The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(68)
Julien froze, certain that he’d heard wrong. Nicolas couldn’t get married. And even if he’d asked her, Lucette would not have said yes. She wasn’t here to fall in love, with either of them.
But then he looked down at her, as frozen as Julien was, and he knew it for truth. There is something I’d like to tell you myself, before someone else can.
He came back to himself suddenly and shoved himself through the crowds, knowing only that he had to get as far away from her as possible.
—
For one terrible moment, when Nicolas spoke so easily of their being betrothed, Lucette thought she might faint. What the hell is he doing? she thought profanely. But even through her shock, she recognized that he had chosen his words with care. He’d said he had asked her to be his wife; he did not claim that she had accepted. From Julien’s reaction, Lucette knew that few would have parsed his words that carefully. And from the almost instant swell of cheerful voices surrounding her, everyone took it for granted that she and Nicolas were officially betrothed.
She found she was still clinging to Julien’s arm only when he pulled away violently. She wanted to stop him. She wanted to follow him and explain…what? That she had trapped his brother into coming to England in order to deliver him to Walsingham? That, if she was right, Nicolas had done all in his power to implicate Julien in the plots? That she had no intention of marrying Nicolas, or anyone else, for that matter. That there was only one man she could now imagine marrying—
And he had just looked at her as though she were less than the dust beneath his feet.
She could not remain frozen or give way to fury or despair, for almost at once she was surrounded by well-wishers.
Charlotte gave her an enormous hug. “Oh, Lucette,” she said. “You know this is what I’d hoped for! Although I do wonder…”
“Wonder what?” Perhaps Charlotte could sense her shock.
But her friend simply shook her head. “I wonder how fast the news will fly upstairs to Felix, and how quickly he will fly down the stairs to welcome you.”
Oh, no. She did not want Felix to be part of the joyous aftermath of Nicolas’s announcement. This wasn’t about Felix. This was about Nightingale and her suspicions, and she hadn’t actually said yes, but how could she tell that to a boy who would rejoice at the thought of her staying at Blanclair with his father?
But better to face Felix than the other LeClerc men. Even without being able to see Renaud through the throngs that pressed around to congratulate her, she imagined she could feel his disapproval beating at her and knew a difficult interview lay in her immediate future.
But Renaud’s disapproval would be nothing in the face of Julien’s outrage. He had vanished from her side before she had even been able to draw breath, and somehow she thought he would keep out of the way until he could confront her on his terms.
She would have given a great deal to know precisely the nature of Julien’s outrage. And what it was he’d wanted to say to her tomorrow.
Knowing herself for a coward, Lucette stayed glued to Charlotte’s side in order to protect herself. She let the wash of French voices flow over her, smiling and confining herself to a murmured “Merci” whenever there was a pause. Though Charlotte looked at her curiously once or twice, she did not press.
Although Lucette was not generally the last reveler at a party, tonight she wished desperately that things would continue until morning. But long before she was prepared (though when might that have been?), the last guests drifted away to the guest chambers and local inns and she was left with only the fragile guard of Charlotte and a quizzical Andry against the combined might of the LeClerc men.
Renaud had never seemed more the commander of men he was, anger beating beneath his calm exterior.
He kissed his daughter on the forehead. “Thank you, ma chère. You must be tired. I’ll see you in the morning.” It was clearly a dismissal.
Andry shot a look at his father-in-law, and with a quick read of the situation, tucked his wife’s hand through his elbow and led her out before she could protest.
“I think my study would be the best place for this,” Renaud said, and Lucette could not decipher the neutrality of his voice. “Julien, go to bed.”
Only when he addressed his second son did Lucette realize that Julien was present. She could not help but look. He stood in a far corner, half the chamber away, with face locked down. She wondered if he would protest being sent away—did she want him sent away?—but Nicolas intervened.
“I’d like Julien to be there, if you don’t mind. He has always been intimately involved with my…affairs.” The look between brothers was of a nature that Lucette thought might lead to drawn weapons.
Renaud drew breath, surely to refuse, then shot a keen glance at Lucette. “What do you say, mademoiselle?”
That I want this to be over as quickly as possible. Without looking at Julien, she said formally, “I have no objections.”
Nicolas put a possessive hand at the small of her back as they followed Renaud and Julien to the comfortable study. Fortunately, she’d had a lot of practice feigning disinterest and the illusion of perfect control. She’d been able for years to hold off the penetrating interest of both her mother and Queen Elizabeth as to her emotional state—Renaud LeClerc should pose little problem.
Nicolas sat next to her and held her hand, facing Renaud behind his desk. Julien lounged behind them, leaning against the wall, but Lucette fancied she could see tension radiating off him in streaks of black.