Page 15 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“Oh, hush, Lucy!” another cautioned her as she set the Queen’s brooch down carefully on a nearby table. “Do you forget—” She broke off her words and bit her lip. Forget what? Gunnilde wondered but was distracted from this when she noticed how Estrilda Rheinholdt held up her best gown, her eyebrows exaggeratedly raised.

“Do the Portstanleys have mice in their quarters?” she asked archly.

Another poked a finger through one of the pinking holes and they both collapsed into helpless laughter.

“Ignore them,” a dark-haired lady recommended as she removed the many hairpins from her head. Gunnilde thought her name was Margaret something, possibly Mistress Margaret Pryor. “Goodness, you do use a lot of pins!” A rapidly growing pile of them was stacking up on the bedside table.

“I told you it was her real hair,” Osanna Spencer said with satisfaction when another lady looked disappointed as Gunnilde’s long braids were unwound and hung down her sides.

Lucy Melvin sniffed. “I’ll not believe it until I see the braids taken out.” As plucking fingers were already seeing to this, Gunnilde held her tongue.

“You see!” Osanna said triumphantly when her hair hung loose about her like a pale gold cloak.

“It is so plentiful!” Lady Wymarka Kloch marveled drawing a comb through Gunnilde’s tresses. “Tell me, what do you treat it with? Crushed chickweed? Or goat’s dung?”

“Neither,” Gunnilde spluttered. Goat’s dung? There was more giggling.

“I tell you, it is obvious when a woman’s hair is bulked out with flax,” Osanna said knowledgeably. “My mother has a neighbor who does it and I can see the signs from a two furlongs away!”

Lucy opened her mouth on a retort when they heard three knocks on the outer door. “The bridegroom is here!” announced a well-rehearsed voice. Instead of being brought to the marriage bed by a group of friends and family, James had been escorted by royal attendants.

The ladies-in-waiting all gasped and rushed toward the bed, pulling the covers down. “Jump in!” they entreated her, and Gunnilde made haste to follow their advice for it was a cold day in November and her thin shift did not offer much by way of warmth. They flung the blankets up around her, tucking her in.

“The bride is ready!” Frances Lessimore sang out as they all drifted out of the room.

“It seems a shame for Sir James to be wasted on the likes of her,” Gunnilde heard one of them lament in retreat. “I always thought he was destined for great things.”

“Such a pity!” another agreed sadly.

That feeling from earlier returned briefly, the one that made the backs of her eyes prickle. Then the door closed behind them, and she took a deep breath.

She had got what she wanted. Nothing more, nothing less.

5

James hesitated before knocking on the door, glancing around at the small group waiting at his heels. “I do not require your escort from here, gentlemen,” he said stiffly.

“We will just see you inside,” someone answered. James had the impression his name was Sir Lawrence something or other. “It’s customary, Sir James,” he added, seeing James’s scowl.

“You cannot skirt custom on such occasions,” chimed in another. When James met these words with stony silence, Winstanley, the Queen’s attendant, gave a small cough.

“I will need to report we saw you put to bed beside your bride, Sir James,” he said quietly.

“We can just stand in the doorway,” Neville suggested hastily at James’s answering glower.

Feeling severely goaded, James gave his brief knock and opened the door. He hoped to gods she was not naked beneath the bedsheets. She had already given everyone enough to look at all evening with her antics. The last thing he needed right now was her to give this lot an eyeful.

Inexplicably, his heart picked up its pace as he walked into the darkened room, knowing what awaited him there. Keeping his eyes averted from the occupant of the bed, he made short work of undressing, flinging his clothes down on the floor. The sooner he was under the covers, the sooner their onlookers could disperse.

Once he was down to his braies, he turned toward the bed, lifted the covers, and slid underneath them. His bed was not overly large, and the action brought him into direct contact with a warm body.

James breathed noisily out and turned his head to find his bride watching him from a golden pillow bearer. He blinked, then realized it was not a pillow bearer at all. It was her hair. She had masses and masses of the stuff. So much for Neville’s theory.

Under the covers, her fingers sought his out and gave them what she presumably believed to be a sympathetic squeeze. James did his best not to yelp, but gods did the woman think he was made of stone? Clearing his throat, he lifted his head. “You can leave us now,” he pronounced loudly and heard shuffling footsteps in the doorway by way of answer.

“Good night, all,” the bride called after them politely. There was a chorus of answering good nights and then the door closed fast. “Are you well?” she whispered, going up on one elbow, and peering at him through the gloom.

“Yes,” he lied.