Chapter 8
I n all his years of romancing and being romanced, Jean-Luc had never received a note like this one. He held the ivory paper carefully in his hands, transfixed by the delicate writing. The curves and curls of the inked words were so reminiscent of her bright spirit.
He read the note again and again.
It was an invitation to an affair. There was no other way of framing it. In one way, it was very French! But of course, they should have an affair! Yet, the earnestness of it, the lack of affectation? It was so very English.
It touched him.
Was he truly going to do this? He folded it carefully and lifted it to his lips. He could detect a trace of her simple scent of soap and lavender.
That simple thing washed over him, pleasing him in a way no elaborate perfume could.
Yes, he was going to do this. He was going to meet her at the cottage at dusk and there he would give her her every desire.
“Is it from her?” Delphine’s lilting voice inquired. Her lovely tones were dosed with a good deal of excitement.
“Oh, do show us. You must tell us every detail!” his sister Camille exclaimed, rushing up behind him and grabbing him in a great hug.
“It is none of your business,” he returned patiently, thrilled at the sound of their joy. As he turned to them, he could not stop the relief he always felt. Relief that they were alive and safe.
His sisters stood side by side, hands laced, making each other feel secure in a world that wasn’t secure at all.
They stood in their simple but elegant frocks of butter yellow and lilac purple. They had long ago left the elaborate clothes of Versailles behind, but they still dressed well.
“It is from your amour,” Camille gushed.
“At last, our brother has taken up a petite amour,” Delphine said.
“It has been far too long, brother,” said Camille.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he replied with faux confusion. “You two have far too liberal imaginations.”
His sisters gave him identical skeptical looks.
How he loved them. They had been through so much together, and all three of them had always been close, even as children. He had not been the sort of brother who found sisters to be annoying. No. He hadn’t been mystified by the female world; he’d enjoyed all their little conversations, fripperies, and tea parties. And he’d partaken in all of them.
It hadn’t mattered that his powerful, intimidating father told him that boys hunted and did not have tea parties. He’d never understood why boys simply couldn’t have both.
Because of the time he’d spent with his sisters, not disdaining their likes, he’d learned to enjoy doing things with ladies.
Most importantly, he’d never wanted his sisters to think he saw ladies as less than men. He knew far too many men like that, and he had no patience for them. Luckily, the Briarwoods agreed with his sentiments.
“Now, now, you must tell us about your not-so-secret love,” demanded Camille. “What is happening with this Mademoiselle Cheverton?”
“I think you two are far too nosy,” he said.
“Nosy?” Delphine rolled her eyes. “Nonsense! We do not need to be nosy. Your affection is written upon your face. The truth is you have not looked as you do now in years.”
“How do I look?” he asked, thinking of the way Zephyr had described him as having stumbled off a cliff after meeting Nimue.
“Happy,” Camille said, her eyes shining.
“What?” he gasped.
“Delphine?” Camille called.
Delphine nodded, her curls dancing along her shoulders. They both strode forward and each seized one of his hands, pulling him through the drawing room.
They shoved him in front of the mirror. It was a long, beautiful affair surrounded by gold filigree.
“Look at yourself. You look younger,” Delphine pointed out.
Camille laughed. “Indeed. You do not look so moody.”
“I do not think you are correct,” he said honestly. “Miss Cheverton said I look like a character out of an Ann Radcliffe novel, and all of those people… Well, surely they look moody.”
“They look handsome,” Delphine corrected.
“They look divine,” Camille said.
“Like fallen angels,” Delphine added.
“The two of you should come to their book discussions,” he said suddenly, hoping to distract them from their present obsession.
“Book discussion?” a voice all but bellowed from the doorway.
He groaned. It was Ajax, that walking Hercules of a man.
“I love a book club,” Ajax said as he strode in. “Which book are we discussing?”
Jean-Luc arched a brow and tsked. “I’m not sure what they’re discussing this upcoming week,” he said, “but it’s no doubt another Radcliffe novel.”
“Ooh, I adore Radcliffe,” Ajax enthused, rubbing his hands together. “Nothing like it for shivers and kissing.”
He let out a groan. “Perhaps the entire family should come.”
“Well, we can’t do that,” Ajax said, frowning. “We’re all going to descend on them at the party they’re having. That will be suitable. But can you imagine all of us descending upon them for a book discussion?” He pursed his lips. “Perhaps a few of us could go after the party. I’ll send a note.”
Jean-Luc groaned. Again. But he knew it was what he was expected to do as the Gallic cousin. He’d spent so much of his life acting as the grand Frenchman. And he was a grand Frenchman, but he’d espoused so many things he’d wanted to believe and feel over the years to assure his family that he was all right. But he wasn’t always all right.
Sometimes he felt quite hollow, and he wished he could stop his overly enthusiastic appearance of having utter appreciation for life.
“The lady proving tricky?” Ajax asked quickly. “They often do at first. If you need some suggestions—”
“No. No suggestions,” he cut in, lifting a hand.
This was what it meant to be a Briarwood—to have one’s life completely intruded upon by the entire family. He supposed one might dislike it sometimes, but he would not disparage it.
The Briarwoods had saved him and his sisters and made them feel safe when the world was coming apart. He did not know what he would’ve done without the support for his sisters. Camille and Delphine had never recovered, ever, from what happened in France, having to leave everyone and losing everyone.
They were delicate creatures now, needing to be kept away from society. The parties, the balls, the ton? They all seemed to remind them too much of the life they once knew, which had been ripped so entirely from them.
He often thought it wasn’t really the parties or balls that had made it so terrible for his sisters. It was knowing that all the ladies who had filled those gilded and mirrored halls in the palace they’d all but grown up in were now gone, ghosts, lost, their heads having been severed from their bodies.
It was a grim thought. He shook it away. It was not a path he wanted to go down. Going down that path often led him to unpleasant places, and there was nothing he could do about the past. There was very little he could do about the coming future that was likely going to be just as full of turmoil.
No, he would only be able to do what he could to focus on beautiful, bright things. Things that would distract him from his own inner turmoil.
Ajax grabbed him by the shoulders. “Bloody hell, you are looking young.”
“Were you listening in?” Jean-Luc asked, all but giving in.
Ajax rolled his eyes at what he clearly found to be a ridiculous question. “The only way to find out interesting things is to listen in. One must be willing to pay attention.”
Hector crossed into the room then and headed towards the table set up with all sorts of things to nibble upon.
The family had a tendency to eat in the early afternoon because they were also very active.
Hector grabbed up a piece of cheese. “Attention?” Hector echoed. “Oh yes, we’ve been paying attention, cousin. The moment you took an interest in Miss Cheverton, the entire family started watching.”
“But I haven’t taken an interest in her,” he protested. “She’s taken an interest in me. That’s why I was invited to the house.”
“And the note? You’re going to ignore it?” Ajax asked, clapping him on the back.
Jean-Luc’s teeth ground together.
“Ah. Has she invited you to something else?” Hector asked, waggling his dark brows.
Jean-Luc gave a tight shake of his head, and Ajax’s eyes widened.
“Oh, I see,” Ajax replied.
“You see nothing, you scandalous fellow,” Jean-Luc replied. The English had no idea how to have a proper affair. They were all too blunt.
Hector grinned. “Oh, this is a good turn indeed. We have all longed to see you fall in love.”
“Exactement,” Camille agreed. “If anyone deserves to be happy, it is my brother.”
Delphine nodded. “It is true. You have watched all of the Briarwoods fall in love, Jean-Luc. Now it is your turn.”
“He’s a Briarwood,” Ajax said matter-of-factly. “Of course, the one—Miss Cheverton, clearly—is waiting for him.”
Jean-Luc threw up his hands. “Merde.”
His sisters gasped.
He gave them an apologetic look, but he had hoped to avoid this ridiculous idea the Briarwoods had about love and “the one.” As a cousin, surely it did not apply to him!
“And you’re Briarwoods too,” exclaimed Ajax, turning to Delphine and Camille. “Are you two young ladies going to fall in love soon?”
“Oh, certainly not,” rushed Camille.
“We have each other. We don’t need any men,” said Delphine.
It was clear that Ajax and Hector considered arguing, but instead they turned back to the table covered in food and busied themselves lest they say something unwelcome.
Jean-Luc wasn’t going to argue with his sisters either.
They, much like Miss Cheverton, had decided that marriage was not for them, and he had no intention of attempting to dissuade them. He didn’t understand why people tried to persuade people away from the path that they were on, unless they were harming themselves.
He had intervened in Zephyr’s life once, but he generally tried to stay out of things because it was impossible to know what people really needed. Or at least, so he told himself. If he thought on it, he probably had intervened more than he should.
But he did not maneuver nearly as much as his cousins. Or the Dowager Duchess of Westleigh, his cousins’ mother, who was the greatest maneuverer of all.
As if she could sense that she was being thought about, or that the subject of love was being discussed, the dowager made one of her singular entrances into the drawing room.
Her fashion had changed over the years. She used to, when he first met her, dress in the grandest of fashions that were straight out of Paris. Now she still dressed in the grandest fashion, but in a way that was far more comfortable. Gone were the wide skirts and ramrod straight bodice. At present, she was dressed in what some called the country look.
It was scandalous to many people because it was without much form. Her waistband was high, her hair was soft and curled, and her skirts were flowing compared to the way they used to look.
She looked wonderful, as did all the ladies who had chosen such attire, but the dowager duchess? She had borne the transition from the old to the new gracefully.
He hoped they all could manage to navigate the change in eras as well, including himself.
She beamed at him. “Jean-Luc, you have facilitated our entree to the island’s society. How marvelous of you. What good foresight to ensure that we would be welcomed so beautifully. How happy we are to make friends. From her invitation, Mrs. Cheverton seems a wonderful lady.”
“She is,” Jean-Luc replied matter-of-factly. “I think you will like her very much. She’s just your sort.”
“An actress?”
“No,” he said. “Someone who likes life.”
“Oh,” the dowager duchess exclaimed. “Even better. The world should be full of us.”
“If it was,” Jean-Luc replied, “it would be a much happier place.”
“And you?” the dowager prompted kindly. “Are you beginning to like life because of the daughter? Are you ready to embrace love like the rest of us Briarwoods? It is splendid!”
“No,” he replied evenly.
“What a pity,” the dowager duchess said, crossing to him, gazing up wisely into his eyes, and touching his cheek as a mother would. “I would dearly like to see you like life. To find love. I know that you have a good many reasons not to, but it is true that with every bitter thing comes the sweet.”
He wanted to argue with her, but he was no fool. One did not effectively argue with the dowager.
The truth was that though he had often acted with jovial passion for his family, he was inwardly far more of a cynic than she or all the other Briarwoods.
Her optimism was quite shocking though.
It had not mattered what had happened to her as a child, and what had happened to her as a child had been severe. She had not allowed those dark years to steal the sunny rays from her heart.
He did not know why he could not join her in this worldview. He’d tried. He’d even pretended at times that he had, making merry and teasing his family time and again.
But all the while, the knowledge that humans were brutal, vicious, and could rip their world to shreds lingered in his heart.
Maybe a change in worldview would happen before he was old, but it had not happened yet, and he could not be convinced that love was going to change everything for him. Could he?
No. Certainly not. Love was not a medicine to be taken.
And that was a good enough reason for him not to marry. But he could still enjoy things. That’s all there really was—enjoyment in the present. But love? Unlike most of his cousins, he was too scarred for that.
Still, he had a plan.
“Oh, I see a most intriguing look upon his face,” the dowager duchess announced to the room. “I think things are going to get interesting.”
But then she leaned towards him and arched a delicate brow. “Don’t make a muck of it, Jean-Luc. We’ve just built this house on the island, and I should hate to have to leave because of something you do.”
“I’d never do that,” he promised.
And he wouldn’t. He’d make certain that all were happy. Just as he’d always done and always would do. Even if he could never be truly happy himself. It was enough to bring others happiness and laughter. It had to be. For it was all he had.