Rogue's Mistress (7 page)

Mercy was losing her mind. Her
breasts throbbed where Julian touched her, and deep in the pit of her stomach,
a need was gnawing, growing, and seemed to yearn traitorously for the hot
instrument now pulsing against her. Oh, what was wrong with her? How could she
hurt so much yet feel so good, and know all the while that only he could ease
this sweet, wonderful aching?

“Say it,” he demanded.

“Julian,” she sobbed.

“
Bien
.”

“Julian,” she whispered,
shuddering.

He took full advantage of her
lassitude, kissing her again in a long, deep, intimate way. This time she put
up no resistance, and even reached out tentatively to stroke his thick hair.

“You will marry me,” he said at
last.

Reality crashed in on her. “You’re
mad,” she managed, staring up at him.

But he only smiled. “You’d make
Broussard a wretched wife,” he continued. “You’d cut him to mincemeat in no
time. It will take a much stronger man than he to control you—”

“And you’re that man?” she
scoffed.

“Indeed.”

“In a pig’s eye, m’sieur.” Yet
Mercy clung to him even as she uttered the words.

He laughed softly at her bravado.
“You called me m’sieur again.”

“Are you going to beat me, then?”

He grinned wickedly. “No, though
it’s tempting.” He drew back and pressed his finger on her wet, passion-bruised
mouth. “However, first thing tomorrow morning, with one of the sisters
attending you as chaperone, you will go see young Broussard. You will convince
him that you have fallen in love with me—”

“You’re an imbecile!”

“You will convince him that you’ve
fallen in love with me, and persuade him to drop his challenge.”

“
Non
!”

Yet Julian continued heedlessly.
“You will do this because you don’t want him to die.”

She gazed up at him, horrified, at
last comprehending the stark magnitude of his betrayal.

“There’s always a price, Mercy,”
he drawled.

“You’re despicable.”

He only repeated softly, “You will
marry me because you don’t want Broussard to die.”

She blinked at him. He had her,
she thought—locked up, with the key tossed away. And he knew it. “Why?” she
asked at last. “You must know I will always hate you.”

He drew her closer again, and,
unwittingly, her breathing quickened. She hated herself and she hated him.

“A strong emotion, hate,” he was
saying, caressing her hair as he remembered Justine’s words. “Strong enough to
bond—”

“Or kill.”

“And, I would think, a most
exciting element in bed.”

“Damn you to hell.”

He chuckled again, but his eyes
gleamed with a fierce, animal determination. Slowly, he began lowering his lips
to hers, his gaze impaling hers until she was sure she would drown in torment
and anticipation.

“Then I guess we’ll dwell in
purgatory together,
ma chère
, ” he said huskily. His lips hovered a mere
whisper’s breath above hers as he added, “For now, sweet Mercy . . . you’re
mine.”

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The next morning, Julian Devereux
awakened with a screaming hangover. The room was filled with rosy sunshine that
seemed to mock his foul mood. Even as he sat up against the pillows, he reeled
with dizziness and was assaulted by feelings of impending doom that he couldn’t
at first comprehend.

With a trembling hand, he thrust
back the
moustiquaire
, rolled out of his tester bed, and staggered
toward the dresser. His mouth tasted foul and as dry as a cotton boll. Propping
his palms on the edge of the bureau, he stared at his bleary, bearded,
bloodshot countenance, and sorely wished
le bon Dieu
had chosen never to
awaken him.

Hearing a sharp rap at the
interior door, Julian had the presence of mind to grab his silk brocade
dressing gown from the rug where he had tossed it last night. The effort nearly
cost him the contents of his stomach. Hastily covering his nakedness, he
gritted out, “
Entrez
!”

An impeccably groomed Henrí
entered with a silver tray containing a small china coffeepot and matching
demitasse. The hot, chocolate-laced smell of cafe au lait partially roused
Julian’s flagging senses. At least the servant had possessed the presence of
mind not to bring food.

“
Bonjour, maître
, ” Henrí
said cheerfully. “I trust we are well this morning?”

Despite himself, Julian fought a
smile. The hint of mockery in Henrí’s tone could not be missed; however, given
the friendship between the two men, neither was it resented. “You know damned
well that we are most
unwell
this morning,” Julian returned dryly,
thrusting his fingers through his rumpled hair.

Henrí chuckled and strode over to
set the tray on the small table near the curtained French doors. As he started
to pull back the drapes according to longstanding habit, Julian held up a hand
and protested, “Please . . .”

The servant grinned broadly. “As
you wish,
maître
.”

Julian crossed the room on wobbly
legs and sat down in the rosewood armchair flanking the table. Henrí poured him
a demitasse of the hot, rich brew. Julian drew the cup to his lips, embarrassed
by the quaking of his fingers. He took a hearty gulp, welcoming the stinging
heat. But once the cup was finished, he felt only slightly better.

Starting on his second cup, Julian
noted that his fingers weren’t trembling quite as badly. He glanced up at Henrí
and at last dared to voice the question that had been gnawing at him ever since
he had awakened. “Do I remember what I think I remember from last night,
mon
ami
?”

“
Oui, maître
.”

Julian groaned. “Is it as bad as I
think?”

A smile tugged at the servant’s
full mouth. “Much worse.”

“Christ.” Julian buried his face
in his hands, knocking over the now-empty demitasse.

Henrí quickly grabbed the cup and
saucer and set them out of harm’s way. “Do you wish to discuss it?”

“Not now, thanks,” came Julian’s
anguished, muffled reply.

“As you wish.” Henrí poured Julian
a third cup of coffee and wisely set it toward the center of the table. He
picked up his tray and went to set it on a small, ornate chest near the door.
He then quickly and efficiently made his rounds, making up the bed and laying
out Julian’s clothing for the day.

Henrí was about to slip from the
room when he again heard his master’s strained voice. “You—er—saw Mam’selle
Mercy safely home last night, I presume?”

“
Oui
.”

“Mam’selle was—”

Henrí couldn’t repress a grin.
“Mam’selle was as angry as a scalded kitten.”

Julian muttered an expletive.
“That will be all, thank you.”

Nodding, Henrí left the room.

Julian stared into space, consumed
by his own raging thoughts. He was appalled by memories of his drunken behavior
last night, memories that now remorselessly stabbed his splitting skull. He
simply could not believe the things he had said and done in a fit of
uncontrollable passion.

To think that he had revealed
himself to Mercy that way—that he had forced his kisses on her, demanded that
she marry him. Even now, he winced aloud as he recalled her cold, contemptuous
response. Mercy had always hated him, and his reprehensible conduct last night
would only deepen that animosity. Now, if he forced the girl to wed him, they
would doubtless kill each other within a week. Clearly, a match between them
could result only in disaster—even though that one taste of her had been
heaven.

Heaven—an understatement, indeed!
A treacherous excitement stormed his senses as he recalled dragging Mercy into
his arms and plundering her lips so hungrily and ruthlessly. Even her angry
resistance had aroused him terribly, making him yearn to break through her cold
veneer. And when, for an instant, he had sensed a softening in her, he had
longed to take her off to his bed and make love to her until she couldn’t
breathe. He had hungered to master her senses and her will, to sheathe himself
so deeply inside her that he could see in her eyes not icy hatred but the warm,
trusting glow of surrender, of forgiveness . . .

Nom de Dieu
! What demon had
possessed him? What was it about the girl that inspired in him such unspeakable
passion, such terrible pride? He may as well weight himself down with rocks and
toss himself in the Mississippi as try to love the girl. For those feelings
were equally doomed. The girl would never love or trust him, much less forgive
him. And he had only himself to blame for the absurd predicament they were in
now. He had all but ruined Mercy’s life, and shortly he might well murder her
fiancé.

How could he extricate all of them
from this madness? Clearly, there was only one solution, just as there had been
only one solution yesterday. He must give his consent for Mercy to marry
Broussard, and pray that the
affaire d’honneur
between himself and
Philippe could be resolved without violence.

***

While Julian struggled with his demons,
Mercy was en route to the Hotel Broussard to do his bidding, having taken his
threats of the previous night quite seriously.

Wearing a pale yellow muslin day
dress, a matching taffeta bonnet, and white lawn gloves, Mercy sat in an open
barouche with Sister Clarabelle next to her. Before the two women, on the high
front seat, was perched Jacob, the gardener from the parish house. Wearing work
clothes and a torn gray hat, the servant clucked to the old gray horse as they
rumbled down the narrow cobbled streets.

The June morning was balmy. Around
them, the Quarter teemed with the sights, sounds, and smells of industry. As
they headed down Chartres Street, Mercy studied a passing Roman candy wagon,
which clattered past them in gaudy splendor on its way to the French Market,
leaving a sweet, scintillating trail of peppermint in the air. Across from
them, a
marchand
was delivering water to a stylish town house, while out
in the street, three housewives were gathered around a cream cheese cart.
Colorfully dressed black women were making their rounds on the banquettes,
balancing on their heads huge baskets heaped with mouth-watering calas and
sweet pralines. A constant parade of humanity trooped by, its diverse character
consisting of everything from stylishly dressed businessmen and fashionably
attired matrons to chimney sweeps, locksmiths, and fruit vendors.

All in all, the Quarter created a
fascinating feast for the senses. Yet nothing—not the soothing clip-clop of the
horse’s hooves or the familiar cawing of the gulls flying overhead—could ease
the turmoil swirling in Mercy’s mind as she recalled the previous night. Her
green eyes smoldered with outrage, an anger she used to hold at bay memories of
her own devastating weakness.

To think that her guardian had
forced himself upon her and had insisted that she marry him, or Philippe would
die! The nerve of the cad, impelling her to go out this morning and obey his
ultimatums, or else be responsible for Philippe Broussard’s death.

Mercy glanced at the nun seated beside
her; Sister Clarabelle was staring straight ahead, her hands folded primly in
her lap. Mercy was surprised that the nun had agreed to come along as
last-minute chaperone on what Mercy had called “a matter of life and death.”
The sister had even shown a modicum of curiosity once Mercy had said, “My
guardian will explain everything—later.”

Her guardian would, indeed! Now
let Julian Devereux have the enviable task of explaining to the sisters his
insanity of last night.

Before Mercy could succumb to memories
of the appalling encounter, Jacob drew the buggy to a halt before the modest
façade of the Hotel Broussard. Mercy wrung her hands as the black man lumbered
out of the conveyance; her gloves were damp and her heart was racing. She hated
herself for what she must say to Philippe—although it was for his own good.

Jacob swung open the door of the
barouche, and the two women alighted onto the stone banquette. Hesitating,
Mercy studied the familiar hotel looming before her as if it was in a bad
dream. The narrow, three-story structure was painted pale yellow, with dark
green shutters. The hostelry was wedged between an absinthe house on one side
and an eatery on the other. The smell of some spicy Italian sauce, heavily
laden with Romano cheese, drifted out from the shabby restaurant; Mercy fought
off a wave of nausea.

Sister Clarabelle tossed Mercy a
bemused glance, and the girl proceeded forward, opening the heavy door. They
entered the darkness of a dusty corridor and emerged in a small reception area.
A thin, balding man in a gartered white shirt stood behind the high credenza,
sorting through some correspondence. With a heavy heart, Mercy recognized
Philippe’s father.

“
Bonjour
, M’sieur
Broussard,” she said, forcing a cheerful tone.

Charles Broussard glanced up with
mild astonishment and adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles. “Why, Mercy, Sister
Clarabelle. What a pleasant surprise. What brings you ladies here today? My
son, I presume?”

Mercy managed a stiff smile. “
Oui
,
I’m here to see Philippe.”

Broussard nodded. “He’s down the
hall in the office, working on the account books. I’ll just fetch him—”

Mercy held up a hand. “Thank you,
m’sieur, but I’d prefer to have a word with him myself, if you have no
objection.”

When Broussard reluctantly
responded in the affirmative, Mercy started off, the sister dutifully trailing
behind her. Stifling a groan, Mercy touched the nun’s sleeve. “Sister, please.
It is imperative that I speak with Philippe alone.”

The sister hesitated, her thin
lips pursed with disapproval, while M’sieur Broussard looked on with a curious
frown. At last, the sister sighed. “Very well, Mercy. But make the visit brief.
And, mind you, keep the door ajar.”

“
Oui
, Sister.” With each
step she took down the narrow, somber hallway, Mercy’s heart thumped louder in
her ears. Her gloves were now so damp that, with a disgruntled sigh, she tore
them off and thrust them inside her knitted reticule. A moment later, she
rapped on the door at the end of the corridor.

The door opened and a rather
startled Philippe appeared at the portal. He wore a black frock coat and
matching trousers. A blotch of black ink marred the usual perfection of his
lace cuffs. “Mercy! What are you doing here?”

She nodded meaningfully toward the
front desk. “I must speak with you at once, Philippe. Alone.”

He regarded her with grim
suspicion. “It’s about the duel, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Philippe. Please, we must
talk.”

“It won’t do any good, Mercy.” But
as she cast him a beseeching glance, he added wearily, “Very well. Come in.”

He ushered her inside the small
office. Watching him turn to shut the door, Mercy warned, “Leave the door
slightly ajar, or Sister Clarabelle will shortly descend on us.”

He did as she bid, then escorted
her to a fraying armchair which flanked the narrow desk cluttered with account
books and papers. Once she was seated, he took his own seat in the worn leather
chair behind the desk. “Well, Mercy? If you’ve come to beg me not to duel your
guardian, let me assure you that your mission is futile.”

She leaned toward him intently.
“Do your parents know of your plans?”

“Of course not. They would never
allow me to fight Devereux.” His brow knitted in suspicion. “Nor will I ever
forgive you if you tell them.”

Nor will I ever forgive you
. . . Wincing at his words, Mercy twisted her fingers together miserably.
“Philippe, you’ll never forgive me when I tell you what I must.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you
mean?”

Her gaze bravely met his. “You
must withdraw your challenge.”

“Never!” he scoffed. “I’m flabbergasted
that you would even suggest such treason after that scoundrel insulted us
both.”

Mercy bit her lip until she tasted
blood. Blessed Mother, why must everything be so difficult? Not knowing how
else to proceed, she blurted, “That scoundrel is . . . Philippe, I’m going to
marry him.”

Philippe’s pale brows shot up.
“Him?”

“Julian Devereux, my guardian.”

“
Mon Dieu
!” Philippe shot
to his feet, his expression incredulous, his voice little more than a stunned
whisper. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

Now she was standing, too, tilting
her chin defiantly. “
Non
. I shall marry him.”

“But why?” Philippe’s features
suddenly shifted from stark bewilderment to murderous suspicion. “Aha!” he
declared, wagging a finger at her. “I should have known! The blackguard wants
you for himself, doesn’t he? No wonder he denied my suit. And, no doubt, he
forced his favors on you, didn’t he?”