Page 70 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“Do I?” A smile crooked his lips. “Maybe I should do it more often.”

It must be the aftereffects of the mead that made her feel so fluttery, she told herself firmly. That was all it was. The dry mouth and racing pulse must also be down to that same thing. “I wonder why you are so sleepy this morn?” she said in an unnaturally high voice. Ugh.

“Mayhap because I did not get much sleep.”

“Why not?” He did not answer. “Because of me?” she guessed with dismay. She sat up as a horrible thought occurred. Oh gods, she had not been clinging to him in the night, had she? Stroking his chest and pawing him. Her face flamed. “I hope I was not too restless,” she said weakly.

“You did nothing,” he reassured her with a yawn. “Merely rolled over and fell into a deep slumber.”

Gunnilde breathed out. Well, that was a relief. For one horrible moment she had feared she might have horribly embarrassed them both by telling him how much she liked him.

Oh. So that was it. That was why she had been behaving so foolishly. She liked him. She really liked him. She...

“You are not going to lie back down, are you?” he grumbled, struggling into a seated position beside her. He hugged his knees and turned his face to look at her, his auburn locks falling forward over his brow. “Gunnilde?”

Oh dear, thought Gunnilde, her head spinning. This was not right. This could never be right. She was not supposed to fall in love with James Wycliffe. He was not even the type of man she admired! They were to have a sensible court marriage. How in the world could this have happened?

She was still reeling from the realization an hour and a half later as she stood in the Queen’s presence chamber. She had received small, fleeting smiles from Penelope Culmington and Emma Thackeray but without Estrilda present they did not quite have the nerve to separate from the herd of attendants and approach her.

Gunnilde scarcely noticed, though she vaguely wondered where Estrilda might be this morn. She was too busy dwelling on this new unexpected problem, her falling in love with her own husband. How could she have been so stupidly provincial? Court marriages did not operate along those lines. Court marriages—

Someone halted in front of her. Someone dressed magnificently in a scarlet tunic with very wide sleeves, decorated with gold medallions. Gunnilde blinked for ’twas none other than Viscount Bardulf.

“Jane tells me I must apologize to you, for my unforgiveable rudeness,” he announced without ceremony.

Gunnilde straightened up. “You were rude,” she agreed, flushing slightly. He did not argue, merely inclined his head and listened with apparent interest. Thus encouraged, Gunnilde gave vent to her feelings. “That implication you made about my character was most impolite and quite unfounded, I must tell you!”

He nodded. “Yes, I know,” he agreed with a sigh. “Truthfully, I am a little disappointed you are not the scheming minx I initially took you for, but I am prepared to forgive you for that. Magnanimous of me, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“Disappointed? That I am not a scheming minx?” Gunnilde repeated, feeling perplexed.

He nodded. “I rather liked the idea of the worthy Wycliffe trapped by the machinations of a cunning woman.”

“Why is it you dislike him so much?” she asked forthrightly. “I will own I have my own suspicions, but I would like to hear you account for it.”

He regarded her through half-closed lids. “I’ll wager your suspicions are neither inaccurate nor flattering to my character.”

Emboldened, she stuck out her chin. “You admit then that it is merely a matter of personal prejudice?”

“Oh, quite freely,” he replied at once. “His handsomeness offends me when he puts in so very little effort.” Gunnilde breathed out in astonishment that he could be so frank about his pettiness and so unashamed. “His worthiness is also tiresome,” he added as an afterthought. “Though I could likely forgive him that if he had a scattering of undesirable traits. If he was stupid for instance, or clumsy, but on top of everything he must be wretchedly talented and clever.”

“Oh, but he does—!” Gunnilde started to argue before she caught herself.

“Really?” His eyes gleamed. “The paragon has faults? Other than being a consummate dullard, of course.”

“He is not a dullard,” Gunnilde contradicted him stoutly, “and of course he has faults, though I would never betray them as a fond spouse.”

“Are you one?” he asked in apparent surprise. “A fond spouse, I mean.”

“Of course I am!” Gunnilde felt herself color hotly and decided to cover her embarrassment with a show of indignation. “You think because you do not like him that he is incapable of winning anyone’s affection? You think very highly of your own opinion, do you not, Lord Bardulf?”

“I do,” he agreed affably. “I believe everyone should have a high opinion of themselves. It is the only way to live.”

“Even stupid or clumsy people?” she asked pointedly.

“But certainly, for assuredly no one else ever will.”

Gunnilde pressed her lips together, feeling unaccountably disillusioned. “Well,” she said flatly. “I suppose nothing remains but to thank you for your apology.”