Page 103 of A Most Forgettable Girl

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?”