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J ames hesitated before knocking on the door, glancing around at the small group waiting at his heels. “I do not require your escort from here, gentlemen,” he said stiffly.

“We will just see you inside,” someone answered. James had the impression his name was Sir Lawrence something or other. “It’s customary, Sir James,” he added, seeing James’s scowl.

“You cannot skirt custom on such occasions,” chimed in another. When James met these words with stony silence, Winstanley, the Queen’s attendant, gave a small cough.

“I will need to report we saw you put to bed beside your bride, Sir James,” he said quietly.

“We can just stand in the doorway,” Neville suggested hastily at James’s answering glower.

Feeling severely goaded, James gave his brief knock and opened the door. He hoped to gods she was not naked beneath the bedsheets. She had already given everyone enough to look at all evening with her antics. The last thing he needed right now was her to give this lot an eyeful.

Inexplicably, his heart picked up its pace as he walked into the darkened room, knowing what awaited him there.

Keeping his eyes averted from the occupant of the bed, he made short work of undressing, flinging his clothes down on the floor.

The sooner he was under the covers, the sooner their onlookers could disperse.

Once he was down to his braies, he turned toward the bed, lifted the covers, and slid underneath them. His bed was not overly large, and the action brought him into direct contact with a warm body.

James breathed noisily out and turned his head to find his bride watching him from a golden pillow bearer. He blinked, then realized it was not a pillow bearer at all. It was her hair. She had masses and masses of the stuff. So much for Neville’s theory.

Under the covers, her fingers sought his out and gave them what she presumably believed to be a sympathetic squeeze.

James did his best not to yelp, but gods did the woman think he was made of stone?

Clearing his throat, he lifted his head.

“You can leave us now,” he pronounced loudly and heard shuffling footsteps in the doorway by way of answer.

“Good night, all,” the bride called after them politely. There was a chorus of answering good nights and then the door closed fast. “Are you well?” she whispered, going up on one elbow, and peering at him through the gloom.

“Yes,” he lied.

“Your bed’s a bit small, isn’t it?” She wriggled for a bit, presumably trying to put some distance between them.

Her efforts, while he appreciated the gesture, were in vain, and merely caused her soft thigh to jostle against his own.

They also did absolutely nothing to alleviate his current condition, which was shamefully aroused.

“I have always found it perfectly adequate,” he answered raspily, “until now.”

Gods, what was wrong with him? Gunnilde Payne was not at all the kind of woman he admired, he told himself doggedly. She was... His mind went disobligingly blank. What was she? What did he know of her after all?

At this precise moment he knew she was warm and soft; her voice was kind and her hair was glorious.

She was also lying in his bed beside him talking to him as though he were her ally rather than her enemy.

This scattered his wits and made him feel an odd sort of yearning in his chest and a desperate longing in his loins. What else was there to know?

Something niggled away on the edge of his thoughts.

She had done him some wrong, he vaguely remembered, despite heroically saving him from that accursed jester all evening.

Oh yes, that was it. She had cost him an heiress, he recalled suddenly, but even that did not seem so very terrible at this precise moment in time.

Constance would have been as useless as him when confronted with ribald jokes and a bladder on a stick.

Fucking jesters. Of course Wymer patronized them, he would, the uncultured swine.

Thinking of Wymer and his piss-poor taste in the arts helped somewhat deflate the surprising hardness of his cock.

He should think on that subject some more, he decided grimly.

He dwelt moodily on how much money from the royal coffers poured into the purses of grinning maniacs like Master Bobkin.

How much undeserved fame and praise was heaped on his ilk, while true artists like Master Gregory, James’s mentor, starved in their garrets and went to a pauper’s grave.

Wymer appreciated a fart joke more than a true genius.

“Are you good sleeper or a bad one?” his wife enquired politely.

James turned his head in surprise at the interruption. “I don’t know,” he said awkwardly, when in fact he knew himself to be a very poor sleeper. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wanted to be prepared, if we’re to be bedfellows from now on,” she explained.

“Prepared,” James repeated blankly. Bedfellows?

“I sleep sound as a bell,” she assured him, and he found he believed her. “You need not worry about me waking you in the night.” She smiled at him reassuringly, and James’s head emptied again. “Does your brother share your rooms?” she asked chattily.

“My brother?” Who? Oh yes, Neville . “Yes.”

“And likely your parents too, when they come to court.”

“Yes,” he admitted briefly. Thank the gods that tended to be in the summer rather than the winter months. Wycliffe Hall lay just outside the summer capital and was miles away from Aphrany. “They rarely venture to the winter capital,” he managed by way of grudging explanation.

“My father has not been to court in over twenty years,” she confided dreamily. “Not since he was twenty-one and made his bow to the old king.”

James cleared his throat. “The Portstanleys sponsor you at court?”

“Yes,” she agreed, settling herself more comfortably against the mattress and sighing. The combination did all kinds of unruly things to ungovernable parts of James’s anatomy. “Though they only do it for Eden’s sake really. Eden Vawdrey is my greatest friend and benefactress.”

Now by some miracle he did know who that was, for Viscountess Vawdrey was a patron of the arts and moved in scholastic circles. Someone had already told him they were friends though he could not remember who. Likely Neville.

Then again, Neville also thought Gunnilde wore false hair, so his information was clearly not to be depended on.

“How is it that you know Viscountess Vawdrey?” he asked, willing his turgid cock to go down.

Gods, when had it last given him so much trouble?

He almost felt light-headed from the sensation.

“She came to Payne Manor as a bride,” she explained. “Her husband, Sir Roland, was competing in my father’s tournament. It is held every May, mayhap you have heard of it? It is named after the locality it lies in, Tranton Vale.”

He shook his head, then realized the pillow bearer impeded him. “No,” he clarified. “I do not...follow the lists,” he concluded tactfully, instead of voicing his true disdain of the tourneys.

“Oh, what a pity! Well, anyway, we hosted the Vawdreys and Eden was kind enough to take an interest in me. I thought she was wonderful,” she enthused. “And this past January, I became her daughter’s godmother. So that goes to show, does it not?” she said with shy pride. “How highly she regards me.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “One would not confer such an honor lightly.”

His answer seemed to please her, for she beamed at him. “I hope I never let her down,” she said fervently. “Her belief in me is what gave me the courage to come to court. I owe everything to Eden.”

“Oh, yes?” James watched her with reluctant fascination. How could she seem so cheerful about their predicament? He supposed she had no money worries of her own, but the truth was, she was now burdened with a husband who had plenty of them. Should he inform her as such and ruin her genial mood?

He blew out a puff of air. “We should have some discussion,” he said seriously. “About...how this marriage is going to function.”

“Now?” She seemed a little surprised.

“Yes now, so we are fully informed from the outset and neither one of us can accuse the other of concealment.”

She rolled onto her side to face him, tucking her hands under her cheek. “Yes, perhaps that would be wise,” she agreed slowly. “Very well. I will hear you out.”

“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.”