The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(70)
“It is none of your affair.”
“The hell it isn’t.” He strode closer and looked her up and down so that she was very conscious of how little fabric clothed her. Only her linen nightdress and a thin silk robe. Compared to the yards of fabric she was usually draped in, she might as well have been naked. Her hair hung loose as well; she had brushed it but never replaited it.
Julien let his breath out, and that, too, was shaky. “Do you think,” he whispered, “that Nicolas doesn’t know exactly how I feel about you?”
“Then he knows more than I do,” she snapped.
“Oh, Lucie, how can you be so smart and so damned stupid at the same time?” He took another step closer and she knew she should back away, put distance between them, but she didn’t think she could make herself move. Julien continued to speak in that low, seductive voice. “You do not even know what you will be giving up. I’ve no doubt Nicolas can please you. He had a lot of practice when young—far more than I ever did at his age—and he’s not so cruel as to not want to give you what pleasure he can.”
Julien’s right hand touched her shoulder, so light but with that ever-present promise of strength that made her swallow hard. “He will touch you,” he said, suiting his actions to his words, “run his hand across the soft skin beneath your throat, then trace your curves—you have such curves, Lucie—to your hips.”
Both his hands were on her now, but he touched her nowhere else, though his lips were so near her cheek she could smell the wine that had made him so reckless.
“He may even,” Julien continued, and suddenly scooped her up and strode to the bed, “lay you gently down so that your hair spills across the linens.”
She must stop him, they could not do this, but her body rebelled against her scruples and wanted nothing more than to be laid on her bed by Julien. And more—she wanted him with her.
Julien complied, at least partially. He stretched over her, palms flat on the bed above her shoulders so that he hovered just inches over her without touching. “And what then, Lucie?” he whispered. “What is it that you will want then?”
Without thought, she raised her head and kissed him. Her hands went to his shoulders, tugging at him, but he would not move even when she—to her great shame—found herself arching up to try and feel him against her. She had never guessed that the promise of touch could be as unbearably arousing as touch itself.
And then, with a shudder, he gave in, and she could feel the whole long length of him against her and she would have gasped if her mouth wasn’t so thoroughly absorbed. She ran her hands across his chest, trying to find the laces of his doublet and shirt.
But Julien pulled back sharply, his eyes no longer seductive, but harsh. “This is what you will want,” he ground out. “Two bodies moving entirely as one. And that is what my brother can never give you. Because it is not just your pleasure that matters. As much as I want to undo you, Lucie mine, to make you tremble until you have forgotten yourself entirely, there is one thing I want even more than that.”
“Julien—”
He shoved himself off the bed, backing away from her as he spoke. “I want to be undone by you. I want to be the one to come to pieces in your arms, to forget there is anything in this world but the two of us. That is what should be between a man and woman, between a husband and wife. Nicolas can never give you that. He will always be in control. Is that really the man you want in your marriage bed, Lucie?”
She scrambled to her feet, the colour in her face blanching to white as desire turned to fury. “What I want is none of your business, Julien. Except to respect my choices and leave me alone.”
He turned his back on her, but moved no further for what seemed to be hours but was probably no more than a minute or two. When he faced her again, incredibly, he had himself under control. His voice was brusque. “I apologize. I am, as you no doubt noticed, extraordinarily drunk. It will not happen again. I shall accompany you and Nicolas to England. And I shall come no nearer to you the entire time than the most correct gentleman ever would.”
When he’d left, Lucette huddled on her bed, arms wrapped around her knees, and wept until her head ached. She felt as desolate as she had at fifteen, when she’d learned that Dominic might not be her father. She should have known better than to fall in love with Julien—every relationship in her life Lucette had managed to destroy.
Perhaps that was the legacy left her by the king.
INTERLUDE
September 1574
“Her Majesty, Elizabeth!”
At the herald’s cry, every man bowed and every woman curtsied, all eyes modestly lowered as the Queen of England, Ireland, and France entered the Great Hall and processed slowly to her throne. Lucette Courtenay was accustomed to the formality of Queen Elizabeth’s birthday celebrations, for she had attended with her family since she was twelve years old.
Today was different. She was sixteen now, and she stood alone, on the opposite side of the hall from her siblings and parents. Parent, singular, she corrected herself fiercely, and kept her eyes averted from where the Duke and Duchess of Exeter stood with their three children. Like her, they ignored the curious glances of the crowd.
One could always count on the Courtenay family to scorn public opinion with dignity.