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He frowned. “No. They are southern?”

“Oh, yes. Their manor is only a day’s ride from Caer Lyoness.” She hesitated before adding, “I did not like them very much.”

He could not help himself from asking: “Why?”

“They were … stuffy and rather condescending. Sir Maurice apparently has debts which is why he agreed to my father’s scheme in the first place.” Konrad could think of no reply to make to this. After all, his own situation was not so very different. “I do not think Lady Wycliffe much appreciated having to squire about a pair of merchant’s daughters to meet all her acquaintances.”

He wondered if that had been a bone of contention. Was that why Aimee Ankatel had wanted to wed him? To secure a title to rival this Lady Wycliffe’s own? The notion made him frown. “Do they attend the royal tournaments?” he asked abruptly.

“I should not think so,” she answered at once. “They go to various royal functions, but they are a scholarly family and more interested in things such as astronomy and natural philosophy.”

Konrad snorted disparagingly. “I’m not surprised you disliked them. They sound a dull bunch.”

“They were,” Aimee agreed fervently, her dimple flashing out at him again. “For a while, I was quite worried their son James might offer for one of us, but when it came down to it, he could not quite make the sacrifice. He is a great lover of music, you see, and our untutored playing made him wince. Then he took great offence to a song I sang one night after dinner.”

Konrad frowned. First Willard Hemming and now this James Wycliffe. It was a miracle Aimee Ankatel had remained unwed this long, especially considering her father’s fortune. “Was there ever anyone you ever did want to marry?” he asked.

Her gaze flew to meet his before dropping. “Well, yes,” she admitted simply. “There was you.”

A knock on the door interrupted them, sparing him from making any answer. Golda re-entered the room carrying a second jug of steaming water. A large manservant on her heels carried an armful of logs. Konrad was not sure if this water was for him to wash or to replace that she had spilled. Golda set it down and departed with a curtsey.

Meanwhile, the fire in the hearth was kindled and set alight. The burly servant stacked some logs at the side of the fireplace and bowed clumsily before hurrying after Golda. Neither of them uttered a word as these services were performed.

“That was Matthews, the new manservant I mentioned previously,” Aimee said after the door shut behind him.

Konrad grunted. “He looks capable enough.”

“Yes,” Aimee agreed and turned toward him. “Will you spend the night in here with me tonight, my lord?”

He lowered his goblet. “Yes,” he said shortly and knew it was the right answer when her face lit up.

She then surprised him by immediately rising from her seat and hurrying about her ablutions. If he didn’t know any better, he would think she was almost afraid he would change his mind. She had no sooner washed and pulled the pins from her hair, then she was tugging and loosening the laces of her gown at her neck and wrists. “Would you mind?” she asked twisting about to glance over her shoulder at the laces she could not reach. “Or shall I call back Golda?”

He gestured for her to approach and then obliged with clumsy fingers at the small of her back. Her long hair was hanging loose now, and he had to push it out of the way to reach the fastenings. She must use some fancy soap, he thought, for he had never thought of hair as fragrant before, but Aimee Ankatel’s hair smelt like roses and some other elusive scent that escaped him.

He passed his hand through it a final time, just to enjoy the sensation of the silken length slipping through his fingers. “Done,” he said gruffly, and Aimee moved away with a murmured thanks. He cleared his throat and turned his back as she wriggled out of her gown. The least he could do was give her some privacy to undress, he told himself, as much as he wanted to stand and stare.

Reaching for the fastenings of his tunic, he shucked it over his shoulders and flung it on the chair behind him. The rustling stilled, and for a moment, he could have sworn he felt her eyes on him. Resisting the impulse to turn and check if she was watching him undress, he started unlacing his braies instead.

“Should I leave my shift on?” a voice enquired politely.

As he had stripped her of it last time with scant consideration, he really ought to let her keep it on this time. “No,” he heard himself answer shortly.

There was another rustle and then the sound of bedcovers being drawn back. The bedframe creaked and then there was nothing but the crackle of the logs in the fireplace. He shed his chausses with quick economic movements and then blew out the candles on the table before moving toward the bed.

Aimee was sat up, showing her bare shoulders above the covers but keeping everything else demurely hidden from his devouring gaze. She was watching him, he realized with a start, as he pulled back the covers and joined her in the bed. “You have a very impressive physique,” she told him admiringly. “Your whole family is tall, is it not? Even Freda, though her frame is a lot narrower than that of you and your sister.”

Konrad thought of his stringy cousin and was not flattered by the comparison. He settled back against the pillow bearer and squinted down at his wife. “We Bartrees are all tall,” he agreed as she scooted closer to him, surprising him with her eagerness for proximity. She hesitated for just an instant before settling her soft, cushiony body against his side, and Konrad heard his breath hiss through his teeth.

“You are not injured?” she asked with alarm and would have drawn back if he had not taken that opportunity to slip his arm about her waist, urging her closer still.

“Injured?” he repeated blankly, as his mind briefly stalled, pleasure flooding his body. Strangely, he felt himself relax against her; all save one part of him at least. He lifted his knees to prevent the blankets from showing the outline of his stiffening cock.

Aimee shifted closer again, and it was at that point he felt the hair of her mound brush against the outside of his thigh.

“From your practice?” she elaborated. “I thought perhaps you might have strained a muscle.”

“No,” he replied shortly. He wanted her to straddle his leg. He wanted to feel that springy triangle of hair pressed hard against thigh, while she rubbed her pretty slit against him and told him she wanted him. Of course, such things were hardly reasonable requests from a near-virginal wife.