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“What’s embarrassing about it?”

Fen’s head snapped up to look at him. “Did you not recognize yourself?” she asked. “You are the one with the pink roses all round your head.”

He looked confused. “That’s me? I thought that was an angel,” he admitted.

She huffed. “That’s how I saw you at the time,” she admitted, color creeping into her cheeks.

A slow smile lit up Oswald’s face. “Angelic?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s sweet.” He placed his palms on the mattress and lowered his head, so their brows were touching.

“It was very foolish,” she said avoiding his gaze.

“I’m not angelic, Fen.” His voice was low and regretful.

“I know that now!”

“But you still love me?” he asked lightly.

“Yes!”

“You never loved…” he paused. “Anyone else?”

“I never loved Ambrose, no. And he could probably tell, poor man.”

She felt him relax a little against her. It really was remarkable; she marveled that he could hold so much animosity toward Ambrose when she felt practically nothing for him these days. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “I really am going to try to be a better courtier, to match you,” she assured him.

“I forbid you to even try.”

“Why?”

He shrugged again. “I want you to direct all your efforts into other channels.”

“A better wife then?” she hazarded. “Less jealous and more understanding?”

He frowned. “Is that what you want from me? You’re not getting it.”

Fen gasped and then laughed. “No, that wasn’t what I meant…”

“You can be as jealous as you want. Not that I give you any cause.”

She just about forbore from pointing out that she didn’t give him any cause either. “What do you want me to direct my effort at then?” she asked in puzzlement.

“Loving me,” he said simply.

“Oh.” Fen found tears were pricking her eyes. “But that takes no effort at all.”

He eased onto the bed beside her. “So, now we’ve finally got all that out in the open,” he said rolling into her. “Is there anything else we need to discuss, before I ravish you to within an inch of your life?”

Fen started to relax, but then remembered the portrait. She stiffened. “Um. We probably should discuss the painting signor Arnotti did of me,” she said with a catch in her voice.

Oswald frowned. “Are you depicted nude?” he asked calmly.

“No,” acknowledged Fen, before adding conscientiously, “But he did not paint me wearing what I posed in.”

His eyes narrowed. “What are you painted wearing?”