Being vexed, a sea

All right, he said, repeating the plan anxiously in his head for Orlesian pit falls.

Sure, he might be mocked for a volume of Antivan nude sculpture and a book of local herbs for treated venereal dog diseases, but they were, at the end of the day, arguably practical books for a prince of Orlais. The books he intended for Ophelia's keeping, however were utterly appalling to considering in the hands of literate courtesan. They included:

(1) An illustrated volume of copulating positions for men.
(2) A romance between a Fereldan Prince and a chantry mage, together breaking the rules of the circle. It was old, written before the current blight that surrounded Val Royeaux. Frowned upon back then, it would be down-right heretical now.
(3) A book of love potions Cici had given him (Every recipe does not produce a genuine love potion, but does cause hilariously cruel conditions for the drinker.) He never had the guts to use one.
(4) A book about the witches of the wilds, tattered with extreme age, and given to him by Kieran.
(5) His diary - Maker! She better not read it, nevermind the rest. Most of it was bad love poetry near the end. The last rhyme was written in anger before he quit the book for a fresh one. Burn a boy for fodder. For love, he is no martyr.

Gingerly, Jean put these books together and placed them on the side table. He wrapped them up in the silk table cloth, and passed them bundled to Ms. Jolfy. They represented everything he had become, and everything he wished his wasn't. They were the nasty after-taste of his shame.

Maybe best you don't read them, he managed froggily, only to be interrupted by the loud gurgling moan of his stomach.