The Virgin's Daughter (28 page)

N
icolas held his breath. It was a very calculated risk he was taking—but he did not believe Lucette was the kind of woman to recoil in horror or faint in shock. He rather thought she was a woman who liked being treated as though her mind mattered as much as her body, and so he had at last decided to risk that particular truth.

But for all his calculated risk, he did find himself curiously light-headed. It was the first time he’d ever said the words aloud. Not that words could convey the full damage that had been done to him.

Lucette went perhaps a shade paler. “I am sorry—” She broke off, forehead creased, and said impatiently, “What a ridiculous thing to say! Of course I am sorry and of course those are mostly empty words.”

“Not coming from you.” He paused, and added, “I do apologize. This is not a proper topic for any woman, and I don’t doubt that you will be eager to escape my company now.”

“Why? We cannot choose our injuries.”

“It would be different if you were a married woman, for then you would begin to realize what I lost. But then, if you were married, we would not be having this conversation.”

“Why
are
we having this conversation?”

“Because for the first time I have met a woman whom I very much want to be my wife. And that is the most selfish desire I have ever had in my life. Which is saying something,” he added wryly.

“Selfish?”

“You realize that the Church would never sanction a new marriage for me. I am not fit for such a state in their eyes.”

“Does the Church know of your state?”

“No. Only Julien, who found me, and my father. My mother knew, of course, for it was she who nursed me personally. Even my wife was kept in the dark, seeing as she was so near her time. Felix was born just weeks later and Célie died without ever knowing how her husband had been ruined.”

Nicolas could hardly bear to recall the months that had followed Paris. The pain had been as nothing to his interior torment. He had screamed at his mother, told her to let him die, refused to listen to her gentle counsel or his father’s more measured practicalities. “You are not the only man to be so injured,” he’d told his son. “Battlefields are messy and not a few have had to live on without all they once had.”

But it was Julien who had, unwittingly, shown his brother how to survive. He had hovered around Nicolas in both Paris and, after he could travel safely, at Blanclair. Nicolas had refused to see him. But at last, three weeks after Felix’s birth, he admitted Julien to his chamber.

And Julien had vowed vengeance on his behalf. He had gone on and on about the viciousness of the Catholics, the wholesale slaughter of Huguenots that seemed to disturb him, the stupidity of France tearing itself to pieces over religion. But Nicolas had focused on one word:
vengeance
.

He had decided at that moment to live, and seek his own vengeance
against the man whose doing this had been. It had been a long time coming, but now he was so very close.

Lucette had been sitting throughout his reverie with a thoughtful expression. Now she said, “So if I were to marry you…” She looked at him quizzically and he almost laughed. He had definitely calculated right. Lucette would be intrigued by the thought of doing something forbidden.

“As I said, the most selfish desire of my life. For it would mean, of course, that you would never have children.”

She nodded, but seemed more thoughtful than repulsed. “Except for Felix.”

“Except for Felix. But it is not just children, Lucette. I could never be what a husband should be for his wife. Of course there would be affection and even—how do I say this delicately?—pleasure. There is more than one way for men and women to experience pleasure. I would like nothing more than to make you happy in every way.”

“I assume your father has no idea of what you’re proposing.”

“No. If it were I alone, he would laugh me to scorn. But if you wanted me, Lucette, if you stood your ground beside me, then who could oppose us?”

Many people
, he answered himself. All his father would have to do was tell a priest and then no church official would agree to perform such a marriage. But that was supposing the marriage took place in France. If it were England…surely Lucette would have to go home first.

Taking her betrothed with her. To England.

Exactly where Nicolas needed to be.

She bit her lip in concentration and he didn’t move, afraid to let her see how desperately he needed her to say yes.

“I think…” she ventured, then cleared her throat before continuing in a firmer voice. “I think that, once Charlotte’s party is over, we should speak to your father.”

—

At last Charlotte’s carefully thought-out night was upon them and all Julien could think was thank goodness it would be over by morning. And the day after that, Renaud would set out to escort Dr. Dee and Lucette to Le Havre, and Julien could return to Paris and a normal life.

Except that normal didn’t seem so appealing anymore. There were one or two women from Paris at Blanclair whom he had known rather well, but he felt very little except resignation when encountering them. They were so mannered and brittle and casual—when all he could think of now was Lucette’s stubbornness and passion and clarity of thought. There was nothing studied about her, no matter how sophisticated the quality of her mind.

Only once in his life had Julien come close to speaking truly to a woman—or a girl, for Léonore had been very young. He had not quite dared to say he loved her, but he’d come near it with small gifts and giddy notes and a handful of kisses. It all seemed so far removed from now. He’d been very young himself, too young to recognize the dangers inherent in sharing his heart with anyone.

What if, his heart whispered to him now, he dared just once to speak aloud what he never had? What if he stopped making gestures, stopped hoping that Lucette could read his mind from the way he behaved, and spoke openly? What if he told her that
Lucie mine
was not simply a flirtatious phrase, but a wish he hadn’t known he possessed until she appeared?

I love you, Lucette
, he imagined saying, without equivocation or charm. A simple statement of fact.
I love you
.

If he’d been drinking, he would assume it was the alcohol speaking. But he was as clearheaded as he’d ever been and she was the reason.

By the time Julien left his chamber, attired in the masquerade apparel chosen by Charlotte, he had just about decided to take the risk.

Attending formal events was a learned skill, and fortunately one that stuck with you. Julien allowed himself to be attired in clothing borrowed from Nicolas and made over to suit Charlotte’s exacting
standards. It was easy to forget how confining formal dress could feel, with its tight seams and heavy satins and brocades. Mostly he hated not having a weapon close to hand. Would Lucette have managed to conceal her bodice dagger about her no doubt elaborate gown? It would be a fine thing to declare his love only to have her pull a weapon on him. Still, he grudgingly supposed the only thing he was in danger from tonight was boredom.

Julien had been to numerous
bal masqués
in Paris. Society appreciated the opportunity to pretend not to know one another and thus behave with a greater degree of licentiousness. In Julien’s opinion, it was a thin disguise at best. There were plenty of people he did not recognize tonight, but that was because he didn’t know them well in the first place or simply didn’t care. But Charlotte, for instance, was unmistakable in her diaphanous white and silver finery meant to resemble that of Aphrodite (though anyone less like the remote and capricious Grecian goddess of love he could hardly imagine).

She fluttered over and immediately began scolding him for things he hadn’t done yet. “You are not to scowl tonight,” she lectured. “Don’t scare anyone away. And don’t hide in corners.”

“My dearest sister, have you never seen me in Paris? I assure you, I am not accustomed to hiding in corners.”

“No, just women’s bedchambers. Flirt all you like, Julien, but don’t do anything stupid.”

“Such as?”

“Such as behaving badly so as to drive Lucette away from you. I know you, Julien. You are head over heels for her, and you hate it because you can’t control it.”

He looked at his little sister, who so resembled their mother, and felt a moment’s pang for Nicole’s loss. And another pang that he was so easily read by the women in his family. “Charlotte, my love, I promise to behave impeccably tonight. If you will promise not to tell me how I’m feeling.”

Her smile was all indulgent triumph. “Just don’t hide away, from either her or yourself.”

He kissed her on the forehead to shut her up, then took her by the shoulders and steered her in the direction of her husband. Andry, as usual, wore a look of benevolent forbearance despite the fact that Charlotte had dressed him as Zeus. “Go and harass your husband as you’re supposed to.”

If Charlotte’s intent had been to transform Blanclair into Paris for one evening, she had only partially succeeded. The décor was stunning, all silver and black as a backdrop to the costumes. And Charlotte’s guests did not disappoint in richness and imagination of their attire: Julien saw men and women in all manner of costumes, from the crusading St. Louis and Jeanne d’Arc and even (either compliment or insult to the English guest) a very large Henry VIII. There were any number of soldiers and Queens of Heaven.

Blanclair, however, could never achieve the delightful decadence of Paris, not while Renaud LeClerc called the chateau his home. There was wine in abundance, and food of delicacy and beauty: asparagus and roast quails, capons and tiny sausages, quinces and a range of candied spices. But it lacked the garishness of society banquets, for Renaud was not interested in display for display’s sake, and Charlotte, for all her enthusiasm, cared more about actual hospitality than merely impressing others.

Julien managed to get through the hours by turning off his mind and behaving by instinct. He knew how to give the appearance of drinking enough to be friendly, how to smile without meaning and flatter without commitment, how to dance with a woman daringly dressed as a satyr whose name slipped straight through his memory before the music ended.

And through it all, he was aware every moment of Lucette. When he first saw her, he was unable to compose a coherent thought. It was his body that answered her appearance, so that it was a good ten minutes before he was able to assemble the clues as to her masked identity. The underskirt of her kirtle was entirely covered with beautiful buff-coloured feathers, weightless in appearance if not
fact. The overgown had a bodice and sleeves of iridescent taffeta in copper and bronze, and the sheerest organza partlet encircled her in a collar of lace and left bare a triangle of skin from the base of her throat to the edges of her square-cut neckline. From her waist, the overgown flowed into a cutaway skirt of more feathers—in shades from ochre to chestnut to mahogany—so cunningly wrought that she looked almost to be flying as the gown moved with her.

Her mask was not of feathers, as might have been expected, but delicate gold and copper filigree that swirled and swooped across her cheeks, rising to a winged peak at her right eye.

Most of the women here had dressed in either white or rich, deep colours that paired well with jewels. Why the cream and brown combination?

Feathers
. Lucette was not some historical maiden fair or literary allusion: she was a bird. A bird with a buff chest and wings and back of soft browns.

A nightingale.

He actually laughed aloud when he realized, and murmured, “Clever girl.” The woman he was dancing with at the time seemed to think the compliment meant for her.

Lucette danced with at least half of the men in attendance and Julien heard her praises sung everywhere he turned. By the men, at least. The women mostly watched her through narrowed eyes, no doubt giving thanks she would not be a permanent fixture in their society.

Renaud danced with her (they seemed to be having a private discussion despite their surroundings), and then Nicolas followed their father. They looked good together, Julien grudgingly conceded. Why shouldn’t they? He and Nicolas had similar hair colour, the same eyes, only the differences in height and build to differentiate. Either of them would set off Lucette’s beauty nicely.

When the musicians finished the pavane, Nicolas spoke to Lucette, heads close together as though confiding secrets. Or intimacies. As Julien headed toward them, he told himself he was interrupting
because if he delayed dancing with Lucette for any longer, Charlotte would ascribe it to rudeness.

“May I?” he asked to the air between them. He expected Nicolas to look annoyed, but his brother smiled faintly.

“As the lady wishes,” Nicolas said.

As the opening strains of a galliard sounded, Lucette answered, much too quickly, as though covering her nerves, “Yes, of course.” Julien chose the safest topic of conversation he could think of. “I believe my nephew will never get over the fact that he is not old enough to dance with you tonight.”

“Perhaps Felix will have another chance when he is older.”

“Do you plan to return to France someday, then?”

“Or Felix could come to England.”

Julien quirked a skeptical eyebrow. “The French are generally not welcome in England.”

“Some French are. We have lots of Huguenots,” she said softly. “So says the woman dressed as a nightingale. Trying to get yourself killed, or simply noticed?” he asked.

“If I wanted to be noticed, I’d have chosen a more striking masquerade than a nondescript bird. A swan, perhaps?”

“Lucie mine,” and as he said it, he could almost see the shiver of her response, “you could never, in your life, be nondescript. And I don’t want to talk politics or religion tonight.”

They moved apart to the music, and came back together. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Maybe I don’t want to talk at all.”

He did, though. His hands tightened against her waist and he knew he was venturing onto thin ice. He could not afford to lose his head, no matter if his heart was already in her keeping. No matter if he spent his nights wishing he could turn back the clock and undo everything that kept him from speaking up. Not with this woman who solved puzzles and spied for Walsingham and didn’t trust him. Lucette had come to France for a purpose, and falling in love with him was not that purpose.