"Tomorrow the king is hosting a banquet. Everyone who is anyone is invited, especially me, and you shall be there too at my side. Now you will need something to wear. I know of an excellent dressmaker who could have you measured by this evening-"
"That really won't be necessary," she says quickly with a pat of your hand. "I have... um, particular fitting requirements." Procuring a small quill from her purse, she scrawls something on a napkin, sealing it with a kiss. Were I that napkin, you think wistfully. "This is my where I am living at the moment," she says, passing it across the table. "You may collect me in the evening when the clock strikes five."
"Already I am counting the seconds, my love," you sigh, holding the lipstick-smeared napkin to your breast. As you see her draining the last of her tea, you stand hurriedly. "Sweet lady, you have stolen my heart. Might I in return, before you leave, steal a kiss?"
She chokes unexpected on her tea but manages a smile. "Just the one."
Then I shall make it last! As she rises from her chair, you draw her into a lingering embrace, discovering that she tastes just as good as she looks.
------
That night you lie in bed beside your lowborn wife, unable to sleep. Very soon you will sleep beside a real woman, not this dried-up, barren old prune, this common harridan who bears no resemblance to the beautiful woman you married decades ago. Your merchantile mind frets, counting up the cost of the promised wedding, the donation to the church you will need to make to secure a divorce, the settlement costs to your wife... but every time your worry grows too much, you think of Lady Casandra and those lips and that voice and those tit-... titles.
The day drags torturously. You sit alone in your study, one ear straining for the chime of the cathedral bells. At three o'clock your patience snaps. You leap from your chair, pull on your finery, and hail a carriage to your lover's abode.