Rogue's Mistress (13 page)

Julian did not miss her poignant
expression. “Remembering, Mercy?” he asked cynically. “Isn’t this the tree
where you and your erstwhile fiancé kissed last week?”

She turned to him with eyes
gleaming. “We didn’t kiss. You interrupted us.”

“You didn’t kiss?” he repeated in
a deceptively mild voice. “Not ever?”

“
Non
. Not ever.”
Recklessly, she added, “Not that I didn’t want to.”

Some ominous and intense emotion
flashed in Julian’s eyes. He drew closer, his musky scent intoxicating her, his
calm smile intensifying his dangerous masculinity. He idly fingered one of her
lush red curls, and she fought back a shudder. Her heart pounded like a kettle
drum in the explosive silence. He was so close and it was so hot on the path—so
hot that Mercy felt like a powder keg ready to explode at his merest touch.

“Then my untimely intrusion
prevented you from enjoying your treat?” he asked softly.

She didn’t like the turn the
conversation was taking, or the way his words were so treacherously heating her
veins. Nonetheless, she was not about to admit that Philippe’s touch left her
cold. She faced him haughtily. “Yes.”

Julian smiled again. “Well, then.
If it’s a kiss mademoiselle wants, it’s a kiss mademoiselle shall get.”

And she did, as Julian hauled her
close and claimed her lips in a kiss as audacious as any ravishment. Mercy was
horrified, infuriated. She wanted to scream and beat on his chest. But she
couldn’t, for his lips were smothering hers. Indeed, she nearly swooned as his
hot mouth crushed into hers with raw hunger. His tongue was deeply, rapaciously
devouring her mouth; he tasted of tobacco and lust and torrid virility.

Mercy was scandalized, swamped by
confusing and traitorous yearnings. She could feel Julian’s heat everywhere,
seeping into her darkest, most secret parts, making her ache for him. He thrust
a hand between their bodies, and his fingers caressed one tautened nipple with
a delicacy that turned her knees to jelly.
Mon Dieu
, had she lost her
mind again? Where was her self-control, her decency? She was tempted to rip at
the studs on his fine shirt, to commit the most unspeakable acts with him right
here in this hellishly hot garden.

At last his lips left hers
briefly. She caught a sharp breath that only filled her lungs once more with
his drugging scent. She drew a finger across her bruised mouth and stared up at
him in awe and fear. He smiled down at her triumphantly, and she was enraged.

With breathless anger, she drew
back her hand to slap him. “It wasn’t your kiss that I wanted—”

He caught her hand easily and
smiled. “Wasn’t it?”

It was
. The appalling
admission sang in her very veins even as Julian locked his mouth on hers once
more. Oh, what was wrong with her that she was so powerless over the
devastating passion this man, her enemy, stirred? Even now, she was behaving
like a spineless puppet, whimpering and moaning, opening her mouth to his ravenous
possession. And he was responding in kind, seducing her senses with the mastery
of his lips and the slow, provocative mating of his tongue.

When at last he released her,
Mercy was so overcome that she swayed on her feet.

“Are you all right?” he asked, gripping
her shoulder.

She threw off his touch. “What was
that for?”

He grinned. “Actually, I thought
you deserved a reward for not betraying me with my mother.”

“A reward!” Mercy’s entire body seethed
in outrage. “To be all but ravished by you right here in the courtyard?”

In an offhand gesture that
maddened her, Julian brushed a crabapple bloom from her shoulder. “I realize
you must feel frustrated, darling,” he said with low intimacy, deliberately
misinterpreting her comment, “but unfortunately, I cannot properly supply the
rest until we’re married.”

“Ooooh!” A blinding rage
practically choked off Mercy’s breathing. “Why, you audacious cad! I’ll tell
your mother. I’ll tell her everything.”

“No, you won’t,” he replied
calmly, straightening his cuffs.

“And why not, pray tell?”

He stared her straight in the eye
and grinned. “Because you like her more than you like me, no?”

Mercy was so furious, she could
only glare at him. Before she could protest further, Julian dragged her close
for one last hard, possessive kiss. Afterward, she regarded him in a stupor.

“Hmmm,” he murmured, winking at
her wickedly. “I do believe I’m jealous.” As she started to speak, he pressed
his fingers on her mouth. “By the way, darling, you should resist the urge to
cross your arms over your bosom, especially when you’re wearing such a low-cut
frock.” He clucked deliberately as his fingers slid tantalizingly down her
creamy throat—and much lower. “It does the most shocking things to your
intended’s—er—baser appetites.”

Then, even as she gaped after him,
quaking in horror and desire, Julian turned and strode away.

***

Upstairs in Mercy’s room, Mother
Anise and Sister Clarabelle were hanging out of the window, avidly watching the
scene below.

“Why, they’re kissing!” Sister
Clarabelle exclaimed. “Should we stop them?”

Mother Anise waved a frail hand.
“They’re formally betrothed now. It is allowed for them to kiss.”

“But, my heavens! He’s holding her
so closely.”

Mother Anise raised a pale brow.
“Would you want to be the one to go down and pry them apart? Besides, we’re
here to chaperone them, are we not?”

“Of course.”

Both sisters smiled smugly and
greedily returned their attention to the scene below.

“Isn’t love grand?” Sister Clarabelle
asked dreamily.

***

Later that afternoon, Mercy lay
curled on her bed. She still felt giddy and feverish, unable to escape the
appalling ache deep in the pit of her belly.

The ache for
him
, for
Julian! Oh,
mon Dieu
! What was she to do about her own horrifying
weakness? The man had betrayed her, had taken over her entire life. She should
hate him utterly, yet every time he touched her, she became a creature without
pride, without shame, without will . . .

Oh, she was so confused! For today
she had discovered new, devastating qualities in her fiancé. He was clearly
much more than the bad-tempered tyrant she’d known for so long. Julian Devereux
was capable of being charming, rakish, outrageous . . . And she was capable of
being seduced. She realized that she had actually enjoyed his humor and their
verbal sparring today. Madden her though he did, Julian could also beguile her
with words every bit as easily as he could with his masterful kisses. How on
earth was she to break his spell?

For clearly he was wrong for her,
a dangerous scoundrel who had wrenched all her choices out of her own hands.
She may as well fling herself from the parish house roof as give in to this
insanity.

I cannot properly supply the
rest until we’re married
. She pounded her fist on her pillow at the memory
of his bald promise. She was angry at him—but most of all, she was angry at
herself because part of her wasn’t even sure she could wait.

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True to her word, Madame Devereux
eagerly took Mercy in hand, introducing her to all her prominent friends. She
began by taking the girl to visit her closest confidants, and each time, she
discreetly mentioned that Mercy was soon to wed her son. Madelaine never missed
an opportunity to inform her friends that Mercy’s mother hailed from the
aristocratic Dubois family of Natchez; she made light of the Irish element in
Mercy’s heritage. Madeline’s strategy annoyed Mercy, but she kept her peace out
of respect for the matron. The woman was wise enough never to actually
criticize Brendan O’Shea, and she constantly praised Corrine; such tactics were
hard for Mercy to resist.

The Creoles of the Quarter loved
both romance and mystery, and soon Mercy O’Shea, the half-Creole, half-Irish
fiancée of masterful, mysterious Julian Devereux, became the newest object of
fascination in the Vieux Carré. Invitations poured in from women in the most
socially prominent families.

The nuns at St. Mary’s were still
proceeding with the wedding plans, as well as with Mercy’s trousseau. Some of
her new dresses were being fashioned by a
modiste
from the Quarter, but
all of her lingerie was being hand sewn by the nuns.

At first, Julian was largely left
out of days that were filled with constant social calls, fittings, and
shopping. But, as word of the engagement spread, Mercy and Julian were soon
invited to attend evening events as a couple.

Their first invitation, for an
informal dinner party, came from Julian’s business partner at the Exchange,
André Beaufort. As soon as the nuns were informed, they made sure that a
suitable gown for Mercy was readied in time.

On the evening of the dinner
party, everyone at the convent was atwitter with excitement—except Mercy. The
nuns twirled in and out of her room. One of the younger nuns, Sister Danielle,
spent hours laboring over Mercy’s coiffure with a curling iron. She pulled
Mercy’s wavy locks up and away from her face, coiling elaborate ringlets on top
of her head. A luscious cascade of curls trailed down her nape. As a final
touch, the nun placed a spray of white camellia blossoms near one ear, in the
style so popular with Creole women.

When the moment came for Mercy to
don her dress, Mother Anise and Sister Clarabelle gathered about her, watching
raptly as Sister Danielle helped Mercy pull the emerald-green watered silk
carefully over her head. “Mind your coiffure,
mon enfant
,” the nun
scolded.

As the folds of the shimmering
fabric fell into place, all three nuns gasped their delight. Even Mercy was
compelled to stare at her transformed visage in the pier mirror. The green
dress was breathtaking—styled off the shoulders, with white lace half-sleeves.
The neckline plunged dramatically, highlighting her firm breasts; the waist
cinched tight, emphasizing her slenderness; the skirt was full and feminine,
with three tiers of Alençon lace embellishing the hem. With her hair pulled
high on her head, Mercy had to admit that she had never looked lovelier. Too
bad she was being escorted by Julian Devereux.

The nuns clapped their hands and
trilled comments about how
charmante
and
ravissante
their young
charge looked. Staring at the three smiling sisters, Mercy mused that this had
to be a high point in their normally dull lives. She felt a twinge of
conscience for all the trouble she had caused them over the years through her
headstrong, defiant behavior. They were all so happy for her now, thrilled that
she’d made such a fine match—even if she wasn’t happy for herself. Thus,
smiling radiantly, she said to them, “Thank you all so much for helping.”

Just then, a fourth nun, Sister
Marie, burst in to announce that Julian had arrived. The tittering nuns waited
at the top of the stairs as Mercy glided down to meet him in the vestibule
below. When she caught sight of him, she almost tripped over her hem.

For Julian stood below her dressed
entirely in white! A superbly cut white wool frock coat tapered from his broad
shoulders to his trim waist; the creases of his sharp white trousers rested on
top of polished boots of light brown. His outfit was completed by a satin
brocade vest of cranberry red, a black string cravat, and a white Panama hat.
All and all, he looked as rakish and dangerous as the riverboat gambler Mercy
had seen one day at the French Market. She’d caught only a brief glimpse of
that man, helping a lady with unnaturally red hair into his buggy, before
Sister Clarabelle had scolded her for staring. Now she couldn’t take her eyes
off Julian. She had never known that white could be such a wicked color.

He seemed to be gazing up at her,
too, although it was hard to tell with the brim of his hat shading his eyes.

Below her, Julian was
staring—indeed, he was mesmerized as he watched his fiancée float down the
stairs. He’d always known that Mercy was beautiful, but tonight her ravishing
perfection hit him like a physical blow. Never had the long, lovely contours of
her face stood out as they did now with her hair pulled up high; never had her
large eyes gleamed with such brilliance as they caught the vibrant emerald-green
of her frock. The dress was a seductive showcase for her slender throat, her
rounded, upthrust breasts, and her slim waist. How he longed to plant his hands
on that tiny waist and haul her close. And if the other men present tonight
experienced the same reaction to her alluring attire and daring décolletage,
they would both be in plenty of trouble. Jealousy seared him at the thought
that any other man should feast his eyes on her loveliness.

He had missed her over the past
days, he realized with a sudden, sinking feeling. He had tried not to think of
her, tried not to remember the hungry kisses he had forced on her the last time
they were together. Yet a slender hope flared inside him every time he recalled
how she had seemed to soften slightly in his arms, how she had opened her soft,
sweet lips to his torrid possession . . .

Mon Dieu
, this was madness!
He was laying his heart on the line for the girl to slice to ribbons with her
vindictiveness. Yet he was powerless to resist her spell. Indeed, as she now
seemed to trip slightly and gripped the banister, he was suddenly all
solicitousness, rushing forward.

His resonant, slightly sardonic
voice drifted up to her. “Are you in need of some assistance, Mercy?”

Mercy froze at the sound of his
deep, tantalizing voice. High color flamed in her cheeks as she realized how
silly she must look, standing as if transfixed on the stairway. “Er—no,” she
stammered. “It’s just that I snagged my slipper on a petticoat or something,
and I thought I was going to trip. But I’m fine now, really.”

Julian reached her side and
offered his arm—and a grin. Her pulses pounded at his mesmerizing nearness.

“Nonetheless, I shall offer my
escort, mademoiselle,” he drawled. “You do look enchanting tonight, and it
would be a shame to ruin that lovely frock or that perfect coiffure with a
tumble down the stairs.”

“You wouldn’t mind, then, if I
broke my neck?” she asked with mingled sarcasm and humor.

“That would surely be the gravest
misfortune of all,” he teased back.

Staring into the blue eyes that
regarded her with such amusement and unabashed interest, Mercy clutched his arm
tightly so that he wouldn’t notice how her fingers trembled. It struck her
suddenly that she knew next to nothing about this man and his supposedly “hot”
blood. He could be a gambler or a womanizer, for all she knew—and his mother
might be blithely assuming that she would reform his profligate nature once
they were wed.

But she did know one thing, and
this knowledge both frightened and fascinated her: She was no longer sorry she
was spending the evening with Julian Devereux.

***

When Julian ushered Mercy into his
carriage, her bubble burst. Sitting half in a shadow was Madelaine Devereux.

Mercy realized that she was actually
disappointed that she wouldn’t be traveling to the Beaufort home alone with
Julian.

“Why, Madame Devereux—what a
pleasant surprise.”

Madelaine evidently read the
girl’s eyes. “Hello, darling,” she said brightly, grasping Mercy’s arm and
helping her into the space beside her. “You look ravishing tonight. I’m sorry
to intrude on your evening with Julian, but as I’m sure you know, it would not
be proper for the two of you to go out without a chaperone.”

“Of course, madame—it is a
distinct pleasure to share the evening with you,” Mercy said, forcing a
cheerful tone.

“Mama and her sense of propriety,”
Julian commented drolly as he shut the door and settled into the seat opposite
the women.

“Oh, hush, Julian,” Madelaine said
stoutly as the carriage rattled off. “You’re a fine one to complain, wearing
such outlandish attire to a dinner party. Why, you look like a riverboat
gambler!” Irately, she turned to Mercy. “Doesn’t he look like a riverboat
gambler?”

“Oui
, madame,” she said
gravely.

Julian only chuckled. “Now, Mama,
proper duennas are not allowed to complain. They’re supposed to sit back and
knit or something while we turtledoves make calf eyes at each other.” He leered
at Mercy for emphasis, and she fought a snicker.

“Speaking of which,” Madelaine
went on, ignoring Julian’s sarcasm and his wolfish expression, “I think it’s
high time Mercy acquired a personal maid. I’ve a well-trained black girl I can
send over to her at the parish house.”

“Whatever you wish, Mama.”

“Madame, I don’t need—”

Madelaine dismissed Mercy’s mutiny
with an imperious wave of a beringed hand. “Mercy, you cannot possibly maintain
your proper place as Julian’s wife without a personal maid.”

Madelaine’s tone brooked no
nonsense, and when Mercy glanced at Julian, he only winked at her—the devil!

Meanwhile, Madelaine had turned
her attention back to Mercy’s frock and was scrutinizing the styling closely as
a passing streetlamp cast its wavering glow inside the coach. “I do love the
lines of your gown, my dear. Isn’t it a creation of Madame Lafayette on Royal Street?”

“Why, yes. How did you know?”

“She did my gown for the Momus
Coronation Ball last year.” Fingering a fold of the silk, she added, “The color
is perfect for you, but you could use some jewelry.” She turned to her son.
“Don’t you agree, Julian?”

“I think Mercy looks quite lovely
without embellishments.”

Madelaine rolled her eyes. “Oh,
you men! We must get Mercy some suitable jewels at once.”

“Perhaps I might buy mademoiselle
a bauble or two, if she can persuade me to favor her,” Julian teased Mercy, his
eyes twinkling.

“Julian, you rogue!” Madelaine
exclaimed.

Mercy, meanwhile, was glad they
had turned down a street with few lamps, for her face was now as red as
Julian’s vest!

“I’ve an entire small chestful of
jewelry left me by Grand’mère,” Madelaine explained to Mercy. “We can sort
through all of it soon and you can choose the pieces you like . . .”

Madelaine continued to dominate
the conversation with small talk. Soon they arrived at the Beaufort town house
on St. Peter. Henrí opened the door and helped the ladies out. Julian followed,
disentangling the lacy hem of Mercy’s dress when it snagged on the door handle.
She murmured a thank you and he tossed her a sardonic grin.

In the balminess of the late
spring evening, the threesome approached the stucco town house, Julian with a
lady on each arm. Julian rang the bell, and soon a black manservant appeared.
With a bow, he opened the gate and bade them enter. Madelaine swept inside
first, looking regal in her dress of vibrant blue silk.

Mercy started to follow, but
Julian held her back, gripping her slim waist with his hands and turning her to
face him. Staring boldly down at her bodice, he murmured, “Didn’t I warn you
about these low-cut dresses? I will not tolerate this indiscreet habit of yours
after we’re married,
chérie
.”

Mercy was infuriated by his
audacious dictate—not to mention his seductive tone. She felt her heart race as
she took in his mocking features and caught his faint scent of brandy and bay
rum. She wondered idly how much he’d had to drink tonight. Garnering all her
defenses, she snapped, “The day you tell me what to wear is the day the Mississippi boils over. Now unhand me, m’sieur.”

He chuckled, but his eyes held a
glint of steel. “Do not fret yourself, mademoiselle. All too soon, it will be
my duty—and my pleasure—to tell you what
not
to wear.”

At last he released her, and Mercy
stormed through the gate, past the confused manservant. Her face was crimson.
As she trooped through the courtyard toward the parlor, she mused ruefully that
she was surprised she hadn’t doubled over with a stomach cramp—for she so
burned where Julian’s large, provocative hands had touched her.

***

An hour later, Mercy and the others
were gathered at the Beauforts’ Empire dining table, with its snow-white linen
and Old Paris china. Discreet servants poured wine and served soup, while in
the shadows near one wall, an adolescent lad stood pulling the cord to the
giant punkah fan, which swung to and fro over the table like a polished walnut
apron.

Sampling the first course of rich
turtle soup, Mercy glanced around at the assemblage. The Beauforts were a
colorful couple, both barely above five feet in height. André was dark and
balding, with a trim mustache and flashing Creole eyes; Mignon was fair and
serene, with cornflower-blue eyes and a perpetual smile. As host and hostess,
the Beauforts sat at opposite ends of the table; Julian and Mercy sat across
from each other toward one end, flanking M’sieur Beaufort. Toward the other end
were seated Madelaine Devereux and M’sieur Robert Townsend, a businessman from
the East who was currently a houseguest of the Beauforts. At the center of the
table, on either side of Julian and Mercy, sat the Beaufort twins, Celeste and
Charles. Blond, blue-eyed and nineteen, the twins resembled their mother.
Charles fawned over Mercy, constantly asking her if she would like more wine or
soup, while his sister, across the table, made eyes at Julian.