The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(66)
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.