The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(33)
His hesitation was, he hoped, unnoticed. “Of course. Felix, I’ll meet you in the Sun Garden in a quarter hour.” He was relieved when his father did not correct the timing; he could endure anything for a quarter hour.
When had his father’s company become something to be endured?
Renaud seemed to be asking himself the same question, for once they were in his study, he began, “You should come home more often. Blanclair has been a livelier place this summer.”
“I’m flattered that you think me the reason, but surely all the credit goes to Lucette.”
And just like that, his father had gotten him to speak of her. Julien could see from Renaud’s expression that he was satisfied, and perhaps also wary. “I know you agreed to come for Charlotte’s sake, but to all appearances you are glad enough to stay for Lucette’s sake.”
This could get dangerous very quickly. Julien picked his way with care. “She is engaging in her English way.”
“Since when do we speak to each other in such formal terms, Julien? I have never seen you look at a woman the way you look at her. I would like very much to be glad of it, if only I am assured your interest is serious.”
“Isn’t that a question her father should be posing?”
“I stand here in his place, as you perfectly well know. I don’t know entirely why Lucette agreed to come here—nor do her parents. But we all suspect it was not her sole purpose to snare a husband. Still, if you are serious about her, then I would caution you to be certain of her feelings before proceeding further. She most definitely has a mind of her own.”
“Why, Father, are you worried about a mere girl hurting my pride? How very strange. I can take care of myself, thank you. But your concern is noted.”
“Is it? Then add to my concerns the fact that Nicolas is also eyeing her with more interest than is wise. If you’re only trying to torment him, using Lucette, then don’t. I do not want her caught between the two of you trying to best the other. Is that clear?”
“I promise not to mix up Nicolas and Lucette. I think I can keep my intentions toward each straight in my mind.”
Unfortunately for Felix, Julien’s mood had been spoiled by his father’s warnings. The poor boy kept trying to engage his uncle in his water horseplay, but Julien could not stop thinking of Nicolas and his interest in Lucette. That could not come to a good end, for anyone. And was it fair for Julien to take advantage of his brother’s misfortune, when that misfortune lay at his very own feet?
After a half hour in the river Felix gave up and the two of them threw on shirts and breeches soon made damp, hair tousled dry by rough linen. Julien repented his abstracted mood and, in a sudden fit of playfulness, tackled the boy into the high grass. “You’re it,” he called, then took off running.
Felix bolted after him like a colt, and Julien took care to be caught now and again. Thus laughing and damp, they ran into the low-bordered rose garden and straight into Lucette.
She was reading a letter, and shot to her feet, dropping the pages. Julien stopped dead, staring like an idiot. Only Felix kept his composure, gathering the pages and returning them with a bow.
“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said. “You will forgive our appearance, but we have been swimming.”
“Yes, I see,” she said, that telltale flush colouring her cheeks.
Julien swallowed. How could he not think of anything to say? Being quick with his tongue was his stock-in-trade. Finally, he managed to stammer out, “News from home?”
“Mmmm.”
He knew that noncommittal sound—he’d made use of it plenty. It meant one did not want to answer the question.
Once again Felix was quicker than his uncle. With a worried tilt of his head, he said, “Are you quite well? You look…” He trailed off politely. Even at seven years old, a Frenchman knew better than to utter anything but compliments about a lady’s appearance.
Lucette did look distracted. Flushed, as he’d already noted. And as though she could not look him in the eye.
“I am not feeling well,” she said. “I believe I have a sick headache coming on. Perhaps I’ll retire now and miss dinner. I’m sure a good rest will see me better tomorrow.”
She threw a general, determined smile in their direction before retreating rapidly. Julien’s wits began working in direct proportion to her increasing distance, and so did his cynicism.
You’re lying, Lucie, he thought. Whatever the reason for locking yourself in your chamber tonight, it is not because of a headache.
—
The Spanish ships anchored in Portsmouth on June twenty-fourth, a day of near-Mediterranean sunshine and a freshening breeze that blew the sea-salt scent to where Anabel stood on an open balcony of her grandfather’s Southsea Castle. In a few minutes she would be expected to appear at her mother’s side to welcome King Philip, but for now she let her heart be tugged toward the impressive ships and bright Spanish colours. It was the nearest to sentiment she could allow herself, for it would not do to show weakness in the coming days.
She could feel Pippa two steps behind her, Kit silently at his twin’s side. Kit wasn’t often silent, but he knew how to choose his moments, and more than anyone on this earth her two dearest friends knew how Anabel had longed as a child for her father’s presence.
In her eighteen years, she had passed less than a thousand days total with Philip, some of that when she’d been just an infant. Since then the King of Spain had made only two protracted visits to his English wife and daughter—in 1570 and 1575. Looking back, Anabel could recognize that both those visits had less to do with her and more to do with attempts to breed another child, but she’d been too delighted when young not to believe Philip’s sole interest in England was his daughter.