Page 52 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“Cuthbert?” She repeated, and he waited for her to suggest what Cuthbert might have said to their incalcitrant servant, but when she spoke it was about something else altogether. She leaned forward and laid a tentative hand against his bare chest. “James,” she said quietly.

James struggled to draw breath. “Yes,” he answered unsteadily.

“You know how we were speaking of becoming accustomed to married life?”

“Yes.”

“Do you feel like practicing that other matter? As we were last night, before we were interrupted, I mean?”

James’s heart leaped in his chest. “The, er, the kissing, you mean?” he said hoarsely.

“Yes. Only if you want to, of course,” she said quickly. “Not if—” She started to draw her hand away, but he reached up and caught hold of it fast.

“I do,” he interrupted her. “I most definitely do.”

“Oh.” She smiled at him again, and James had the strangest realization. She was not just pretty. She was damnably pretty. He had always known she was a tempting morsel, uncomfortably so in his opinion, with her shapely form and warm, alluring voice, but somehow, he had missed the fact that the features of her face added up to the perfect sum total.

The fact hit him now squarely in the eye. Then, too, there was all that abundant hair, and the sheer force of her personality. It seemed to radiate from her, all healthy, eager goodwill and enthusiasm. Arthur Conway must be an idiot, he realized, Douglas Farleigh too. For she had favored them, had doubtless bestowed her smiles on them, yet they had squandered them in favor of someone else. He was glad he had not acted with such stupidity.

Mind you, she had neither smiled on him nor liked him till after their marriage. Did that matter? She professed herself satisfied with him now and he needed to ensure she remained that way. There was someone else too, someone whose name hovered on the edge of his consciousness. Someone else who had taken Gunnilde’s good opinion for granted. Some other fool who had let her down.

Then James’s thoughts scattered to the four corners for Gunnilde was kissing him and he could not hold a coherent thought in his head. Not when Gunnilde’s soft lips were against his own, and her even softer body was pressing into his. His hand, almost without volition, flew to her waist, clasping and fondling her like the veriest lecher. She was so soft and pliable there. He wanted to touch her all over. He groaned and Gunnilde drew back.

“Is something wrong, James?” she asked in concern. “Shall we stop?”

Wrong? “No,” he answered quickly. “It is just...” What could he say? “I am not much accustomed to kisses.”

She blinked at him. “You have not...before?” He shook his head. “Not ever?” she marveled. “But how can that be? When you are so...” She made a vague gesture in front of his face.

James flushed. “I...was always very busy with my lessons,” he said lamely. Gods, he sounded pathetic!

“No one ever caught your eye?” she wondered aloud. “Not even at a summer fair or in the square on market day?”

“Is that when you’ve been kissed?” he guessed shrewdly. Gunnilde started guiltily and he knew he had hit the mark. “I’ve never been to a fair or market day,” he admitted when she did not speak. “Wycliffe Hall is rather an austere place, I suppose. We were not raised to mingle with our tenants or nearby villagers.”

“What about feast day celebrations?” Gunnilde reasoned. “You must have mixed with friends and neighbors at those times.”

He shook his head again. “My mother saw those as an opportunity for public prayer and private reflection. As time to catch up on one’s studies.”

Gunnilde’s expression wavered, and her eyes filled with compassion. “Why James, you poor thing! No wonder you have not... I mean, to be raised so...so joylessly.”

He should be bristling with affront at being so pitied, he realized. From anyone else, it would be intolerable, but for some reason he was not offended, far from it. Was he enjoying her solicitous concern? Inwardly, he was reeling even as he accepted her tender care.

She rubbed a palm comfortingly up and down his arm. “It does not matter,” she declared. “We can do those things now, together. There must be a very fine market in Aphrany, I think, and next summer in Caer Lyoness there are sure to be fairs aplenty. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being chaste. I think it makes a nice change for a man to be.”

“Chaste?” He was startled by the term.

“Well...” She hesitated. “The word seems an appropriate one, does it not?”

“I suppose,” he agreed, still feeling rather discomposed. He coughed. “Tell me about your summer fair.”

“The summer fair at Tranton Vale?” she asked, propping herself up on her elbow. Her weight distributed in a way that made his body perk up with interest. It was not just her hair that was abundant. He needed to put a little distance between them if he was not to embarrass himself.

“Well, it is a vastly noisy and busy affair,” Gunnilde reminisced, happily unaware of his inner turmoil. “They come from far and wide, the entertainers and the troubadours and folk to sell their wares.”

“And who kissed you there?” he asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.

She looked faintly embarrassed. “His name was Ted, and he came to the fair with his cousin to make merry.”