Page 17 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“There was a reason I intended to marry an heiress,” he said flatly. “My family depends on me for the upkeep of our family seat. My father is not...not to be relied upon.”

She was silent for a long moment before asking, “You are the heir to the estate?”

“I am.”

She nodded as though this explained things perfectly. “I see. And how is it that you have you supported them thus far?”

“Through my composing,” he answered. “I was fortunate enough to secure the patronage of the Bishop of Hudde three summers ago. He commissioned several pieces to be performed at the cathedral in Caer Lyoness.”

She looked impressed. “Have you never composed anything for the bishop here in Aphrany?”

“For Badsbury?” He shook his head. “It’s well-known he strictly favors the compositions of monks over secular musicians. Today was the first time I’ve ever conversed with him.” If conversed was really the word, he thought, remembering how woodenly he had repeated the formal vows.

“What about here at court?” Gunnilde enquired.

“A few pieces here and there but nothing substantial. I cannot seem to...” He took a deep breath. “I am not good at the acquiring of patrons,” he admitted grudgingly. “Or the keeping of them.”

She frowned. “I wonder why,” she pondered. “You must be talented if the Bishop of Hudde thinks so.” He bristled at this assumption, but she appeared not to notice. “You are popular in select circles, and you are handsome and of good reputation.” She shot an interrogative look his way. “It is not because you prefer to write religious music, is it?”

“No,” he answered truthfully. “I am not especially devout.”

“Hmmm. And why do you suppose it is that you cannot attract patrons? What do your family think?”

He rolled his eyes. “My mother thinks my genius is not appreciated and likely will not be until I am dead. She thinks it a thankless endeavor and that I should simply...”

“Marry an heiress,” Gunnilde guessed when he fell silent. Well, her wits were not lacking at any rate. “What about your father?”

“Oh, he agrees, apart from the genius part. He does not care for my style of music.”

She grew quiet at this, her expression growing somber. “There will be a dowry,” she said in an embarrassed voice, “but it will not be over large and likely my father will not hand it over until we have soothed his ruffled feathers. He is like to cut up rough about our unsanctioned marriage at first.”

“Well, that is understandable,” he conceded. His own parents would be horrified. She nodded dolefully. Looking sorrowful did not suit Mistress Payne, he thought, shifting uncomfortably and making the mattress dip. The gods knew why but he found himself casting around for something to distract her with. “You do not ask why my brother thinks I am unsuccessful,” he said.

“Yes, tell me what Neville thinks,” she said, brightening. Strangely, he felt a stab of annoyance that she should speak his brother’s name aloud with such familiarity. “After all,” she rambled on, “he is present here at court and must have some insight to provide.”

James snorted but answered all the same. “He says it is because I am not personable enough. Because I do not make myself particularly agreeable and flatter folk as I should.”

To his annoyance, a look of dawning comprehension crept over her face. “Oh, I see,” she breathed. “Yes, of course. That does makes sense.” Another pang of irritation afflicted him but before he could say something withering, she struggled up onto her elbow again, distracting him.

The sheet slipped down, revealing rather more of her than she likely realized. The fabric of her shift was filmy, and Mistress Payne was generously proportioned. Very generously. His mouth turned dry. Gods.

“But James, don’t you see?” she breathed excitedly through parted lips. He saw rather more than he had bargained for. And the sight left him stunned. Then he realized she had spoken his name, and his heartbeat migrated down south. Fuck, all his hard work dwelling on disagreeable things had come undone in an instant! “This is something I can help you with!”

“What is?” James asked in a strangled voice.

“Your popularity,” she answered rapturously. “Not just with the”—she broke off, as though deciding against her original choice of words—“the intellectual faction here at court,” she said carefully, “but with the wider court at large.”

She looked so flushed and excited that he could hardly bear to look at her. “And how would you manage such a thing?” he asked more waspishly than he’d intended.

Her light dimmed a little. “Oh, I know I am not popular right now,” she said with an awkward little laugh. “You do not hurt my feelings by pointing that out, do not worry.” She gave him a quick smile and a pat of his shoulder.

Hurt her feelings? James felt dazed, though that might have been because she had touched him again.

“But you see, there is my new position to take into account,” she said, eyes shining once again. “And that will make all the difference.”

“It will?” he asked weakly.

“Yes,” she answered blithely. “I see it all quite clearly. The way before me, I mean.” She sounded so assured that James was dumbfounded. It did not even occur to him to pour cold water over her scheme. They both lay quiet for a few heartbeats.