The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(10)
“Not remotely.” And it was mostly true, for Julien had been expecting something of the sort since Charlotte’s last letter. He’d known someone would come to try and guilt him personally. He’d even more or less resigned himself to it being Nicolas, for his brother could effortlessly manipulate his guilt to get whatever he wanted.
He had not expected Nicolas to get to his feet and put his hands on Julien’s shoulders, studying his unshaven face intently.
“What are you doing?” Julien wrenched away.
“Assessing how drunk you are. I don’t want to have this conversation twice.”
“How about we don’t have this conversation even once?”
With that pitying smile, Nicolas said, “You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“Don’t I?” Julien retorted. Then, altering his voice to sound more like his brother’s, he parodied savagely, “?‘Please come home, Julien, Charlotte’s begging your presence and it’s been two years now, long enough for Father to pretend to have forgiven you for not being there when Mother died and how am I to be the saint when I haven’t a sinner in residence to play off against?’?”
In the stark silence that followed, Nicolas didn’t falter. He only said, after a moment too long, “If you’re aiming to sound like me, you’ll have to pitch your voice somewhat higher.”
And just like that, Julien was humbled. “I’m sorry, Nic. I am. It appears I am just drunk enough to be offensive but not drunk enough to be incoherent.”
“Well, since you’ve covered my essential arguments for coming home, there is only one point I can add.”
“And that is?”
“We miss you.”
Julien heaved a sigh and threw himself onto the bed. Nicolas returned to the chair and they stared at one another for a long minute until Julien had to laugh. “You always were more patient than me.”
“Which is why I always get my way. Well, nearly always.”
“I suppose if I don’t agree, then my next visitor will be Charlotte?”
Nicolas looked around the chamber, at the unmade bed and clothing dropped in heaps and several unwashed piles of crockery. “If Charlotte sees the way you’re living, she’ll hector you into far more than just one visit home. So if you don’t want to be harassed every day for the next year about living somewhere more decent, then come to Blanclair this summer and make everyone happy.”
“Everyone?”
“Felix cannot wait to see his uncle again. He has not let go of the short sword you sent him for Christmas. He thinks you are something of a cross between a Crusader and an avenging angel.”
“Pity to disappoint him with my presence, then,” Julien said, but it was halfhearted. He did want to see his nephew, who was almost eight years old now. “And Father?” he asked, because Nicolas was waiting for him to ask.
“He’s lonely. Of course he wants to see you.”
Julien scrubbed his hands across his face, feeling the grime that he never seemed able to sluice off entirely in Paris. He thought of Blanclair and its fields and woods and the chateau itself, imbued with childhood and warmth. He rarely let himself think of home because it hurt too much. But maybe Nicolas was right. Maybe it was time.
He ran his hands through his hair and narrowed his eyes at his brother. “What about Charlotte’s plan to marry one of us off to the Courtenay girl?” Charlotte thought she was so subtle, but no one knew her better than her brothers. They could sniff out her matchmaking plots in a second.
“Hardly a girl any longer,” Nicolas pointed out mildly. “Lucette is twenty-two.”
“You know what I mean. You’ll not marry again and I’m hardly suitable marriage material. I hope Charlotte hasn’t got the girl all in a romantic twitter about one or both of us. Well, you, really. You haven’t forgotten how she trailed you around all the weeks we spent in England?”
“Nor have I forgotten how much she disliked you. If Lucette has half as much spirit now as she did when she was ten years old, I think this could be quite an exciting summer.”
“Just so she knows from the first that she won’t be leaving France with a husband. At least not one from Blanclair.”
“No,” Nicolas agreed, and there was a note of wistful longing that made Julien want to swear. Or hit someone. “Try to be polite, Julien. Father is quite fond of her, what with her having been born at Blanclair.”
Julien’s head ached, and it wasn’t from the alcohol. “I’ve said that I’ll come, Nic. I’ll play the penitent nicely for Charlotte’s sake, and for Felix. I will endeavour to be the soul of civility to Lucette Courtenay. Just don’t ask me to be other than I am.”
“A dissolute drunkard possessed of a wicked reputation with women?” Nicolas stood and reached for his cloak. “That’s just a part you play, Julien. I know who you really are.”
Julien shut his eyes and heard Nicolas walk out and close the door. His brother had no idea who he really was—and all the better for him.
—
Nicolas LeClerc hadn’t been to Paris for years, and he found to his surprise that he rather enjoyed the city. He’d stayed away so long under the assumption that there would be too many painful memories of his youth. For all Julien’s behavior now, it had been Nicolas who had been on the path to being—if not a dissolute drunkard—at least well and truly wicked with women.