Page 68 of A Most Forgettable Girl

He stood up and returned to his original chair opposite her own. “Slip your foot out of your boot,” he said, “and slide it under the table. I’ll warm it up for you.”

“What?” Gunnilde was taken aback. “Take my foot out? In company?” She glanced about them nervously.

“It is not polite company,” he pointed out. “Besides, no one would blink an eye, even if you were to put your foot in my lap in full view. We will not be so indiscreet as that,” he assured her. Put her foot in his lap? Gunnilde was faintly scandalized. He patted his thigh. “Set your foot right here.”

Gunnilde glanced at James’s ale cup. Maybe it was stronger than his usual fare, but in truth he had scarcely touched it. Feeling the tips of her ears turn hot, Gunnilde scooted her chair closer to the table and then slipped her foot out of one red leather boot and extended her leg under the surface of the table.

She exclaimed seconds later when James’s warm hand closed about her toes, guiding her heel to rest against his leg. He smiled at her and Gunnilde had no notion why she felt so suddenly breathless. He cupped his hands carefully about her toes, until they grew warmer by gradual degrees. Not as warm as her cheeks though, which she thought must now be poppy red.

In the flickering firelight he looked different somehow. Maybe it was the fault of the purple bruised eye which gave him a disreputable edge, but for whatever reason, Gunnilde could not stop gazing at him. She felt as though her eyes were inexorably drawn to him, despite their surroundings.

He was wildly handsome, of course, but he had always been annoyingly handsome, so it was not that. Whatever it was, it made her feel like she could scarcely focus on anything or anyone else present.

The musicians soon appeared again, having downed some refreshment and counted their pennies. They reintroduced themselves for any newcomers and asked if there were any particular requests for them.

A few well-known songs were shouted out by the crowd, and Gunnilde shot an anxious look at James. However, instead of looking irritable or even resigned, he seemed wholly absorbed in stroking her toes as the minstrels started piping out a well-known tune called “Fair Janet to the Bothy Came.”

“At least it’s a Janet,” she said loudly, so he would hear her above the din. “Not a Margaret.”

“There are hundreds of Janets,” he replied dryly. “Probably more than there are Margarets.” He stroked his thumbs firmly over the arch of her foot and cradled her heel. It was a good thing she was not ticklish. Still, she felt unaccustomedly skittish, almost nervous around him all of a sudden. How absurd!

“Why are they always so fair, that’s what has always bothered me. Why do none of them have crooked teeth or an overlarge nose?” Gunnilde coughed to cover her quavery voice. It was only James. Why did her voice sound so strained? “Or do you suppose that is mere convention,” she forced herself to continue. At least her voice sounded steadier. “Like all queens are described as fair and all kings good?”

“Very likely,” James agreed. “Are you ready to swap feet?” Gunnilde reclaimed her foot and slipped it back into her boot, wriggling her toes. They did feel a lot less like chips of ice.

“Give me the other,” he prompted. Briefly, she contemplated telling him he should not act in such a fashion in a public inn. It was highly improper. The crazy idea crossed her mind that he might be toying with her. She caught her breath. The idea was, well, she did not know what it was precisely.

But no, he would not. This was James after all. Awkward, somewhat endearing James. She was being silly, she told herself, and stuck out her foot. He caught a firm hold of it in his grasp, almost making her whimper. Pull yourself together, Gunnilde!

“You have nice ankles,” he said astonishingly. Then he muttered something she did not quite catch. It sounded rather like “Shapely, like the rest of you,” but she knew that could not be right.

She cleared her throat. “You are supposed to be warming my toes, not fondling my ankles,” she informed him with dignity.

“I can do both.”

Gunnilde shot a suspicious look at him. It occurred to her that it might be his fault she was reacting so oddly. Was he teasing her? Maybe that was why she was feeling so suddenly shy around him. Maybe she should tell him sternly to stop trifling with her.

However, James did not look remotely playful or flirtatious. He looked entirely matter-of-fact. “I like these stockings too,” he continued thoughtfully, “though not as much as your crimson ones.”

“My presentation stockings?” Gunnilde asked, forcing herself to speak sensibly. “The ones that cost my father fifteen shillings and scandalized you so much?” He nodded. “We could get you a pair?” she suggested, testing him.

“I’d rather get you some more.” Well, thought Gunnilde. There went her notion that he was going to prove a frugal husband. “Should I send for a tailor to attend us at the palace?” he suggested, making her heart leap. “After all, we will likely need something new for your banquet.”

Forcing down her instinctive excitement, she said, “Our banquet, and don’t you mean a hosier?”

“That, too, but you wanted more tippets, do not forget.”

“Perhaps we ought to wait until my father sends my dowry,” Gunnilde replied sensibly, biting her lip.

He shrugged. “I will take it out of Neville’s allowance,” he answered, straight-faced, but she was pretty sure he was joking.

She leaned forward, hesitating. “James, do people sometimes find it hard to tell if you are teasing?” she asked. He looked blank, as though no one had ever commented on such a thing before. “Not me,” she clarified quickly, “I can tell. I was just wondering about...others.”

“I don’t think I tease anyone else,” he answered simply, then dropped his gaze back down to her foot.

Gunnilde opened her mouth to argue this could not possibly be true, when she found she believed him. She tipped her head to one side and settled back in her seat to watch him. The famous James Wycliffe was sat in a common inn, rubbing his wife’s stockinged feet. Anyone who did not know him would doubtless think it a loving gesture that spoke of great familiarity.

What did she think of it? She was not so sure, but she certainly could not imagine him performing the office for anyone else. Did that signify anything? “Have you ever—?” She broke off.