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I t took a least an hour of waiting and shuffling forward by tiny degrees before they reached the confines of the King’s state room.

Gunnilde could not say that she regretted a moment of it, for she was far too busy soaking up the atmosphere.

To think of it! She, Gunnilde Payne, in the very thick of things at the palace!

She knew for a fact that it would be weeks before the wider court got their chance to see Prince Raedan’s portrait but she had been permitted her viewing on the very first day it had been hung!

She could barely suppress her excitement.

Even Harriet’s desultory conversation could not dim her enthusiasm one bit.

Every so often a courtier or two would press through the crush to appear before James and offer their congratulations on his recent marriage.

Their “congratulations” were naught but a thinly veiled excuse to stare first at him, and then at Gunnilde and back again, their brows arched and their words insincere as they tried to gauge how things really stood between the unlikely couple.

Still, Gunnilde did not begrudge them their inquisitiveness. Indeed, she was keen to make their acquaintance, but the first few times she had been a little anxious that James would become all starchy and offended in the face of such obvious curiosity.

To her relief, he barely seemed to react at all, other than to perform the necessary introductions. He did this in a perfunctory manner, appearing distracted and preoccupied all the while, as though his mind was currently on other things.

It occurred to her that he could be composing something, perhaps some piece to celebrate the prince’s portrait?

King Wymer would surely like that. She would have to encourage James to commemorate such royal occasions in future, she thought with sudden inspiration.

Good wives encouraged their husbands, so the way forward was clear to her.

On finally reaching the inner sanctum, Gunnilde found the King in residence, though to her disappointment, the Queen was sadly absent.

“Sir James Wycliffe and Lady Wycliffe,” the announcer intoned. “Lady Portstanley and Lady Harriet Portstanley.”

After performing their bow and curtseys, the King gestured for them to view the portrait hung on the opposite wall, and they duly drifted in that direction. Gunnilde gazed keenly up at the serious boy who stared out of the canvas, stony-faced and somewhat pinched of feature.

He was not what Gunnilde had been expecting at all. Somehow she had expected a rosy-cheeked boy, fair of hair and blue of eye, rather like she imagined King Wymer must have been at that age. Instead, the prince’s hair, cut very short, was a silvery sort of shade and his eyes appeared a flinty gray.

Prince Raedan had a cold stare which she imagined must be able to freeze a tutor at thirty paces. There was also a distinct lack of childish roundness to his features. One of his very white hands rested on the nape of a large and spectacularly ugly dog.

“Well, well, what do you think? Eh? Speak up,” the King entreated.

“I think it is wonderful, Your Majesty,” Gunnilde responded at once. “You can sort of feel his intelligence radiating from the picture.”

The King grunted. “What about you, Wycliffe?”

James took on a hunted look Gunnilde was starting to recognize. It meant he had no idea what was the right thing to say. “Is it a good likeness, Your Highness?” he asked evasively.

“A good likeness?” the King looked incensed. “You think I would hire an inferior artist, is that it? Damned impertinence!”

“Such superior brushwork, Your Majesty,” Lady Portstanley gushed placatingly. “The colors are so vivid. They seem to come to life before one. As though the prince stood in this very chamber before us.”

“Quite,” Harriet agreed hurriedly. “Oh, quite, I wholly agree.”

The King snorted. “You, Hilde,” he said, gesturing to Gunnilde. “You appear to have some sense. Tell me why you think this boy of mine looks intelligent.”

Gunnilde cleared her throat. “Well, sire, I think he has a look of premature matureness about him. As though he is wise before his years. A look of infancy clings to most boys of that age, yet the young prince shows no sign of such childishness.”

“Mmmm,” the King rumbled, apparently appeased. “He is smart, so they tell me. Uncommonly smart for his age.”

“What is his dog called?” James asked.

The King squinted at him, as though suspecting some slight. “Balto,” he replied shortly. “None can supplant him from Dan’s affections though I have offered several hounds better-looking and better behaved than that beast. He will take none of them.”

Dan? Gunnilde was surprised. He did not look like a Dan somehow.

Still, his partiality for his dog sounded commendable.

“Do they not say that men should emulate a dog’s loyalty?

” she mused aloud. “They are certainly natural companions. My own brother is most devoted to his little dog, Dustin. He found him half drowned in a village ditch and no bigger than a rat.”

“Dustin?” the King echoed, a look of disgust on his face. “What kind of a name is that?”

“Hal says it means ‘valiant fighter.’”

“Oh, does it?” The King looked somewhat mollified. “Good fighter, is he?”

“Not at all,” Gunnilde admitted. “He is undersized and timid, but Hal says it does not signify for he can do the fighting for both of them.”

The King blinked. “He can do the fighting for both of them?” he repeated, then gave a startled chuckle. “That’s a good one. Who is this brother of yours? What’s his estate?”

By the time they left the apartments, Gunnilde had told the King all about Hal, Tranton Vale, and the tournament her father hosted annually.

It only occurred to her as they left that she might have talked a little too much.

She fancied the group who had been waiting behind theirs eyed her somewhat resentfully as they exited.

“Who was that waiting for admission behind us?” she whispered to James as they made their way out into the next room and then into the corridor.

He shrugged, glancing behind them. “I did not notice.”

“I believe they were a little tired of waiting.”

“I think we all were.”

Gunnilde bit her lip. “Yes, but is it possible that I monopolized the King somewhat?”

At this point the Portstanleys interrupted them to take their leave for they were going straight to a lecture on astral influences. For a moment, Gunnilde experienced a sinking fear James might suggest they joined them.

She had known deep down that the portrait viewing had not been to his taste. Still, instead of taking this opportunity to be revenged on her, he simply added his farewells and watched mother and daughter walk away discussing the program of events.

“Gunnilde,” he said suddenly, “if a king bids you speak, you have precious little choice in the matter. You did naught amiss.”

She caught her breath. Was that the first time he had addressed her by name? For some reason, it struck her that way. When she remained silent, he turned to look at her expectantly. “Yes, I suppose that is true enough,” she agreed.

“Though you might want to bear in mind it was the role of Queen’s favorite you coveted, not King’s,” he said, glancing away.

“Oh! I hardly think I need worry about that!” she scoffed.

He leveled a wry look her way. “I notice you did not correct him about your name, Hilde .”

She gave an awkward laugh. “It hardly seemed diplomatic. Besides, it is close enough, is it not? My grandmother used to call me Nilde.”

For a moment he looked as though he would argue the point, then changed his mind. “You were not lying when you said you were a fond sister, were you?” he said.

The change in subject threw her for a moment.

“When did I—?” Then she remembered that day when they had nearly quarreled and Constance had taken such grave offence.

“Oh! No, I—I did not lie.” Why was he thinking of that time?

she wondered uneasily. Had they not smoothed things over between them since then?

“I’m afraid I was quite rude to you that day,” she blurted.

“I regret it now. It was simply because I felt so very deeply on my friend’s behalf. I hope you can, well, overlook it now.”

Without discussing it, they seemed to be heading back toward their quarters. “You felt for...Constance you mean,” he said awkwardly and flushed. Interesting that he was now pausing before speaking the name of his former affianced, she observed.

For the first time it occurred to her that perhaps his feelings had been more involved than she had comprehended. She had not realized before that half of his rudeness was down to awkwardness.

“Well, to be perfectly frank, it was Sir Douglas who stood more my friend than Constance,” she admitted. “You see he asked me for my help, and if you had only seen how earnestly and sincerely—”

“Sir Douglas?” he repeated in an odd tone. “It was Sir Douglas who you considered your particular friend?”

Gunnilde took a deep breath. “Yes, you see Constance and I, well, we did not exactly have the same interests in life. I knew Sir Douglas of old, for he has attended my father’s tourney for several years, first as a squire and then as a knight in his own right.

It was at his request that I made the effort to befriend Constance and plead his cause with her. ”

Oh dear, it was all so difficult. She could not possibly confess that she found Constance’s company somewhat... wearing . Especially now she suspected James might admire that lady rather more than she had first thought.

“I suppose Farleigh was one of the men you were always whispering in corners with,” he asked, his words cutting across her thoughts.

“Yes,” she agreed absently.

His head whipped about to pin her with a stare. “You could at least deny it!”

Deny it? “But why would I? I just explained...” Her words faltered. Why was he looking so out of reason cross?

“Who were the others?” he demanded.

“The others? Well...” Gunnilde considered her past matchmaking endeavors.

“There was John Fulsham, of course. And before him, there was Sir Thomas Crowle and Master Becker.” She tried to dredge up the names of the others, but James was looking so put out that she could hardly concentrate.

And they had been getting along so nicely too!

His dark brows snapped together. “I’m afraid that my wife will not be expected to conduct herself in such a manner,” he said stiffly. “It would reflect poorly on my family name.”

“Oh.” This was disappointing as Gunnilde had enjoyed her role as a confidante very much, but she supposed she had a new focus now.

“They’re not at court anymore anyway,” she said philosophically.

“And I doubt I will come across them again anytime soon. They all moved back to the country after their respective marriages.”

“I see.” He retreated into silence, though he was clearly still out of sorts.

Gunnilde sighed. It seemed she had obtained a difficult sort of husband of uneven moods. It happened, she knew. Sarah Nesdin, a friend from her youth, had married an old widower with gout, well-known for his tetchiness.

At least James was young and pretty. She supposed it was his artistic temperament that was to blame. Presumably her duty lay in trying to coax him out of his sullens.

“I was wondering earlier if you might be composing some tune,” she said brightly.

He flashed an impatient look her way. “What?”

“When you fell silent after we viewed the portrait.”

He blinked at her. Really, his eyes were very pretty, a sort of greenish blue, with such spiky, thick dark lashes. “No,” he answered shortly.

“It doesn’t happen like that, then? With inspiration taking you unawares,” she persisted.

“It can, sometimes,” he admitted grudgingly. “Why do you ask?”

“I was just curious.”

They had reached their quarters and James opened the door. “We had better dine here tonight, just the two of us,” he said, gesturing for her to enter before him.

“Why?” She had been looking forward to sitting at a more prominent table in the Great Hall.

“Because we need to talk about our plans,” James said heavily.