbidden fruit. Her name is Martha, a woman with sun-kissed skin and strong, shapely legs from a youth spent working the fields before her husband's promotion. The captain is a stern, disciplined soldier who spends his nights patrolling the city walls and his days sleeping off his exhaustion, leaving Martha isolated in their small stone house near the armory.

Then there are the commoners, women who require no titles or pretense to enjoy. First is Helga, the blacksmith's young wife, whose husband spends his days hammering iron until his arms are numb and his body is asleep before his head hits the straw. Helga is a woman of surprising softness despite her environment, with bright blue eyes and a laugh that carries over the din of the market. She meets you by the well when she draws water, her eyes lingering on your fine clothes and your easy smile. She is simple, uncomplicated, and eager to escape the soot and heat of the forge for the clean linens of a prince's secret embrace.

Finally, you think of Clara, the wife of a local miller whose tavern sits just outside the city gates. She is a woman of the earth, always dusted with a fine layer of white flour that makes her skin look exceptionally smooth in the dim tavern light. Her husband is a drunkard who passes out at his own tables by dusk, leaving Clara to manage the rowdy patrons with a sharp tongue and a strong hand.