Page 5 of A Most Forgettable Girl

Constance bit her lip, looking pained. “I hardly know how to tell you this, for I know how sincerely you admire the gentleman in question. Indeed, when I think of how fulsomely you have spoken of him these past couple of months, and with such warmth, I hardly have the heart to tell you of it and crush your expectations.”

Gunnilde wished her friend would get to the point. If there was a downside to Constance, it was that she never failed to use ten words when two would do. “To tell me of...?” she prompted.

Constance took a deep breath, taking Gunnilde’s hand in her own. “It pains me to have to tell you that Sir Douglas Farleigh hath renewed his interest in me.” She looked grave. “I think I told you before that he attempted to pay court to me some months ago, and I quashed his efforts. Well, it seems he is not so easily dissuaded. I heartily pity you in your disappointment, Gunnilde. I need hardly add that I—”

“My disappointment?” Gunnilde echoed. “Oh no, no! You must not let such a scruple stand in your way, if that is what you imagine.”

Constance stared at her, her flow quite disrupted. Then her expression changed. “Most noble friend,” she breathed. “You would put your own heartache aside in such a matter to support me?”

“Oh, of course!” Gunnilde hastened to assure her. “But as a matter of fact, I do not admire Sir Douglas. I mean, I do admire him of course, excessively, but never with myself in mind. No, I always knew his heart belonged to you entirely. It is obvious even to a bystander like myself.”

“It is?” Constance sounded dazed. She sat down abruptly on the nearest seat. “Forgive me, I have been so concerned with how to break this news to you that I hardly know how to react now I find I was worried over nothing!”

“Please do not trouble yourself on my account. I assure you, my heart is quite unscathed.”

Constance passed a hand over her brow. “Well, I am relieved about that in any event.”

It occurred to Gunnilde that she must have been far too subtle in her methods for Constance to run away with the idea that she wanted Sir Douglas for herself! Had she been wasting her breath all this time praising him to the skies? How vexing! “Might I ask how Sir Douglas renewed his suit?” she asked, hoping to further Sir Douglas’s cause.

“A poem,” Constance said flatly. “Here, you may read it, if you like.” She retrieved it from her drawstring bag, grimacing slightly. “It...well, it does not show great delicacy of mind, I’m afraid,” she said, looking pained. “You see how he rhymes need with steed.”

Gunnilde scanned the lines eagerly. “I think that is quite clever,” she admitted. “And you know how much a knight loves his horse. It must be a point in his favor that the whole thing rhymes.” She squinted down at the much blotted and crossed-out parchment. “Sir Douglas must have spent a good deal of time and effort on this.”

“Doubtless,” Constance said, pursing her lips. “One might have hoped he would have written it out on fresh parchment on completing it, for presentation’s sake.”

“He was up all night finishing it!” Gunnilde appealed, feeling quite injured on Sir Douglas’s behalf. “Indeed, he looked quite haggard this morning.”

“In any case,” Constance said dismissively, “it does not really bear comparison to the poem Sir James sent me.” She cast an approving look in the direction of that gentleman. Gunnilde followed suit, only hers was more of a glower.

She could not deny that Sir James Wycliffe was likely the most handsome man at court with his curling auburn hair and amber-colored eyes. It was only that his particular kind of masculine beauty left Gunnilde cold.

What was the point in a man having such long dark lashes and that pouty mouth? They were quite wasted on him, and besides, she preferred a more rugged type herself, weatherbeaten and battle worn.

Also, there was a cold disdain to the man that Gunnilde quite detested. Every time she had the misfortune to meet him he looked right through her and forgot her name. He seemed arrogant, unfeeling, and downright rude. “I daresay he paid the poet a pretty penny for his offering,” Gunnilde sniffed, “but it is hardly the same as writing poetry to you himself, now, is it?”

Constance looked rather annoyed at this rejoinder. “He made no secret of the fact he employed an expert,” she said, pressing her lips together. “I might have counseled Sir Douglas to do the same!”

“Did he not have a poet dedicate a poem to you last year?” Gunnilde exclaimed. “I quite understood he had, and that it left you entirely unmoved.”

Constance stirred uneasily in her seat. “He did,” she conceded. “I forgot I had told you of that.” Gunnilde held her tongue. In truth, it had been Douglas who had told her of it, not Constance. “The poet he used, Mr. Shadbolt, was most unsuitable, almost lewd in his tone,” Constance said primly. “At least Sir James had the sense to select one with an impeccable reputation.”

“Was it indecent?” Gunnilde asked with a flicker of interest.

“Practically and most unsuitable for a maiden’s eyes. I burned it,” Constance replied virtuously.

“Oh,” Gunnilde said sadly. “Not that I wanted to read it,” she added hastily as Constance rounded on her with a shocked expression. “It is only that I feel sorry for poor Sir Douglas. I doubt he realized it was improper.”

“Of that I have no doubt! I expect most poetry sails over Sir Douglas’s head. If you had only seen the love token he sent me last summer, the most unsuitable thing. An enameled disc depicting a knight’s helm, and after I had specifically told him that I did not care for jousting. What say you to that?”

“I think it sounds rather sweet,” Gunnilde admitted.

Constance opened her mouth on a retort only for it to be interrupted by Sir James’s sudden arrival at her elbow. “Good morning,” he said, startling them both with his appearance.

“Oh, Sir James!” Constance blurted, looking about as flustered as Gunnilde had ever seen her. Doubtless she was horrified he might have heard them discussing the subject of lewd poetry.

“Mistress Payne,” he said, looking straight at Gunnilde and surprising her greatly.

So, he had troubled to remember her name for once, wonders would never cease! Any gratification she might have felt disappeared when she saw the accusatory glint in his eye. Perchance he had heard something of their conversation after all. “Sir James,” she responded coolly, dipping into the shallowest of curtseys and refusing to be intimidated.