Page 110 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“I did notice,” he acknowledged, surprising her. “Do you think it indicative of something?”

“I just wondered, that’s all.”

“You think he might admire her?” She could hear the frown in his voice.

“Possibly. What do you think?”

“I would have thought it just as likely that your own brother admired her.”

“Yes, but Hal admires dozens of women. By contrast, I’ve never heard Neville speak of any young, marriageable women.”

“No,” James agreed. “Usually, he is the pet of much older women like the Ashdowns.”

“Hmmm,” Gunnilde mused. “It is certainly interesting, is it not? What kind of wife do you think would suit Neville? For my part, I think a quiet and studious wife like Harriet might bring out his protective and considerate side.”

“I think he is yet too young for marriage. Neville cannot even support himself at present!” James replied scathingly.

“But if he married a rich wife then that need not be such a consideration.”

James was silent for a moment. “I was not referring to money alone,” he said at last. “There is rather more to supporting a spouse than that.”

“Yes,” she agreed quietly. “That is true.”

“Do you feel supported?” he asked suddenly. “By me?”

Gunnilde breathed out. “Yes. I just wish...”

“What do you wish?”

“That I could support you better.” Her words came out rather choked. “You must sometimes reflect that—” She could not bring herself to continue. That Constance would have made you a better wife, she thought, closing her eyes. Constance Northcott, who was so well-connected, wealthy, and much admired. No wonder her mother-in-law was writing letters of complaint to the Queen. Perhaps it had even been a letter of petition, she thought dolefully.

“What did you say?” The curtain was swept aside, and James appeared beside the tub. He dropped down so that he was crouching on eye level with her. “I did not catch what you said.”

She sank down under the herb-strewn water, covering herself with her hands. “I-it was nothing. Why are you asking anyway? About the matchmaking, I mean. That was all ages ago.”

“Well, I heard you had taken up with the friends Viscountess Vawdrey selected for you again,” he said, keeping his eyes respectfully on her face. “And my understanding was that you had originally dropped them to pursue the more interesting role of lover’s confidante.”

“You are right, that is what I did,” she admitted quietly. “And now I heartily wish that I had not. I wish now that I had tried harder to fill the role Eden had envisaged for me. The one I was too foolish to appreciate.”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “Did you not successfully pair up many couples who went on to marry?”

She hesitated. “Well, yes. Four of them.”

“Is that counting Sir Douglas and Constance?” he asked, completely robbing her of breath.

She could not answer his sly smile. “James!” she uttered instead, half alarmed, half disbelieving.

“What?”

“Of course not! I would hardly count that pairing as a success, not when—” She could not meet his eyes.

“When what?” he asked.

“When it got me—us—into so much trouble.” She bit her lip.

He slid his hand down the side of the tub into the bathwater, picking up the sponge lying on the bottom of the tub. “Maybe I do not view it the same way as you do,” he said, lifting the sponge to run it lightly over her shoulder. “Why don’t you turn around and let me wash your back.”

Turning bright red but feeling loath to refuse him, Gunnilde turned around, presenting her back to him. She had to gather her wet hair over one shoulder to move it out of the way. There was a heavy pause, while she harbored the awful suspicion he might be ogling her over-large bottom. Then she felt the sponge squeezed against her shoulder blades.