Of course, there were sweaty men and dogs hanging around here, too, so no big surprise there. Isabel wished she’d paid more attention to the ingredients in Oust to see if she could replicate the product here.

Gwen’s dress was a shimmery silver, with an elaborate chain belted around her disgustingly tiny waist. Isabel guessed that belt wouldn’t fit around half the beefy men’s arms who were standing at the huge rectangular dining room table.

“’Tis an honor to have you grace our hall, Countess,” Guinevere said. “We have been anticipating your arrival with much gladness. My husband informs me that this will mean a great and mutually beneficial treaty between our two lands.”

Oh, great, so Gwen wasn’t a twit. She kept her pulse on politics, too. Was there nothing Isabel could find to dislike about her? Other than the fact that Gwen had the luxury of sleeping every night beside the one man who so far floated Isabel’s longship?

She felt a thump on her chest.

Could you stop doing that?

Pull it together, dear. Bow to the queen and leave the lust for later.

Isabel attempted another deep curtsy, which would have failed miserably if Tom and Dick hadn’t held on. She really needed to practice this bowing thing. “I’m honored to have been invited to Camelot, Your Highness. Your hospitality is much appreciated.”

Gwen laughed softly, which was also disgustingly perfect. “Please, Arthur and I do not ken to the formalities. Unless you want that I should bow to you as well when we meet.”

Horror of horrors. Isabel had a flashback of being in the Far East with the “you bow, I bow, you bow, I bow, who gets to bow last” thing. “That works perfectly for me,” Isabel said, then nearly groaned at the shocked look on the faces around her. “What I mean, your Highness, is that we should give our knees a break.”

Gwen actually grinned. “Methinks it is an excellent suggestion. Perhaps all of that bowing is also to blame for so many back ailments among our men?”