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“Me, fawning?” asked Roland indignantly. “At least I don’t sit my own wife on my lap, in company!”
Oswald bit back his reply as the door opened and his wife walked in, her dog on her heels.
“Good evening,” she said, looking rather tired, as Bors barged past her to fling himself at Roland’s legs. She dropped her cloak on a chair and started pulling off her gloves.
“There he is!” said Roland patting Bors’s barrel-like body like a drum. “My good boy!”
“I’m so sorry we missed your tournament Roland,” said Fenella with a quick smile. “Only-” she stopped abruptly, staring at the wall-hanging. “Wha-?” She dropped a glove on the floor and Bors darted forward to scoop it up in his mouth. “Um-” she raised a hand to her head and stared at it a moment. “Is that what I think it is?” she asked faintly.
Oswald was already out of his chair, steering her toward the window seat. “You look tired,” he murmured. “It must have been draughty and cold, sat in the long gallery all day.”
The servants tactfully withdrew, Meldon giving the tapestry one last doubtful look. “Just hope it holds!” he murmured under his breath. “Damn thing’s plaguey heavy!”
Fenella clutched at Oswald’s arm and turned a very dull red. “Why are you hanging that up?” she asked in strangled tones. “It really ought to be relegated to a dark cupboard!”
“Why?” he frowned. “I see naught amiss with it.”
Fenella stared at him.
“Do you mean the wall-hanging or the portrait?” asked Roland with interest. Bors dropped the glove in his lap as an offering.
“Portrait?” repeated Fenella. She glanced up and gave a yelp on catching sight of the painting. “What’s that doing here?”
“Why would I not display my betrothal gifts?” asked Oswald with annoyance.
Fen sat down so fast she looked winded.
“How’s the new portrait coming along?” Oswald asked her, pouring her a drink.
She took it from him, still eyeing the tapestry with a pained expression. “What? Oh, er... I hardly know,” she admitted. “Signor Arnotti does not permit you to look at a work in progress.” She took a hasty sip and then coughed, as it appeared to go down the wrong way. “In any event, Bess is happy with the painting he did of her oldest hound, Padraig. She said he caught his noble expression most admirably.”
“That’s something at least,” said Roland, pointing to her portrait accusingly. “Poor Bors looks like a smudgy blob in that one.”
Fen grimaced. “More to the point, I look like a smudgy blob in that one.”
Roland laughed, and for some inexplicable reason Oswald found himself feeling aggravated. He glared at his brother. “Why are you not out with your degenerate friends, celebrating?” he asked ill-naturedly.
Roland shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it, as it happens.”
“A hollow victory?” asked Fen with interest. “Whose token did you wear?”
Roland shrugged. “Lenora Montmayne,” he said without much enthusiasm.
“Indeed?” said Fen with more interest than Oswald cared for. Fen seemed to catch his impatient gaze on her and gave a start. “Oh, I almost forgot we are dining tonight with the Schaeffers.” She glanced down at her burgundy gown. “I’m already in my newest gown for the portrait sitting. I don’t need a change of clothing, do I?” she looked appealingly at Oswald.
He let his gaze wander over her. Any excuse to look at her was welcome, these days. Perhaps he could put the new portrait side by side with the old when it was finished?
“Husband?”
He re-focused on her face. “You don’t need to change your dress,” he said, swiftly replaying her query in his mind.
“Good,” she patted her leg and Bors trotted over to her for some fuss. “Would you believe that Ambrose did not even recognize Bors?” she asked indignantly. “Why, he still looks as noble as he ever did.”
“Thane’s an idiot,” said Roland with disgust. “A man who can’t even recognize his own dog, doesn’t deserve to be recognized as a man.”
“Or a husband,” said Oswald casually. He withdrew the rolled-up document from his tunic and tossed it toward Fenella. She caught it clumsily, and clasped it to her. “What is it?”
“Annulment papers,” he said briefly.
