Rogue's Mistress (4 page)

“At least you’re here.”

“What progress have you made
regarding our nuptials?” he asked eagerly.

Mercy moved out of his arms,
frowning as she leaned over to pluck a small marigold from the flower bed. “I
broached the subject with Mother Anise. She did not seem at all averse to our
plans. However, she said she must consult my guardian—and afterward, I presume
that you must ask him for my hand.”

Philippe nodded soberly. “Julian
Devereux. How do you think he will feel about this?”

Mercy shrugged. “I’m hoping he’ll
be delighted to get me off his hands.”

“And into mine,” Philippe added,
breaking into a playful grin. He pulled Mercy into his arms again and teased,
“Please,
ma chère
, just one kiss.”

Mercy stifled an impatient sigh
and managed to hold Philippe at arm’s length; they’d been arguing about this
same kiss for weeks now, and she had put him off again and again. Mercy had no
moral qualms about kissing Philippe on the mouth; she had simply discovered, to
her dismay, that she didn’t want to.

“No, Philippe,” Mercy now
responded primly, pushing at his chest. “It is not proper for a man to kiss a
woman on the lips until they are formally betrothed.”

“Ah, Mercy,” Philippe returned
with a dramatic sigh. “You know you have my undying devotion and the pledge of
my troth. Do not bind me with these technicalities.” But even as Philippe swooped
down again to attempt the kiss, the gate swung open and Julian Devereux strode
in.

Mercy and Philippe jumped apart
like the guilty adolescents they were. The marigold slipped from Mercy’s
fingers as she stared, horrified, at her approaching guardian. She realized at
once that Julian had entered at precisely the wrong moment, and that his
assessing gaze had missed nothing. Now he strode purposefully toward them, his
face creased in a murderous scowl, his boots grinding on the stone path.
Mercy’s heart skidded into a frantic rhythm as Julian loomed before them.

“What is the meaning of this?” he
demanded in his deep, grating voice, staring coldly from Mercy to Philippe.

With a massive effort, Mercy
managed not to tremble in the presence of her dark, powerful guardian. As
always, Julian was impeccably dressed, every inch of his tall, muscled frame
exuding a frightful menace. His blue eyes, slightly shuttered beneath the brim
of his planter’s hat, pierced her with chilling disapproval.

Gathering some inner reserve of
strength, Mercy drew herself up proudly. “M’sieur Devereux, I wish to introduce
you to Philippe Broussard—a—a friend.”

At Mercy’s words, Philippe stepped
forward awkwardly, extending his hand to Julian. “M’sieur Devereux, I am
pleased to make your acquaintance. Mercy has spoken of . . . your many good
deeds on her behalf.”

“Has she, now?” Julian interjected
cynically, pointedly ignoring Philippe’s hand. As Philippe miserably dropped
his hand to his side, Julian added, “Your pardon, M’sieur Broussard, but it is
unthinkable that I should allow my ward to tarry here with you, without a
proper duenna in attendance. Therefore, if you’ll excuse us . . . ?”

Philippe gulped. “Yes, m’sieur.
I’ll . . . We’ll talk later, then.”

And without another word, Philippe
turned and fled out the gate.

Julian’s expression was wryly
amused as he glanced back at Mercy. “A rather skittish young pup—easy enough to
scare off.”

With great restraint, Mercy
managed not to attack her guardian with fists flying. Instead, she cried, “How
dare you, m’sieur! Treating Philippe in such a rude, contemptible manner!”

“And your conduct, I presume, has
been beyond reproach?” Julian countered nastily. “Meeting with your . . . lover
. . . in this clandestine way?”

“He is not my lover, m’sieur.”

“Indeed?” Julian drew an
aggressive step closer to her. “Then what, pray tell, is M’sieur Broussard’s
relationship to you?”

Mercy stared up at Julian
defiantly, at first too angered and unsettled to reply. As arrogant and
maddening as he was, he still oozed an intense animal magnetism to which she
was far from immune. The air throbbed with the disquieting, enervating
electricity that always seemed present between them lately. “It is not what you
think,” she managed at last.

He harrumphed. “Is young Broussard
the reason I have been summoned so suddenly to Mother Anise’s office?”

“
Oui
,” Mercy said
miserably.

“Then let’s be about it, by all
means,” Julian said grimly, taking her arm and leading her up the path.

Mercy almost had to run to keep up
with his brisk, long-legged strides. His grip on her arm was firm but not
hurtful, yet she felt strangely light-headed being so close to him. His
features were still clenched in a fierce resolve that only added to his
formidable handsomeness. She caught a sharp breath and was inundated by his
scent—bay rum, shaving soap, and tobacco—which only added to her agitation.

Mercy bit her lip, realizing that
things had gone horribly awry. She had known full well that an unchaperoned
visit with Philippe was forbidden, yet she had forged recklessly ahead. Now her
guardian had caught her breaking the rules, and her sense of fairness made her
concede that she could understand his outrage. She almost wanted to say,
Please,
Julian, may we start over?

Julian
. Funny, she mused,
during the entire nine years she had known Julian Devereux, she had never, not
even once, called him by his Christian name.

Then her righteous anger sprang up
again, reminding her that this was the man who had killed her father. He was
surely black-hearted and cruel, and now he would doubtless deny Philippe’s suit
out of spite alone.

They had arrived at the
balustraded portico and stood before the heavily carved door with its exquisite
cut-glass fanlight. Julian spoke in a clipped voice. “You will go to your room,
Mercy. I shall speak with Mother Anise on this matter—and the shocking lack of
supervision that I have witnessed. Afterward, I shall deal with you.”

At his peremptory words, Mercy’s
anger at Julian was near-blinding.
Deal with her,
would he
? But
she somehow knew better than to cross him at this critical moment. “
Oui
,
m’sieur,” she gritted out, turning and fleeing for the safety of the parish
house.

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“How was this allowed to happen?”

Julian Devereux paced the mother
superior’s office, while Mother Anise and Sister Clarabelle watched him,
wide-eyed.

“Please, M’sieur Devereux, won’t
you take a seat so that we may discuss this rationally?” Mother Anise beseeched
him.

“Rationally?” Julian repeated,
waving a hand. “Do you realize that I just witnessed my ward in the midst of an
. . . assignation . . . with a young man of dubious background, and with no
chaperone in evidence?”

“Yes, m’sieur, we realize it, and
Sister Clarabelle and I do apologize,” Mother Anise replied. “You have our vow
that this . . . unfortunate incident . . . will not be repeated. But as you’re
well aware, Mercy has always been of a rather fractious disposition—”

“An understatement, indeed,”
Julian interjected, seating himself in a French armchair before the mother
superior’s desk. He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled, causing both
nuns to muse simultaneously that he appeared no less intimidating when seated.

“How did this happen?” he again
demanded.

“Happen, m’sieur?” Sister
Clarabelle asked.

He glanced sharply at the
pale-faced, elderly sister, who stared back at him bravely from behind her
steel-rimmed spectacles. “How did my ward become acquainted with young
Broussard?”

The two nuns exchanged a brief,
lost look, then Sister Clarabelle explained earnestly, “Why, I believe they met
at Mass, m’sieur. It has all been perfectly innocent, I assure you—”

“Not from what I just witnessed.”

“The fact remains, m’sieur,” the
headmistress put in calmly, “that young Broussard has proposed marriage to
Mercy. I would think that he would make a rather suitable match—”

“Suitable match?” Julian cut in
incredulously. “Do you actually think I’d marry off my ward to an innkeeper’s
son?”

“M’sieur Devereux,” Sister
Clarabelle interjected nervously, “the Hotel Broussard is quite well-respected
in the Quarter—”

“It’s little more than a
hostelry,” Julian said dismissively.

Mother Anise leaned forward over
her desk, clasping her hands together. “But, m’sieur, young Broussard still
seems very sincere and upstanding. And I must ask—what other future awaits your
ward? Mercy has now concluded her studies with us, and while she’s certainly
welcome to stay here for as long as you may please, the girl has shown no
interest in teaching or taking the veil.”

Julian was forced to restrain a
chuckle at the very thought of his rebellious ward becoming a nun. To the
sisters, he stated, “I have plans for her. I shall launch her in Creole
society, and when the time is right, I shall choose a proper husband for her.”

Both nuns appeared stunned; Mother
Anise lifted an eyebrow and Sister Clarabelle coughed nervously into her
handkerchief. “Well, if such are your plans . . .” the mother superior said.

“Furthermore, I am shocked that
the two of you evidently thought I would abandon Mercy upon completion of her
education,” Julian added coldly.

“Oh, no!” Sister Clarabelle
assured him. “We never for a moment thought that.”

“All we are doing,” Mother Anise
added, “is relaying Mercy’s request to you, and asking if you would be willing
to hear young Broussard’s suit—”

“Relaying a request,” Julian
repeated cynically. “Very well, then, the request is relayed—and it is denied.”
He stood, clapping on his hat. “Good day, sisters.”

As Julian departed the room with a
resounding slam of the door, the sisters stared at each other, aghast. “
Pour
l’amour de Dieu
!” Mother Anise gasped, crossing herself. “I have never seen
a man in such a temper! One would think he wants the girl for himself!”

***

Julian was striding down the
walkway toward the gate, scowling darkly, when Mercy emerged from some nearby
crepe myrtle bushes. “M’sieur. Please, wait!”

He turned to see Mercy standing
close by—a fair-skinned, passionately beautiful creature. At the moment, he was
well aware that the desperate hope gleaming in her green eyes was not meant for
him, and somehow this knowledge angered him. He knew that, shortly, the
expectation in her beautiful expression would be dashed—for her own good, he
reminded himself.

“What is it, Mercy?” he asked with
some impatience. “I thought I told you to wait in your room.”

“But I heard you leaving—slamming
the door to Mother Anise’s office—and realized you were not planning to meet
with me as you said you would.”

Julian glanced away, feeling
suddenly at a loss. “Perhaps it is best that you speak with Mother Anise.”

“No!” Mercy surged forward, her
fingers nervously twisting the lace trim on her pinafore. “I want to hear what
happened from you—now.”

He turned to her with blue eyes
gleaming and jaw tight. “The suit of your . . .
friend
. . . is denied.”

“What?” she cried. “Why?”

He straightened his cuffs in a
self-assured gesture that maddened her. “He is not suitable for you. I have
plans for you, Mercy.”

“Plans?”

Julian drew himself up to every
inch of his formidable height. “
Plans
,” he ground out. “As your
guardian, it is my responsibility to choose a proper husband for you. However,
in this—as in everything—you have acted in a headstrong, intractable, and
irresponsible manner. Nevertheless, I will not allow you to ruin your chances
with an innkeeper’s son.”

Mercy gritted her teeth. “You
won’t allow! Don’t you know that for the last nine years, all I have wanted is
to be rid of you?”

Julian’s eyes glittered with
menace. “I’m well aware of the fact. But obviously you are not old enough to
know your own mind, or to behave prudently—as you have just amply
demonstrated.”

Mercy’s eyes blazed with contempt.
“Then I shall many Philippe, with or without your consent!”

Some madness forced Julian to
seize Mercy by the arms and pull her against him. For a wild, out-of control
moment, the two glared at each other in a murderous battle of wills, both
breathing hard. Julian realized crazily that he was tempted to kiss this
impudent young miss, to somehow wipe the look of reckless, defiant scorn from
her face. But somehow he managed to rein in his near-savage desire for
retribution.

“You
won’t
, Mercy,” he
said, his voice laced with steel. “You will not marry him.”

“Don’t you know that I hate you!”
she cried. “That I’ve always hated you?”

He released her so abruptly that
she swayed on her feet. “I’m well aware of the fact,” he said cynically. “The
suit is denied,” he reiterated, then turned on his heel, leaving Mercy to stamp
her foot and tremble in mortification as she watched him stride down the path.

***

“Papa! Papa!”

Half an hour later, Julian was
seated in the parlor of Justine Begué’s cottage on Rampart Street when his
four-year-old son, Arnaud, burst in. The child, wearing black knee-pants, a
matching jacket, and a shirt with a red bow tie, raced across the room and
launched himself into his adoring father’s arms.

Julian laughed, cuddling Arnaud
and kissing his soft pink cheek. “You have missed me, my son?” he teased.

Arnaud turned his angelic little
face, with its blue eyes that so perfectly matched Julian’s, up to his father.
“You have been gone too long, Papa,” he said with a scowl. “For three whole
days. Mama helped me count them.”

“I apologize, poppet,” Julian said
solemnly as he retied the bow on Arnaud’s shirt. “I’ve been very busy
lately—but I shall endeavor to improve.”

“You must,” Arnaud said
importantly. “Yesterday, I found three squirmy worms in the garden, and you
weren’t here to see them.”

“A catastrophe, clearly,” Julian
agreed. He chuckled and ruffled the child’s moppish black curls. How he loved
the boy. Arnaud and Justine made his benighted existence worthwhile, he mused
tenderly.

Hearing the sound of crisp,
rustling fabric, Julian glanced up. A lovely woman in her mid-twenties appeared
at the archway, carrying a silver tea tray. Justine Begué was regally beautiful
with her upswept brown hair, amber eyes, and lovely, honey-hued skin; she was
dressed in an ice-blue taffeta frock and wore the sapphire jewelry Julian had
given her for New Year’s a couple of years back. Julian mused that no one would
ever guess by looking at Justine that she was an octoroon. She was also a free
woman of color, since, long before Arnaud’s birth, he had had her manumission
paper drawn up. Her devotion to him, and to their arrangement, had remained
unchanged.

Justine smiled fondly at the
father and son visiting on the settee. “Arnaud,” she said softly, “I’ve laid
out milk and rice cakes for you in the kitchen. Henrí will sit with you.”

“But, Mama, I want to stay with
Papa,” the boy protested.

“Afterward, darling. Papa will
play with you then.”

“Will you, Papa?” Arnaud asked
earnestly.

“Of course,” he responded. “Now
off with you.”

Smiling, the boy bounded off his
father’s lap and danced out of the room.

An uneasy silence descended as
Justine sat down in a silk brocade wing chair, set her tray on the tea table,
and poured cups of the hot brew for each of them. They exchanged an awkward
smile as she handed Julian his filled cup. He took a sip and put his cup down.

“You’re looking well, Justine,” he
said at last. “And the boy, as always, is thriving.”

She smiled at him compassionately.
“You’re looking troubled.”

He laughed as he leaned back and
crossed his long, muscled legs. “You always knew how to read me like a book.
Does it show that much?”

“
Oui
.”

He sighed. “It’s Mercy again. I
swear, that wayward little chit could provoke a saint to mayhem. Now she wants
to marry, and the young man is totally unsuitable. An innkeeper’s son.”

Justine bit her lip, replying
carefully, “I would think an innkeeper’s son might not be totally unsuitable
for someone with your ward’s background.”

“I have plans for her,” Julian
interjected gruffly.

Justine studied him until a
doleful smile pulled at her lovely, full mouth. “You want her for yourself.”

At once Julian bristled. “Why,
that is ridiculous.”

“It’s not,” Justine said sadly.
“I’ve noticed it more, in the last year, when you speak of her . . .” Her voice
trailed off, and she shook her head.

Julian leaned forward, his eyes
beseeching her. “Justine, no. I tell you, it’s not true.”

She got up and came to sit beside
him. “Julian, it’s all right. I know you will never turn your back on me and
Arnaud. But let’s face facts—in the last year, you and I have been like sister
and brother—”

“It’s the child,” Julian
interjected hastily. “I just feel that we shouldn’t—not with him here—”

She pressed her slim fingers
against his mouth. “Don’t lie,
chéri
. You’ll only make matters worse.
The way we once were . . . Julian, I know you so well. If you truly wanted me,
there would be no stopping you.”

Julian raked a hand through his
hair and glanced away guiltily. He knew Justine had spoken the truth. They had
gone from being lovers to being the best of friends, and somehow they both knew
that there would never be any turning back again. Yet, out of loyalty and
respect for Justine, Julian had not sought out another woman to ease his needs
for nearly a year now. At times—being the man of strong urges that he was—it
was almost more than he could bear.

At last, he turned to her and said
gently, “I’m sorry,
ma chère
. So sorry.”

“It is all right.”

He squeezed her hand. “This
changes nothing as far as my obligation to you and Arnaud is concerned—”

“Of course not. I could never
doubt that.”

Wearing an abstracted expression,
Julian got up and began to pace the fine Kashan rug. He stared idly at the many
beautiful gewgaws he’d bought Justine over the years—the Dresden figurines, the
Sèvres porcelain pieces, the gold and sterling knick-knacks. All were
beautifully arranged on carved cherry and rosewood tables.

So he and Justine had entered a
new phase of their lives together. It was not an ending, he told himself
vehemently. Not an ending.

Then he heard her voice behind
him. “You want the girl, Julian. Why don’t you marry her?”

He turned to her incredulously.
“How can you say that after what we’ve shared?”

Justine smiled serenely. “I want
your happiness.”

“You always did,” he said, feeling
his eyes sting. “God, Justine, you’re too good to be true.”

“You need a wife, Julian.”

“And what do you need?”

Justine glanced away uneasily. “I
have Arnaud, and your friendship, and who knows? Perhaps in time . . .” She met
his gaze. “But a man is different. A man’s needs are more—immediate. You need a
bride. Not just to share your bed, but to help you maintain your place in the
community.”

“Justine, you must know that at
one time, I would have married you—”

She held up a hand. “
Chéri, non
,
let’s not discuss that again. Your idea was insane. What were you to do—flee
the country and turn your back on your mother, who vowed never to speak to you
again? We’ve both always known that a match between us would be doomed.”

Julian sighed. “Perhaps so. But Mercy
is out of the question for me. She hates me. She always will.”

Justine shrugged. “That will
change. Sometimes love is very close to hate. They are both such powerful
emotions. Capable of bonding two people.”

Julian could only shake his head.
Then he asked awkwardly, “And you, Justine? Do you think perhaps when Arnaud is
older, you’ll find someone else?” He smiled. “Of course, he’d have to be an
upstanding sort, or answer to me.”