The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(71)
Lucette did the dance of appearing carefully attentive while assessing which of the young men present would be the best partner in her planned act of defiance. She had considered logically beforehand, but now let her own interest guide her. Henry Howard looked as though he’d spent the previous night doing something other than sleeping blamelessly alone; Matthew Arundell looked puffy and yellow. Not that she needed to be attracted to her partner in crime, but it wouldn’t hurt.
Finally, she admitted that there was only one real option: Brandon Dudley. He had just turned nineteen, and those who’d known Robert Dudley swore Brandon was the very image of his Gypsy-dark uncle. After an unpropitious infancy—born in the Tower to Margaret Clifford, a royal cousin of Elizabeth; his father, Guildford Dudley, executed immediately after the boy’s birth—Brandon’s fortunes had improved when Elizabeth took the throne. Margaret Clifford had been married off at the queen’s command to the onetime rebel Thomas Howard, fourth Duke of Norfolk. And though Norfolk had condemned himself to death this very year in another rebellion, Brandon Dudley had not suffered for it. He had been raised by John Dudley, the Earl of Warwick, older brother to both Robert and Guildford Dudley, and was thus protected both by his Protestant upbringing and by Queen Elizabeth’s personal favour.
Perfect, Lucette thought grimly. Two personal favorites of the queen will make a very good pair.
She set about her seduction at once. When the formal reception dissolved, Lucette snaked her way to Brandon’s side and greeted him with a flattering smile. “Might I beg the favour of your company?” she asked. “A certain persistent gentleman is determined to talk at me until, presumably, I am so bored I would agree to anything simply to have done listening to him.”
Brandon’s lips quirked to quite charming effect. “I should never abandon a lady to such a fate,” he said gallantly, offering her his arm. “Would you care to walk in the gardens?”
It was a very pleasant hour. Brandon was as good a conversationalist as he was handsome, and his sense of humour aligned nicely with Lucette’s—a certain cynical point of view that led more to amusement than disdain. By the time they separated, Lucette had promised to dance with Brandon that evening and she thought matters were progressing nicely.
As Lucette finished dressing for the evening, Pippa, only twelve, watched her fuss with the enameled necklace of Tudor roses around her neck, and there was a crease of concern between her green eyes. Pippa herself was elaborately gowned in dark pink, for she would spend the evening in attendance upon Princess Anne. Only when she opened the chamber door to leave did Pippa say, “Do you know what you’re doing, Lucie?”
“Feasting and dancing?” Lucette answered lightly. “I’ve known how to do that since I was eight.”
Pippa sighed and Lucette walked away before her disconcerting little sister could say anything else. I do know what I’m doing, she thought crossly, and set off with firm steps to do it.
Apparently she had hit the right note in both dress and manner, for Brandon’s eyes lit up when he saw her. As they danced, Lucette put into practice all her theoretical flirting skills and was very pleased with his response. More than once throughout the evening she caught her father—no, she corrected, Dominic—watching them with an impassive expression that pleased her even more.
It was ridiculously easy to maneuver Brandon into a secluded corner of the lantern-lit garden and get him to kiss her. She had nothing to compare it to, but he clearly knew what he was doing, and despite the careful calculation that had led her here, Lucette found herself dizzy.
From there matters progressed as she had planned. Brandon followed her from the gardens to the orchards and pressed her against a tree. He was an enthusiastic partner as long as she kept her hands in his hair. But when she began to unlace his doublet, Brandon hesitated.
“I don’t think—” he began.
“Good,” she whispered. “Don’t think.” She kissed the base of his throat and felt him swallow.
“Lucette…”
She moved one of his hands to the neckline of her bodice and for a few minutes he ceased to protest.
His doublet was unlaced, her hands on the fine linen of his shirt and marveling at the hard lines of his chest. If this was what men felt like, why had she waited so long? Brandon’s hands roamed across her stiff bodice and tightly cinched waist, and she whispered, “We don’t have to stay outdoors.”
He groaned. “This is not a good idea. You are so young—”
“Old enough to know what I want.”
“Your father will kill me.”
Lucette felt herself flush and snapped, “Do you not want me?” Wouldn’t that be the greatest irony—to set about a seduction that she could not fulfill for lack of compelling male interest.
Further proof that she was nothing like her mother.
She was torn between retreating and launching herself at him to force the issue. And then, like so many other things in her life, the issue was decided for her.
“Walk away, Dudley.” Dominic stepped into view, looking as disinterested as ever but no doubt taking in every detail of Brandon’s open doublet, his hands cupping Lucette’s curves, her mouth red and full from wanton kissing.
Brandon dropped his hands as though burned, stepping away so hastily that Lucette could not but be insulted. “Lord Exeter,” he stammered, looking suddenly very young himself. “My lord, my deepest apologies, I would never—”