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J ames dropped a kiss on her plump shoulder.

“You really do not care about catching a glimpse of the prince tomorrow,” he marveled later as they lay in bed together wrapped in bedsheets.

At one time he was sure such a thing would have been her priority.

A smile curved his lips. It pleased him to think her priorities might have changed.

That he might take precedent over some court event.

He felt dopey from pleasure, boneless and tranquil as he lay with his wife in his arms. They had eaten, made love, and bathed together. Today had been a good day. A very good day.

“No, I don’t mind missing Prince Raedan’s arrival,” she confirmed, smothering a yawn. “I would much rather spend the day with you.”

A general sense of well-being spread about James’s body right down to his fingers and toes. “Did you see the royal tailor today?”

She nodded. “I did.”

Something in her tone had him paying close attention to her words. “It did not go well?” he queried.

“No, no,” she was quick to reassure him. “Signor Castellar had the most luxurious fabrics and trims, all of which he made fully available to me. It is just...he is somewhat traditional in his outlook.”

“He does not believe in slashing sleeves and pinking bodices?” he guessed.

She turned her head to squint up at him. “How ever did you know that?”

“Just a guess. The royal tailor is likely to be well established in his trade, is he not? And as such, not the most innovative.”

“Well, yes,” she agreed dolefully. “He thinks he knows best about every decision and purses his lips the moment I suggest a deviation from his established pattern.” She sighed. “I can hardly offend him though, not when the gown is a gift from the Queen.”

“No,” he agreed. “You will have to content yourself with full artistic control over my outfit.”

“You really would not mind?”

“No. You can do whatever you want with me these days.”

She gave a chuckle at that. “You should not tempt me. Are you not scared I would turn you into a...what was it you said before? A popinjay?” she teased.

He shrugged. “Not especially. Maybe hearing your brother and his friends talk about cross garters and red hose has broadened my outlook. If you like it, that’s all that matters as far as I’m concerned.”

“Really?”

“I am entirely serious,” he assured her.

She gave him a considering look. “I do believe you are,” she said slowly.

He shifted his hand to squeeze her hip. “Believe it,” he said. “My only request in return is that you procure more pairs of colorful stockings. I like those on you.”

“Colorful stockings?

“The brighter the better,” he murmured, kissing the tip of her ear.

She gave a gurgle of laughter. “I believe I can manage that.” She placed her hands on either side of his face, a more serious look stealing over her features before she lightly kissed his nose.

“Something troubles you this eve?” he asked lightly.

“Oh no,” she said unconvincingly. “’Tis only some matter that weighs on my mind. Nothing of import, I assure you.”

“What is it?”

She took a deep breath. “Tell me, did you read your mother’s letter in the end?”

He sighed at the recollection of the only rain cloud on the horizon. “I cast my eye over it after supper at Neville’s urging.”

“And?” She drew back to look at his face.

“And what?” he asked, frowning at the distance she had put between them.

“Was she upset? About our wedding?”

He shrugged. “Once you know her, you will find Mother is always upset about something. She’s rarely pleased at any outcome, even those of her own making. Do not trouble yourself about it.”

“Did you tell her we married at the Queen’s behest?” Her question struck a discordant note, though he was not really sure why. Before he could reply, she added, “Because she has written to her.”

“Who? What do you mean?”

“The Queen. Your mother wrote to her,” she clarified.

James felt a stab of annoyance run through him. “To say what?”

“I do not know. Queen Armenal suggested that we might go to Wycliffe Hall to try and set her mind at rest, but I explained we had no plans to travel there until the spring.” She bit her lip, peeping up at him. “She did not seem to think that very filial of us.”

“Damn the woman,” he said, enfolding Gunnilde close again. “What does she mean by interfering in our business?”

“The Queen or your mother?” Gunnilde enquired in muffled tones from the vicinity of his chest.

“Either one of them!” he said roundly. “And I had not really thought of going to Wycliffe Hall before the summer, truth be told!”

“Really?” She tipped back her head.

“Yes really. Truthfully, I would far rather set about appeasing your father than my mother. Though at this precise moment, we are both embroiled in our own endeavors and could do without the distraction.”

“Our own endeavors?” Gunnilde repeated uncertainly.

“Well, I have my music to work on,” he reminded her, “and you have your duties to the Queen and the upcoming banquet. Also, we are supporting your brother and his friends at the Revels, are we not?”

“Oh yes, of course,” she agreed absently, as though her mind were pondering other matters. “Do you really think you could repurpose one of your previous compositions for Lady Schaeffer?” she asked suddenly.

“Quite easily,” he admitted, “though I have never thought to do such a thing before. And quite honestly, I would rather continue work on this latest piece than look at tinkering with an older one. Still, we need the money.”

“No, but...it will not compromise your personal integrity, I mean?” She looked anxious.

“Well...” He shifted awkwardly. “Some pieces you feel stronger about than others. This latest one for instance. I would not like to lie about its origins.”

“About its inspiration, you mean,” she asked.

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“Even though Mistress Bartree is unlikely to ever commission such a piece?”

“Even then,” he agreed.

She lapsed into silence, considering this. “Perhaps we could obscure the subject matter somewhat?” she suggested. “Say it is based on the story of a lady left to molder in ruins. We need not necessarily state it is Mistress Bartree’s story.”

He mulled this over. “Yes, I was thinking the same thing. It would not seem right to, well, broadcast that lady’s tale unsanctioned.” She gave a small smile by way of reply. “What? Why are you smiling?”

“It is just...you are very nice in your notions. You are considerate. I like that about you.”

“You do?” He paused. “You do not...think me somewhat stuffy and uptight?”

“A little,” she admitted, “and...I think I like that too. It makes me feel quite adventurous and bold by way of comparison.” He spluttered.

“I like how I feel when I am with you,” she said in a strange voice.

“How I feel about myself, I mean. You make me feel like I have a strong and distinctive personality. Like I am not at all forgettable.”

“Forgettable?” he echoed in surprise. She had voiced that thought once before, though he could not remember when. Oh yes, that was it. She had overheard Bevan say it about her that time at Vawdrey Keep.

“Yes.” She gave an embarrassed-sounding laugh. “Like I am not some entirely forgettable girl.”

“Gunnilde,” he said, catching her chin and looking straight into her eyes. “You are far, far from that. The furthest I could imagine. You are not remotely forgettable,” he told her firmly.

Her eyes when they finally met his own were shy, uncertain. “You mean that, James?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“I do. Anyone who has ever given you that impression must be the veriest fool. You are remarkable ,” he breathed and pressed a firm kiss upon her mouth. “The most remarkable girl I have ever met.”

Gunnilde’s cornflower-blue eyes went very wide. “ James... Even if you are just saying that to make me happy—” she began in a shaken voice but could not continue.

“I’m not,” he said gruffly, kissing the tears from her eyes. “I mean every word. Every word of it.” Then he set about convincing her of it with his eager body.