Page 95 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“What are you about?” he murmured against her brow. “Checking that I’m still breathing?” He kissed her cheek, but when he sought her lips she drew back.

“Is it any wonder, after the shock you gave me the time before last?” She had a slightly self-conscious look on her face, James noticed, wondering why. They had not emerged from the bedchamber the previous evening and went without supper.

The lack of victuals had not slowed them down in any way, indeed they had sought each other out a further three times before dawn. The last time had been a lot more leisurely and less intense, and James had been able to savor the experience.

Mayhap she was feeling a little shy after being so free with him the night before, he thought, seeing the way she dropped her gaze, avoiding her eyes from meeting his. “I’m a perfectly healthy man in the prime of his life,” he assured her. “Nothing ails me, wife.”

“Indeed, I am beginning to think so,” she agreed, stilling his roaming hands with her own. “Stop that, James, it is not as early as you think. We have overslept and the tailor is due to visit us at nine, you said.”

“It cannot be that late.”

“It is already past eight and we need to up and dress! Bennett has brought the washing water and lit the fires.”

He groaned when she slipped from his arms and hopped out of the bed. “Curse the tailor,” he complained, going up on one elbow to watch her snatch up her woolen mantle and then cross the room to begin her ablutions. “You could rest abed a while longer, wife. Do not forget it is the royal seamstresses who are making your gown.”

“I have not forgotten the fact,” she assured him. “But I wish to oversee your own outfit and ensure it is, well, sufficiently impressive.”

James felt a twinge of misgiving but shrugged it off. After all, so long as she was happy with it, what difference did it make to him? He scarcely cared about such things, and he supposed after all the care she put into her own appearance it was only right that he should be led by her in such matters.

“You have some ideas already?” he asked, feeling resigned to his fate.

“Yes indeed!” She turned to look at him over one shapely bared shoulder. “I was thinking one of the new shorter doublets would look very well on you. Perhaps with slashed sleeves down to your elbows, to show the gold cloth underneath.”

“Hmmm.” He found himself devoutly wishing Mr. Hughes the tailor was not due until the afternoon. He supposed Gunnilde would be in need of sustenance, but for his part, he felt bursting with health and vigor and remarkably inclined to drag her back under the covers.

Setting down her washcloth, Gunnilde flitted over to her trunk and retrieved a pen and ink drawing. “See here,” she said, approaching the bed. “Something like the cut of this one.”

With great reluctance, James dragged his gaze from her face to peer at it. “It looks rather short.” He frowned. “Where did you get that drawing?”

She avoided his eye. “A friend kindly drew it for me,” she said, sliding the drawing into the leaves of a book and returning to the washstand before he could make a grab for her.

“Viscount Bardulf,” he guessed, rolling his eyes.

“He is always so beautifully turned out and indeed, it was terribly kind of him for he told me himself that he jealously guards his tailor’s secrets against potential rivals. He said he only drew this for me as a particular favor and could think of none other that he would extend such a courtesy to.”

James pulled a face but made no comment. Gunnilde cleared her throat. “Come now and wash, James,” she said, setting her own cloth aside. “I will throw this water away and pour you out fresh.”

Suppressing a sigh, James climbed from the bed and started his own ablutions as Gunnilde hurriedly dressed and arranged her hair. She could wrap and pin those horns at her brow in next to no time these days, so used had she grown to fashioning them. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he pulled on his clothes.

Once she had pinned her veil in place, she hurried into the adjoining room. James followed close on her heels and found Bennett setting a plate of bread and roasted fish upon the table. “Didn’t know if you was expecting the young gentlemen this morning,” the servant murmured defensively, seeing James’s raised brows at the quantity of food. Had Bennett noticed that he had deprived Gunnilde of her supper the night before?

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Bennett, and does you credit,” Gunnilde assured him. Mollified, Bennett withdrew and Gunnilde poured ale into two cups, glancing around as though to check if Neville had made an appearance.

James dropped down on the bench next to her and she gave him a distracted smile. “Have you seen there is a letter here on the table addressed to you?” she asked.

James glanced at it. “It’s from home,” he said dismissively.

“Hal received a letter from our father yesterday,” she admitted, lowering her eyes. “He did not write to me.”

James scanned her face. “Your father was displeased by our recent tidings,” he guessed. “What did Hal say? Sir Aubron made mention of our marriage in his letter?”

“He is displeased,” she admitted with an awkward laugh. “Apparently I am persona non grata at Payne Manor at present.”

James hesitated before wrapping an arm about her waist. “He will come around,” he predicted, squeezing his pleasing armful.

“I know,” she said, touching her hand to his. “He is sure to, when he actually meets you,” she spoke with a confidence that quite touched him.

“You think so?”