The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(25)
Indeed, he thought there would be only one way to approach Lucette: honestly. Or at least as honestly as possible. Which meant letting his initial immediate attraction guide him, to approach her as, in another world, he might have: as a woman who intrigued and attracted him in equal measures. And that would be no easy task, particularly when she still seemed as smitten by Nicolas as when she was ten years old.
Julien at first did not recognize the grip of displeasure that took hold when Nicolas rode beside her to her obvious pleasure. When he did recognize it as jealousy, he had to repress a groan at the predicament. What a mess! His Catholic contacts wanted information from a woman his sister had enticed to France to marry either her dissolute, wanton brother, or her damaged and solitary brother. And now it seemed both brothers were actually amenable to her charms.
So really, by the time they all clattered into the courtyard of Blanclair, Julien was in such a welter of emotions that he nearly turned his horse around and made straight back for Paris. But there was one person at Blanclair Julien would never ride away from, and that person stood waiting on the steps.
“Uncle Julien!” Felix cried, and launched himself down the steps so quickly that Julien barely managed to dismount before the boy was upon him. He was absurdly pleased at being greeted before anyone else and swept the boy off the ground and into an embrace that turned into a spin.
“How tall you’ve grown, mon petit!” Julien exclaimed when the seven-year-old was once more on firm ground. “Soon you will have to be the one to lift me.”
Felix turned pink with pride and stood straighter in an attempt to come near his uncle’s height. He was tall for his age, with hints of the gangly years to come when a boy was all arms and legs and had no idea how to coordinate them. He had his dead mother’s brown hair and eyes, but his smile was all Charlotte’s sweetness untinged by either his uncle’s mockery or his father’s resignation.
“Felix,” said Renaud, and the boy instantly turned to his grandfather. “It is polite to greet a guest first.”
“Of course, Grandpère.” Felix made a charming bow to Lucette. “Pardon, mademoiselle. I hope your journey was without trouble. Welcome to Blanclair.”
“Thank you.” In just those two words, Lucette met Felix on the ground he was so eager to establish—that of a contemporary. From her tone, one would never know she spoke to a child and Julien unwillingly added that to the things he liked about her. “I hope, monsieur, that you will show me your home.”
“You do not remember it?” Felix asked unguardedly.
“No, for I was not even a year old when I returned to England. Perhaps you will help me remember.”
“Certainement, mademoiselle.” Felix glowed with her approval, and Julien thought resignedly that one more LeClerc male seemed all too eager to fall for Lucette Courtenay. The thought made him snort and sent him moving toward the house, the horses relinquished into the effacing but well-trained hands of Blanclair’s grooms.
He felt his father’s disapproving eyes at his ungracious retreat, but so be it. He needed to be alone to settle his head. And heart.
But Blanclair had too many memories for Julien to find a clear head. Everywhere, he felt his mother, as though Nicole would step around a corner or appear on a landing at any moment. This is why I haven’t come home, Julien thought with gritted teeth. I don’t like ghosts.
There were only two ways he knew to keep ghosts at bay—well, all right, three ways, but he wasn’t about to take any of his father’s maids to bed. So it was either drink heavily or work.
He supposed there wasn’t really a choice. Renaud did not tolerate drunkenness in his home, and his Paris masters had demanded information. Time to get to work on Lucette Courtenay.
—
Though Lucette had no memories of Blanclair, only stories told by her mother and Carrie of their time here, she found herself unexpectedly moved as she settled into the beautiful chateau. Compared to Tiverton and Wynfield Mote, both medieval—in design if not actual age—Blanclair was distinctly modern and French. Built by Renaud’s father in a horseshoe pattern, the three symmetrical wings of white stone rose to steeply sloping slate roofs. There were arcades and mullioned windows, the family coat-of-arms in plaster surrounds, and gardens that Lucette found frankly astonishing in their elegance and design.
The engaging young Felix, taking his task seriously, appointed himself her guide and was solicitous that she see every corner of the house and every vista in the gardens and courtyards. The afternoon after her arrival, they spent several hours together. Though the chateau itself was pleasingly lovely, it was the gardens that were the real star.
Linden trees formed the avenues separating four terraced gardens. They began at the bottom, with two acres of decorative vegetable gardens, plants carefully arranged in geometric shapes. Then came the Garden of Love (instructed Felix), its box hedges and yew trees the structure within which colours ran riot in embroidery-like symbols. Then the water garden and, at the top, the Sun Garden. From there one could look down on each of the terraces below, giving a spectacular overview of the symmetry and geometry that contained without stifling the boisterous abundance of plant life.
Once released by Felix, it was a relief to escape to the guest chamber set aside for her use. She was glad she had not brought a maid with her from England, for it gave her more solitude. Renaud had provided an attendant from his household, but with no woman currently residing at Blanclair, the girl was unused to tending a lady and unlikely to press her way into Lucette’s business without direct orders. So Lucette was able to tidy her face and hair, breathe deeply, and focus.