SIXTEEN

Nicolas held his breath. It was a very calculated risk he was taking—but he did not believe Lucette was the kind of woman to recoil in horror or faint in shock. He rather thought she was a woman who liked being treated as though her mind mattered as much as her body, and so he had at last decided to risk that particular truth.

But for all his calculated risk, he did find himself curiously light-headed. It was the first time he’d ever said the words aloud. Not that words could convey the full damage that had been done to him.

Lucette went perhaps a shade paler. “I am sorry—” She broke off, forehead creased, and said impatiently, “What a ridiculous thing to say! Of course I am sorry and of course those are mostly empty words.”

“Not coming from you.” He paused, and added, “I do apologize. This is not a proper topic for any woman, and I don’t doubt that you will be eager to escape my company now.”

“Why? We cannot choose our injuries.”

“It would be different if you were a married woman, for then you would begin to realize what I lost. But then, if you were married, we would not be having this conversation.”

“Why are we having this conversation?”

“Because for the first time I have met a woman whom I very much want to be my wife. And that is the most selfish desire I have ever had in my life. Which is saying something,” he added wryly.

“Selfish?”

“You realize that the Church would never sanction a new marriage for me. I am not fit for such a state in their eyes.”

“Does the Church know of your state?”

“No. Only Julien, who found me, and my father. My mother knew, of course, for it was she who nursed me personally. Even my wife was kept in the dark, seeing as she was so near her time. Felix was born just weeks later and Célie died without ever knowing how her husband had been ruined.”

Nicolas could hardly bear to recall the months that had followed Paris. The pain had been as nothing to his interior torment. He had screamed at his mother, told her to let him die, refused to listen to her gentle counsel or his father’s more measured practicalities. “You are not the only man to be so injured,” he’d told his son. “Battlefields are messy and not a few have had to live on without all they once had.”

But it was Julien who had, unwittingly, shown his brother how to survive. He had hovered around Nicolas in both Paris and, after he could travel safely, at Blanclair. Nicolas had refused to see him. But at last, three weeks after Felix’s birth, he admitted Julien to his chamber.

And Julien had vowed vengeance on his behalf. He had gone on and on about the viciousness of the Catholics, the wholesale slaughter of Huguenots that seemed to disturb him, the stupidity of France tearing itself to pieces over religion. But Nicolas had focused on one word: vengeance.

He had decided at that moment to live, and seek his own vengeance against the man whose doing this had been. It had been a long time coming, but now he was so very close.

Lucette had been sitting throughout his reverie with a thoughtful expression. Now she said, “So if I were to marry you…” She looked at him quizzically and he almost laughed. He had definitely calculated right. Lucette would be intrigued by the thought of doing something forbidden.

“As I said, the most selfish desire of my life. For it would mean, of course, that you would never have children.”

She nodded, but seemed more thoughtful than repulsed. “Except for Felix.”

“Except for Felix. But it is not just children, Lucette. I could never be what a husband should be for his wife. Of course there would be affection and even—how do I say this delicately?—pleasure. There is more than one way for men and women to experience pleasure. I would like nothing more than to make you happy in every way.”

“I assume your father has no idea of what you’re proposing.”

“No. If it were I alone, he would laugh me to scorn. But if you wanted me, Lucette, if you stood your ground beside me, then who could oppose us?”

Many people, he answered himself. All his father would have to do was tell a priest and then no church official would agree to perform such a marriage. But that was supposing the marriage took place in France. If it were England…surely Lucette would have to go home first.

Taking her betrothed with her. To England.

Exactly where Nicolas needed to be.

She bit her lip in concentration and he didn’t move, afraid to let her see how desperately he needed her to say yes.

“I think…” she ventured, then cleared her throat before continuing in a firmer voice. “I think that, once Charlotte’s party is over, we should speak to your father.”

—

At last Charlotte’s carefully thought-out night was upon them and all Julien could think was thank goodness it would be over by morning. And the day after that, Renaud would set out to escort Dr. Dee and Lucette to Le Havre, and Julien could return to Paris and a normal life.

Except that normal didn’t seem so appealing anymore. There were one or two women from Paris at Blanclair whom he had known rather well, but he felt very little except resignation when encountering them. They were so mannered and brittle and casual—when all he could think of now was Lucette’s stubbornness and passion and clarity of thought. There was nothing studied about her, no matter how sophisticated the quality of her mind.

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.

Her mask was not of feathers, as might have been expected, but delicate gold and copper filigree that swirled and swooped across her cheeks, rising to a winged peak at her right eye.

Most of the women here had dressed in either white or rich, deep colours that paired well with jewels. Why the cream and brown combination?

Feathers. Lucette was not some historical maiden fair or literary allusion: she was a bird. A bird with a buff chest and wings and back of soft browns.

A nightingale.

He actually laughed aloud when he realized, and murmured, “Clever girl.” The woman he was dancing with at the time seemed to think the compliment meant for her.

Lucette danced with at least half of the men in attendance and Julien heard her praises sung everywhere he turned. By the men, at least. The women mostly watched her through narrowed eyes, no doubt giving thanks she would not be a permanent fixture in their society.

Renaud danced with her (they seemed to be having a private discussion despite their surroundings), and then Nicolas followed their father. They looked good together, Julien grudgingly conceded. Why shouldn’t they? He and Nicolas had similar hair colour, the same eyes, only the differences in height and build to differentiate. Either of them would set off Lucette’s beauty nicely.

When the musicians finished the pavane, Nicolas spoke to Lucette, heads close together as though confiding secrets. Or intimacies. As Julien headed toward them, he told himself he was interrupting because if he delayed dancing with Lucette for any longer, Charlotte would ascribe it to rudeness.

“May I?” he asked to the air between them. He expected Nicolas to look annoyed, but his brother smiled faintly.

“As the lady wishes,” Nicolas said.

As the opening strains of a galliard sounded, Lucette answered, much too quickly, as though covering her nerves, “Yes, of course.” Julien chose the safest topic of conversation he could think of. “I believe my nephew will never get over the fact that he is not old enough to dance with you tonight.”

“Perhaps Felix will have another chance when he is older.”

“Do you plan to return to France someday, then?”

“Or Felix could come to England.”

Julien quirked a skeptical eyebrow. “The French are generally not welcome in England.”

“Some French are. We have lots of Huguenots,” she said softly. “So says the woman dressed as a nightingale. Trying to get yourself killed, or simply noticed?” he asked.

“If I wanted to be noticed, I’d have chosen a more striking masquerade than a nondescript bird. A swan, perhaps?”

“Lucie mine,” and as he said it, he could almost see the shiver of her response, “you could never, in your life, be nondescript. And I don’t want to talk politics or religion tonight.”

They moved apart to the music, and came back together. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Maybe I don’t want to talk at all.”

He did, though. His hands tightened against her waist and he knew he was venturing onto thin ice. He could not afford to lose his head, no matter if his heart was already in her keeping. No matter if he spent his nights wishing he could turn back the clock and undo everything that kept him from speaking up. Not with this woman who solved puzzles and spied for Walsingham and didn’t trust him. Lucette had come to France for a purpose, and falling in love with him was not that purpose.

He didn’t care. Whatever she felt or didn’t, whatever her purpose, Julien must speak or forever hate himself for his cowardice.

“I wondered,” he began, and had to clear his throat in order to continue. “Might we go riding tomorrow? One last time before you leave. There is something I would like to say to you.”

He would never get over the effect of those blue eyes fixed on him as though daring to read all his secrets. “I don’t know if—”

“Please.”

He added the plea in English and thought her lips trembled. But she managed to smile. “Yes, let’s talk. There is something I’d like to tell you myself, before…”

He did not like that hesitation. “Before what?” he prodded.

“Before someone else can.”

What could she possibly fear him hearing?

That she’d cracked the Nightingale Plot and knew him to be innocent? That she’d had orders from Walsingham to arrest him? (He’d like to see her try.) Maybe she had decided to extend her stay in France.

As the galliard drew to an end, there was the usual chatter of the crowds, and then, unusually, a brief flourish from the musicians that drew everyone’s eyes to the top of the steps.

It was not Charlotte who stood there, nor even Renaud, to thank their guests for coming to Blanclair. It was Nicolas, taking his place as the eldest son, heir to the estate, something Renaud had long wanted Nicolas to do. It should have made Julien happy, to see his brother more engaged in the world. But guilt was a habit with him, and he distrusted happiness.

“Thank you,” Nicolas said. “It has been a great pleasure to have you in our home. But it has been an even greater pleasure to have had for some weeks the company of our guest, Lady Lucette Courtenay. Though, of course, she has always been more than a guest to our family. She has belonged to Blanclair since the day of her birth, and so I have at last moved to make that permanent by asking her to be my wife.”

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.

“I wish,” Renaud said softly, “that you had spoken to me first, Nicolas. Now you have put the lady in an extraordinarily awkward position when she is forced to decline. As she must.”

“Why must I?” Lucette asked.

“Nicolas knows why. I don’t know what he was thinking—”

“He told me,” Lucette interrupted bluntly. Might as well get that awkwardness over with at once.

She heard Julien’s breath hiss between his teeth. Renaud’s expression flickered, and she knew he was shocked. “Told you what?”

“What happened to him in Paris. I know the nature of his injuries. And why you believe him unsuited for another marriage.”

“It is not a matter of belief,” Julien said through tight throat. “He cannot marry again. The Church would never allow it.”

“I am not Catholic, and who says your Church has to know about it?” Lucette shot back without looking at Julien. It was Renaud she needed to have on her side. “I believe the matter of marriage lies primarily between the man and woman concerned.”

Renaud lifted his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Surely the daughter of Minuette Courtenay knows better than to believe that.”

She flushed, but did not waver. “As her daughter, I also know that she will be well persuaded by my own wishes in the matter.”

“But Nicolas is my son, and I am not persuaded by the wishes of a girl too young to know what she would be giving up. Surely you must want children.”

“Father,” Nicolas broke in. “I have discussed the implications with her.”

Julien let out a choked laugh and shoved himself off the wall behind them and into Lucette’s sight. “That must have been an interesting conversation. How detailed did you get, brother?”

“That’s enough.” Renaud’s tone was familiar—that of a man used to command.

Julien choked back whatever else he’d wanted to say. Renaud kept his eyes fixed on Lucette. She stared back, willing him to be reasonable, knowing that if he did not make some concession, she would have ruined things with Julien for no reason at all.

Finally, Renaud sighed. “As I stand in France in lieu of your parents, mademoiselle, then I cannot give consent. I should send you back to England, away from my sons, and give thanks to see the last of you.”

“But…” Lucette prompted into the space he left at the end of that speech.

“But frankly, I fear the impulsive lengths to which you might go if I issued a flat refusal. Only one man can give consent to this marriage, and that is Dominic Courtenay. Nicolas, if you are convinced of the merits of your argument, then you may make them yourself to Lord Exeter. I will send you to England with Lucette and Dr. Dee. Whatever Dominic decides I will abide by.”

Because you know there’s no chance Dominic will agree, Lucette thought cynically. Fine. All she needed was to get Nicolas to England and see what followed. There was only one more piece to the Nightingale puzzle, and she would bet her soul that Nicolas would solve it for her.

She had memorized the words of the Spanish letter sent to her by Anise: To travel as her intended would be for the best as it would attract the least notice. The window for action is narrow and the nightingale grows impatient.

Nicolas had made his play for her, and she must see it through to the end. Julien might hate her now, but how much more would he hate her if he knew she intended to deliver his brother to Walsingham? No, best to let him despise her for a foolish girl who had finally landed the brother she’d wanted since she was ten years old.

“I’ll go with them as well,” Julien said abruptly. “If Nicolas does not object?”

“I insist upon it,” Nicolas replied. “Who else would I rather have by my side in this than my brother?”

Renaud shook his head, as though recognizing the disaster that could only ensue. But he did not object.

She escaped to her chamber, glad to get away from all of them, and Charlotte’s efficient Parisian maid had her out of her ballgown and into her nightdress and robe in short order. She took the pins out of Lucette’s hair, but then Lucette dismissed her. Unplaiting and brushing her hair would give her something to focus on. Something she could cope with.

Two hours later she still sat before the table. She had tried working in her Memory Chamber, but the ledgers in her mind kept dissolving into images of Julien; laughing at her at Wynfield when she was little, insulting her in Paris, surprise writ all over his expression when she’d asked him to kiss her. I shall be brave for the both of us.

She could have used some of his bravery now.

There came a single knock on her door, then it was pushed open even as she got to her feet. The moment she saw Julien, Lucette knew that he was very, very drunk. It must have been instinct, or something in his eyes, because he moved into her chamber with the same arrogant grace, and when he spoke, his words were perfectly distinct.

“Why so shocked, Lucie?” he asked with that mocking tone that had made her hate him when she was ten years old. “Never had a man in your bedchamber before?”

Though she knew she coloured, she would not cower. “I do have brothers.”

He laughed, and that did sound a bit slurred. “And that statement proves your entire innocence. But of course you are innocent, or you would not possibly be entertaining my brother’s insane proposal.”

“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.