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“Most readily,” James replied at once. “Constance Northcott is a serious-minded young woman of impeccable breeding and large fortune who will bring decorum and grace to the role we all expect her to play at Wycliffe Hall.”

Neville looked resigned. “I suppose Mother will approve of her at least.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“It’s just...” Neville waved a hand. “Mayhap there is another with full coffers who might actually put a smile on your face, brother. Constance does not have it in her to make you happy, I’m convinced of it.”

“Happy?” James echoed blankly. “That will hardly be one of her responsibilities. I will be busy at court composing, and she will be employed with the running of Wycliffe Hall. If we could entrust that to a safe pair of hands, then I will be a good deal happier, I assure you.”

Neville sighed. “I suppose that is true. Have you heard much from home lately?” he asked without enthusiasm.

“I had a letter from Mother two days ago,” James said shortly. “Believe me, you do not want to know its contents.”

Neville winced. “The old man’s on some mad start again, I daresay,” he lamented. “It beats me how he manages to find the energy, let alone the funds.”

“Oh, he manages,” James said bitterly. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and he can always find some fool willing to extend him a line of credit. I would not mind so much if the bills did not invariably end up in my lap.”

“Perhaps we should smother him in his drunken slumbers one dark night.”

James shook his head at his brother’s flippancy, and Neville’s gaze returned to the two whispering women. “Do you know,” he decided, perking up, “I believe you’re right about Mistress Payne. From the glances she’s darting your way, I think she is maligning you to Constance!”

“I knew it.” James whipped around to glare at the offending party. He made a muffled sound of annoyance.

“Where are you going?” Neville asked in some alarm.

“To find out what her game is,” James responded grimly.

*

“Y ou will be most upset with me, Gunnilde, and I’m sure that I cannot blame you,” Constance said, her pretty face troubled. “I am quite vexed with myself for not entirely crushing his pretentions in the spring.”

Gunnilde eyed her friend with surprise. Her attention had wandered, for Lady Schaeffer had walked in wearing the most magnificent headpiece.

It was a kind of padded roll worn high on her head in the shape of a heart, and Gunnilde was so taken with it that she turned her head to watch Lady Schaeffer’s progress about the room.

How wonderful it must be to be a married lady and able to wear such ostentatious headdresses!

By the time she refocused on her friend, it was clear the conversation had taken a turn.

For some reason, Constance seemed to expect her to be upset with her.

“What can you mean, Constance?” she asked, careful not to betray the fact she had not been listening.

“I dare assure you I could never be cross with you.”

Constance bit her lip, looking pained. “I hardly know how to tell you this, for I know how sincerely you admire the gentleman in question. Indeed, when I think of how fulsomely you have spoken of him these past couple of months, and with such warmth, I hardly have the heart to tell you of it and crush your expectations.”

Gunnilde wished her friend would get to the point. If there was a downside to Constance, it was that she never failed to use ten words when two would do. “To tell me of...?” she prompted.

Constance took a deep breath, taking Gunnilde’s hand in her own.

“It pains me to have to tell you that Sir Douglas Farleigh hath renewed his interest in me.” She looked grave.

“I think I told you before that he attempted to pay court to me some months ago, and I quashed his efforts. Well, it seems he is not so easily dissuaded. I heartily pity you in your disappointment, Gunnilde. I need hardly add that I—”

“ My disappointment?” Gunnilde echoed. “Oh no, no! You must not let such a scruple stand in your way, if that is what you imagine.”

Constance stared at her, her flow quite disrupted. Then her expression changed. “Most noble friend,” she breathed. “You would put your own heartache aside in such a matter to support me?”

“Oh, of course!” Gunnilde hastened to assure her. “But as a matter of fact, I do not admire Sir Douglas. I mean, I do admire him of course, excessively, but never with myself in mind. No, I always knew his heart belonged to you entirely. It is obvious even to a bystander like myself.”

“It is?” Constance sounded dazed. She sat down abruptly on the nearest seat. “Forgive me, I have been so concerned with how to break this news to you that I hardly know how to react now I find I was worried over nothing!”

“Please do not trouble yourself on my account. I assure you, my heart is quite unscathed.”

Constance passed a hand over her brow. “Well, I am relieved about that in any event.”

It occurred to Gunnilde that she must have been far too subtle in her methods for Constance to run away with the idea that she wanted Sir Douglas for herself!

Had she been wasting her breath all this time praising him to the skies?

How vexing! “Might I ask how Sir Douglas renewed his suit?” she asked, hoping to further Sir Douglas’s cause.

“A poem,” Constance said flatly. “Here, you may read it, if you like.” She retrieved it from her drawstring bag, grimacing slightly. “It...well, it does not show great delicacy of mind, I’m afraid,” she said, looking pained. “You see how he rhymes need with steed .”

Gunnilde scanned the lines eagerly. “I think that is quite clever,” she admitted.

“And you know how much a knight loves his horse. It must be a point in his favor that the whole thing rhymes.” She squinted down at the much blotted and crossed-out parchment.

“Sir Douglas must have spent a good deal of time and effort on this.”

“Doubtless,” Constance said, pursing her lips. “One might have hoped he would have written it out on fresh parchment on completing it, for presentation’s sake.”

“He was up all night finishing it!” Gunnilde appealed, feeling quite injured on Sir Douglas’s behalf. “Indeed, he looked quite haggard this morning.”

“In any case,” Constance said dismissively, “it does not really bear comparison to the poem Sir James sent me.” She cast an approving look in the direction of that gentleman. Gunnilde followed suit, only hers was more of a glower.

She could not deny that Sir James Wycliffe was likely the most handsome man at court with his curling auburn hair and amber-colored eyes. It was only that his particular kind of masculine beauty left Gunnilde cold.

What was the point in a man having such long dark lashes and that pouty mouth? They were quite wasted on him, and besides, she preferred a more rugged type herself, weatherbeaten and battle worn.

Also, there was a cold disdain to the man that Gunnilde quite detested.

Every time she had the misfortune to meet him he looked right through her and forgot her name.

He seemed arrogant, unfeeling, and downright rude .

“I daresay he paid the poet a pretty penny for his offering,” Gunnilde sniffed, “but it is hardly the same as writing poetry to you himself, now, is it?”

Constance looked rather annoyed at this rejoinder. “He made no secret of the fact he employed an expert,” she said, pressing her lips together. “I might have counseled Sir Douglas to do the same!”

“Did he not have a poet dedicate a poem to you last year?” Gunnilde exclaimed. “I quite understood he had, and that it left you entirely unmoved.”

Constance stirred uneasily in her seat. “He did,” she conceded.

“I forgot I had told you of that.” Gunnilde held her tongue.

In truth, it had been Douglas who had told her of it, not Constance.

“The poet he used, Mr. Shadbolt, was most unsuitable, almost lewd in his tone,” Constance said primly.

“At least Sir James had the sense to select one with an impeccable reputation.”

“Was it indecent?” Gunnilde asked with a flicker of interest.

“Practically and most unsuitable for a maiden’s eyes. I burned it,” Constance replied virtuously.

“Oh,” Gunnilde said sadly. “Not that I wanted to read it,” she added hastily as Constance rounded on her with a shocked expression. “It is only that I feel sorry for poor Sir Douglas. I doubt he realized it was improper.”

“Of that I have no doubt! I expect most poetry sails over Sir Douglas’s head.

If you had only seen the love token he sent me last summer, the most unsuitable thing.

An enameled disc depicting a knight’s helm, and after I had specifically told him that I did not care for jousting. What say you to that?”

“I think it sounds rather sweet,” Gunnilde admitted.

Constance opened her mouth on a retort only for it to be interrupted by Sir James’s sudden arrival at her elbow. “Good morning,” he said, startling them both with his appearance.

“Oh, Sir James!” Constance blurted, looking about as flustered as Gunnilde had ever seen her. Doubtless she was horrified he might have heard them discussing the subject of lewd poetry.

“Mistress Payne,” he said, looking straight at Gunnilde and surprising her greatly.

So , he had troubled to remember her name for once, wonders would never cease!

Any gratification she might have felt disappeared when she saw the accusatory glint in his eye.

Perchance he had heard something of their conversation after all.

“Sir James,” she responded coolly, dipping into the shallowest of curtseys and refusing to be intimidated.

Constance cleared her throat. “I am so pleased to see you and your brother could make the lecture,” she twittered.

Really, if Constance was not careful, she would be losing her reputation for composure, for she looked quite rattled.

“I was afraid you might miss it, and Master Mullins sets off on his travels on the morrow not to return until spring.”

Sir James appeared to consider her words with a frown. “Why would I miss it?” he asked with what Gunnilde thought a most ungallant abruptness.

Constance blinked. “I had heard that Sir Neville was indisposed yesterday,” she replied in a low, sorrowful voice. “As he so often is.”

His dark brows snapped together, and he gave a short callous laugh.

“Oh, you mean with one of his maladies . We are fortunate that Neville was not afflicted today.” His words dripped with sarcasm, and Gunnilde could not help but marvel that Constance could prefer such a suitor to earnest Sir Douglas, who was so open and artless.

Despite his good looks, Sir James was clearly in possession of a heartless, unsympathetic nature. “You are not a fond brother, Sir James, evidently,” Gunnilde remarked disapprovingly.

Constance’s eyes widened, and Sir James turned his gaze upon her again. “You hold perhaps an idealized view of brothers, Mistress Payne,” he said with a sneer. “Not possessing one yourself.”

“Quite the contrary on both points, I assure you,” Gunnilde responded at once. Sir James stared at her, as though stunned by her contradicting him. “I both possess a brother and precious few illusions about his character. It does not alter my affection for him one whit.”

There was a pointed silence as they sized one another up. To Gunnilde’s surprise, she noticed his focus dwell a beat too long on the bodice of her gown. She glanced down, wondering if her modifications had gone awry. She had been rather enthusiastic about taking the shears to it.

The “pinking” of one’s sleeves and bodice was said to be the very latest in Lasconian fashion, and Gunnilde had been keen to get ahead of the crowd. Had the new seams burst? But no, everything looked as it should. Or at least, as Gunnilde envisaged it should after hearing of the fashion.

Constance cleared her throat. “Alas, I have no brother,” she sighed, striving to fill the hostile silence. “I have often lamented the fact.”

“If you had a brother, you would hardly be so impressive an heiress,” Sir James replied absently, his gaze still on Gunnilde. Constance drew in a sharp breath at so tactless a remark, and Sir James tore his gaze from Gunnilde to turn to his affianced with a look of some dismay.

Belatedly, it seemed to occur to him that he had blundered. A harassed look entered his eyes, and Gunnilde strove to hide her satisfaction when instead of smoothing his betrothed’s ruffled feathers, Sir James made things rather worse by withdrawing even further into his habitual aloofness.

Constance, two bright pink spots appearing on her cheeks, responded in kind, and who could blame her? The man had as good as announced his attraction to her lay solely in her fortune. He had not one chivalrous bone in his body, and finally Constance seemed to have noticed as much.

“Well!” Constance muttered as Sir James retreated, cold and stilted till the very last. “Perhaps you were right,” she said bitterly. “Perhaps I have been misled by a handsome face. That remark...” She bit her lip angrily. “It is not one I can forgive in a hurry!”

“I know,” Gunnilde murmured, lowering her eyes to hide her brimming glee.

At last, Constance would give sweet Sir Douglas a chance!

“Sir James is clever to be sure, but as for his polished address, I am afraid I have never seen much evidence of it. He has always seemed to me a calculating and rather cold sort of man.” She paused to let this sink in.

“How very different he is to a stalwart knight such as Sir Douglas, whose regard a lady might depend upon,” she concluded brightly.

Constance looked much struck by her words. “Yes,” she pondered slowly. “Yes, I think you may be right after all. I believe I will go back now. I have...much to consider.”

Inwardly rejoicing, Gunnilde retired from the field.