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G unnilde woke the next morning with a somewhat foggy head and only fuzzy recollections of tumbling into bed the night before. She had drunk too much mead at that last tavern, partly because the ale there was bitter, and partly to cover her nervousness.

Recalling her strange skittishness with James the night before, she almost groaned aloud. She hoped to goodness he had not noticed! James had barely wet his lips all night, she remembered, and suspected it was because he was the one responsible for their safety.

He had been surprisingly protective. Mayhap that was what had thrown her so much. It was at this point that she realized she had one leg draped over James’s and an arm slung proprietorially about his waist. Oh gods!

Glancing up, she found his eyes closed and breathed out a sigh of relief. James was flat on his back and clearly fast asleep. When she tried to withdraw her arm, however, his lips moved in a muttered protest.

“What did you say?” she whispered.

“I said, don’t move. I am comfortable as we are,” he murmured huskily.

“Oh.” Gunnilde squinted at the window, wondering about the time. “It must soon be time for Bennett to appear,” she observed. That foolishly quavery quality was back to her voice again. She sounded like such a goose!

“He has already been.” His eyes remained determinedly closed. “Go back to sleep. Your head must be sore.”

“It isn’t sore,” Gunnilde said, cautiously raising it from the pillow bearer. “It merely feels a little heavy. I think that mead was rather strong in the King’s Head.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I think it was.”

“Did you, er, enjoy yourself last night?” Gunnilde asked with some trepidation. She wished this husband of hers was not so hard to read. Had he found her trying company? Would he admit to such a thing, even if he had?

“Yes.”

“Thank you for taking care of me last night,” she said in a small voice. “I hope it was not too onerous a task.”

His eyes sprang open. “Of course it was not.” His voice was a little rougher in the morning. A little deeper. “It is my right. My responsibility, I mean.” His eyelids drifted back down.

“But it meant you could not simply enjoy yourself as I did,” she pointed out.

He turned his head, though his eyes remained closed. “What gave you the impression I did not enjoy myself?” he asked, frowning.

She hesitated. “You did not tap your foot or sing along.”

“No,” he agreed. “Yet I enjoyed myself all the same.”

“Because of the entertainment?” Mayhap he had preferred the musicians they had seen later in the evening, she pondered, though he had not seemed particularly taken with any of them at the time.

“Because of”—his eyes opened a crack—“the company.”

“Oh.” Gunnilde’s heart beat a little faster. “I think you just liked playing with my feet,” she joked.

“I did like that,” he admitted without a trace of shame. “I like...touching you.”

Gunnilde drew back a little. “Well! You certainly speak much more frankly when your eyes are closed,” she observed with an awkward laugh.

“Do I?” A smile crooked his lips. “Maybe I should do it more often.”

It must be the aftereffects of the mead that made her feel so fluttery, she told herself firmly. That was all it was. The dry mouth and racing pulse must also be down to that same thing. “I wonder why you are so sleepy this morn?” she said in an unnaturally high voice. Ugh .

“Mayhap because I did not get much sleep.”

“Why not?” He did not answer. “Because of me?” she guessed with dismay. She sat up as a horrible thought occurred. Oh gods, she had not been clinging to him in the night, had she? Stroking his chest and pawing him. Her face flamed. “I hope I was not too restless,” she said weakly.

“You did nothing,” he reassured her with a yawn. “Merely rolled over and fell into a deep slumber.”

Gunnilde breathed out. Well, that was a relief. For one horrible moment she had feared she might have horribly embarrassed them both by telling him how much she liked him.

Oh. So that was it. That was why she had been behaving so foolishly. She liked him. She really liked him. She...

“You are not going to lie back down, are you?” he grumbled, struggling into a seated position beside her. He hugged his knees and turned his face to look at her, his auburn locks falling forward over his brow. “Gunnilde?”

Oh dear, thought Gunnilde, her head spinning. This was not right. This could never be right. She was not supposed to fall in love with James Wycliffe . He was not even the type of man she admired! They were to have a sensible court marriage. How in the world could this have happened?

She was still reeling from the realization an hour and a half later as she stood in the Queen’s presence chamber.

She had received small, fleeting smiles from Penelope Culmington and Emma Thackeray but without Estrilda present they did not quite have the nerve to separate from the herd of attendants and approach her.

Gunnilde scarcely noticed, though she vaguely wondered where Estrilda might be this morn.

She was too busy dwelling on this new unexpected problem, her falling in love with her own husband.

How could she have been so stupidly provincial?

Court marriages did not operate along those lines. Court marriages—

Someone halted in front of her. Someone dressed magnificently in a scarlet tunic with very wide sleeves, decorated with gold medallions. Gunnilde blinked for ’twas none other than Viscount Bardulf.

“Jane tells me I must apologize to you, for my unforgiveable rudeness,” he announced without ceremony.

Gunnilde straightened up. “You were rude,” she agreed, flushing slightly.

He did not argue, merely inclined his head and listened with apparent interest. Thus encouraged, Gunnilde gave vent to her feelings.

“That implication you made about my character was most impolite and quite unfounded, I must tell you!”

He nodded. “Yes, I know,” he agreed with a sigh. “Truthfully, I am a little disappointed you are not the scheming minx I initially took you for, but I am prepared to forgive you for that. Magnanimous of me, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“Disappointed? That I am not a scheming minx?” Gunnilde repeated, feeling perplexed.

He nodded. “I rather liked the idea of the worthy Wycliffe trapped by the machinations of a cunning woman.”

“Why is it you dislike him so much?” she asked forthrightly. “I will own I have my own suspicions, but I would like to hear you account for it.”

He regarded her through half-closed lids. “I’ll wager your suspicions are neither inaccurate nor flattering to my character.”

Emboldened, she stuck out her chin. “You admit then that it is merely a matter of personal prejudice?”

“Oh, quite freely,” he replied at once. “His handsomeness offends me when he puts in so very little effort.” Gunnilde breathed out in astonishment that he could be so frank about his pettiness and so unashamed.

“His worthiness is also tiresome,” he added as an afterthought.

“Though I could likely forgive him that if he had a scattering of undesirable traits. If he was stupid for instance, or clumsy, but on top of everything he must be wretchedly talented and clever.”

“Oh, but he does—!” Gunnilde started to argue before she caught herself.

“Really?” His eyes gleamed. “The paragon has faults? Other than being a consummate dullard, of course.”

“He is not a dullard,” Gunnilde contradicted him stoutly, “and of course he has faults, though I would never betray them as a fond spouse.”

“Are you one?” he asked in apparent surprise. “A fond spouse, I mean.”

“Of course I am!” Gunnilde felt herself color hotly and decided to cover her embarrassment with a show of indignation. “You think because you do not like him that he is incapable of winning anyone’s affection? You think very highly of your own opinion, do you not, Lord Bardulf?”

“I do,” he agreed affably. “I believe everyone should have a high opinion of themselves. It is the only way to live.”

“Even stupid or clumsy people?” she asked pointedly.

“But certainly, for assuredly no one else ever will.”

Gunnilde pressed her lips together, feeling unaccountably disillusioned. “Well,” she said flatly. “I suppose nothing remains but to thank you for your apology.”

He frowned. “Is it possible you think I consider you stupid or clumsy? For I assure you I do not.” She gave a faint gasp at this, turning to look at him.

He smiled at her, and she turned back to face the dais where the Queen sat with his wife, the Lady Bardulf, while Magnatrude Bartree hovered behind them.

“It is the only explanation for your being so offended,” he added.

“What about people with overlarge teeth or imperfect figures, do you imagine them contemptible also?” she persisted, a nasty suspicion in her head.

“Certainly not. Why should I?” She shook her head, unwilling to elaborate on the subject. “I know a good many people with unfortunate looks and I do not hold that against them. After all, no one can help an unfortunate physiognomy.”

“You lay so much emphasis on beauty that I do not know whether to believe you.”

“In my own appearance, you mean? While it is true, I hold myself to the highest standards, I do not expect others to achieve my own dizzy heights. It would be unrealistic.”

“James reaches them though, does he not?” A look of annoyance flashed over his face, and Gunnilde felt embarrassingly pleased with herself. “Without even trying,” she added calmly.

“Now that , Lady Wycliffe, was just plain cruel.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “You were annoying me.”

A smile lit up his face. “Come, let us be friends,” he said suddenly, taking her quite by surprise.

“Friends?” she repeated in startled accents.

“Yes, for I have decided I like you, and really I think it would be mutually beneficial.”

“How so?” Any budding pleasure she had felt disappeared as a sudden suspicion crossed her mind. “Oh, you just mean because it would irritate James.”

“That is not what I meant, though I admit that would not undesirable. Would he really be so irritated by our budding friendship?”

She considered this. “I’m not sure but probably not. In truth, he does not really understand why you dislike him so much. When he does think of it, he is mostly just bewildered by it.”

“Of course he is,” he sighed.

“When I told him my suspicions, he dismissed them out of hand, saying men do not think like that.”

Bardulf laughed. “Such a pretty innocent,” he said, shaking his head. “I do think it is a good thing he has a clever wife, for his sake.”

Gunnilde felt a rush of pleasure that he should think her clever. “If we were to be friends, what would such a friendship entail?” she asked cautiously.

“Seeking one another out in a crowded room,” he answered at once.

“Talking of our wider acquaintance in a wholly abandoned manner and in the perfect understanding that we may lower our guards around each other without repercussion. Making it known far and wide that we hold one another in the highest esteem.”

Gunnilde’s eyes widened. “Really?” Try as she might, she could see no downside to such an arrangement; indeed, it would likely serve her extremely well if she could count on Viscount Bardulf’s friendship, for he was both popular and influential.

She glanced about the room and found almost every single lady-in-waiting had their eyes trained upon them.

They either looked envious or wildly curious. “In that case, my lord, I accept.”

“Good,” he said simply. “And now, quickly, for I need to be somewhere else, tell me as a friend. Is Wycliffe really so negligent of his appearance as I suspect or is he simply a shockingly bad dresser?”

“He spends no time on it. He does not even possess a looking glass,” she confided.

He looked appalled. “But this is even worse than I suspected,” he said hoarsely. “How does he arrange his hair?”

“At most, he drags a comb through it,” she answered.

He closed his eyes as though pained. “I suspected as much but still it rankles.” Gunnilde eyed him sympathetically. “I once tried to start a rumor that he had scrawny calves,” he admitted, “but even Jane would not support me in it.”

Gunnilde clicked her tongue. James’s calves, much like the rest of him, were perfect. “It is too bad,” she said in a conciliatory tone, “but we must simply accept that some people are...”

“Beyond all hope?”

“Naturally flawless in their beauty,” she corrected him firmly.

“Mmmm. I will have to console myself with his character defects, I suppose. You can’t confide in me some undesirable habits that none know of?

” he asked hopefully. “Such as the biting of his toenails or the picking of his ears. I promise I will not divulge them to anyone. It will be for my own personal satisfaction only.”

“No,” Gunnilde responded firmly. “He is not disgusting in any way.”

“Next you will be telling me he gives alms freely and is a friend to injured animals.”

“Well—” Gunnilde started but Viscount Bardulf held up one elegant hand.

“Please, no more. I cannot bear it. And now I must hasten away and tell Jane of our budding friendship, so that she will forgive and reward me accordingly. Really, she has been holding me at arm’s length these past few days and it has been very hard to bear.”

“Because you had offended me?” Gunnilde was startled.

“Yes, quite frankly. There is something very terrible about incurring my sweet dove’s disappointment.” He winced. “Somehow, you know, it is far, far worse than her wrath.”

These words dismissed any fears she might have had that Lady Jane might be displeased before they had even formed.

It also answered her unspoken question of how their friendship would be mutually beneficial in any way, for Gunnilde knew her own social consequence to be far below that of Viscount Bardulf.

He had befriended her purely to appease his wife. She found she could live with that.