Page 75 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“The one whose home was falling into ruin around her.”

It took her a few moments before the light of comprehension sprang into her eyes. “You mean, Mistress Bartree’s tale!”

Had it really been about her? James had not remembered. “Yes.”

“Yes, of course!” She looked gratified by his request. “It can be your after-dinner tale,” she told him indulgently.

He pushed the door open. “And then you can perhaps retell me the one about the knight who spurned his wife for being too lowly.”

“When did I...?”

“Only to end up being brought to his knees for love of her.”

“Ohhh! You mean Jeffree de Crecy and his wife.”

“Was it them?” He frowned. “Yes, I think it must have been. Their names don’t really matter though. It’s the substance of the tale I want.”

Gunnilde clapped her hands together. “Are you going to write a ballad around them?” she gasped, eyes shining.

“No.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders drooped with disappointment.

“My talent does not really run to such a thing as ballads,” he admitted. “In truth, I am not good with words.”

“You never know, the tales might inspire you,” she said hopefully.

Which was his intention, but not for ballad writing. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, and Gunnilde’s face flushed with pleasure.

“Wait, let me first change into something more comfortable,” she said, heading toward the bedchamber. Suddenly she stopped, turning on her heel to look at him. “Or, perhaps...”

“Perhaps what?”

She flushed. “Perhaps we could simply ready ourselves for bed,” she suggested. “And I could tell you your stories there.”

23

Gunnilde lay on her side facing James in the dimly lit room. She had told him first the tale of Magnatrude Bartree’s lonely existence in her ruined family estate. Then she had described the tournament where Lord Kentigern had ignored his own beauteous wife in the stands to bestow the tourney crown on another.

At the close, James had asked her to repeat both stories only this time omitting all names or mentions of specific places. She wondered if he would replace their names with Sweet William and Fair Janet or some other variation. Maybe Sir William, she thought, as the hero would be a knight.

She hoped she had inspired him. Only imagine if he wrote some epic ballads inspired by such events, how proud she would be. He had not spoken for several moments, and Gunnilde eyed his perfect profile admiringly. “Have you ever been painted, James?” she asked softly.

“What?” He turned his head to look at her.

“I would love a miniature,” she said without thinking.

“Of me?” She nodded. “What would you do with it?” he asked, a pucker between his brows.

“I don’t know. Carry it around. Look at it whenever I felt doubt that I could possibly possess such a handsome husband,” she joked feebly.

“I won’t let you forget,” he answered. “I won’t give you the chance to let me slip your mind.”

Gunnilde’s heart gave a leap in her breast. “Are you saying—” that you don’t want to be parted with me? she thought, but did not quite have the nerve to say. “—that you won’t ever send me down to Wycliffe Hall without you?” she concluded instead.

“Not if I can help it.” He cast a furtive look at her beneath his lashes. “You would not like it there without me in any case, would you?”

“No, I don’t expect I would,” she admitted. His shoulders relaxed. Was he gratified by that admission? And why did she want to please him so much these days? Gunnilde shied away from the reason, for it was a hopeless one.