Rogue's Mistress (8 page)

Mercy hastily glanced away to hide
a hot, guilty blush, appalled at how close to the truth Philippe had strayed.

He gripped her shoulders, shaking
her slightly. “Didn’t he?”

Staring up at Philippe’s outraged
countenance, Mercy gathered every reserve of inner strength. She longed to tell
him the truth—after all, he was but an innocent pawn in Julian’s deadly game.
Yet she fully realized that to be honest with Philippe now would only make the
duel—and Philippe’s subsequent death—a grim and certain reality.

Thus, she tossed her curls and
forced a reckless, defiant tone. “
Non
. Julian did not attempt to force
my hand in any way. I made the decision of my own free will.”

Abruptly, Philippe’s hands dropped
from her shoulders, and his features blanched. “Why?”

Mercy turned away from the
helpless anguish in his eyes. She strode over to a small window in one corner
of the office, staring out at a squalid alleyway teeming with garbage and black
flies. The stench drifted in through the sheer curtains as if to mock the
shabbiness of her own charade.

“This is—so difficult, Philippe,”
she said at last, in a small, strained voice.

Philippe’s bitter laughter drifted
over her. “I find that hard to believe, considering the relative ease with
which you have just cast me aside.”

She turned to him wretchedly.
“Philippe—”

“So tell me,” he cut in angrily,
thrusting his arms across his chest, “how did M’sieur Devereux winnow his way
into your heart?”

His sarcasm cut her to the quick.
Nonetheless, she took a deep breath and began to pace the small room, spouting
the speech she had concocted on the way over here. “Philippe, please know that
when I met you, I was greatly taken with you. But I also felt trapped at the
convent, and this may have prompted me to act . . . impetuously. I wanted to
break away from the nuns, as well as from my guardian. You see, I had always
hated Julian, because—”

“Because he killed your father,”
Philippe finished.

She nodded, recalling how, on
several occasions, she and Philippe had discussed the matter of her father’s
death and Julian's role in it. “Yes.”

“Go on.”

“Well, as I said, I wanted to
break away from Julian. But as the weeks passed and you and I discussed
marriage, I began to realize that I was only running away from my own
feelings.”

“Feelings? What feelings?”

Oh, holy saints, it would kill
her to say this
, Mercy thought. Somehow, she managed to face the contempt
and suspicion in Philippe’s eyes and say evenly, “I’m in love with Julian.”

“
What
?” The hoarse
exclamation was followed by a barrage of curses in rapid French. Afterward,
Philippe stared at Mercy in utter horror. “You must have lost your mind! How
can you say you’re in love with the man who murdered your father?”

Mercy winced as if from a physical
slap. “That . . . was an accident . . . and I’ve decided it’s time to bury the
past.”

“Bury the past?” Philippe cried.
He gestured with extravagant cynicism. “What a heartwarming attitude.” Drawing
closer, he drew a hard breath and spoke intensely. “But I know you, Mercy.
You’re not charitable or forgiving. And you’re lying through your teeth right
now.”

Mercy glared up at him with rising
panic and desperation. “I tell you, I love him! Do not doubt it, for ’tis
true!”

Philippe’s features twisted in
uncertainty; the outrage in his eyes mellowed to bewilderment. “By the saints,
I think you must believe this madness.”

“Of course I believe it,” she
declared, closing in swiftly and aggressively on his vulnerability. “And you
must withdraw your challenge at once. It is unthinkable that you would try to
kill the man I am to wed.”

Philippe shook his head, staring
at her with the fatalistic eyes of a drowning man. “Mercy, tell me none of this
is true.”

“
Non
.”

He gestured beseechingly. “Tell me
he made you do this.”

As she studied Philippe’s tortured
expression, hot tears stung Mercy’s eyes at what she knew she must say. She
tilted her chin to an imperious slant and forced a tone of hauteur. “The truth
is, I only showed an interest in you to lure Julian in. It is he I have wanted
all along—his wealth, his position.” She glanced around the room and gestured
dismissively. “Did you really think I would be happy as an innkeeper’s wife?”

Philippe’s expression mirrored the
soul of a man who was utterly shattered. “It seems I’ve misjudged you,” he
said, contempt now glinting like ice in his eyes.

“So it seems,” she agreed, hating
herself for destroying his illusions.

“And I must say that you and
M’sieur Devereux seem to deserve each other,” he added with stinging acrimony.

Mercy answered straight from her
hellishly guilty conscience. “Perhaps so.”

Philippe strode over to face her,
drawing himself up with dignity. “Tell M’sieur Devereux that the challenge is
withdrawn,” he snapped. “I hope you’ll be very happy with him.”

Before she could respond, he
stormed from the room.

***

As Jacob drove the two women away
from the Hotel Broussard, Mercy felt intensely guilty for her cold, callous
words to Philippe. Nonetheless, she realized that everything she had said had
been necessary to save his life. Far better that he be angry than dead, she
rationalized. Surely he’d get over her in time.

She also felt stunned by her own daring
in telling Philippe that she loved Julian. That had been a lie, of course.

Hadn’t it?

Mercy shuddered as she thought of
their next planned stop—at Julian’s town house. She had every intention of
telling the hateful scoundrel in person that she had committed his treason.

Yet if she truly hated Julian, how
could she explain her response to him last night? She mentally relived the
scene between them in horror and fascination. All her life Mercy had felt
completely in charge of her own feelings—until last night, when his
electrifying sensuality had taken complete charge of her emotions—indeed, of
her very body. How could she feel such unspeakably wicked cravings for a man
she hated?

What was it Julian had said? A
strong emotion, hate. Remembering the turmoil in him, Mercy felt a small stab
of regret. She recalled his telling her that her mother had asked him to care
for her, and a treacherous softening threatened to storm the fortresses of her
heart. Mercy well remembered Corrine O’Shea—her beauty, her kindness, her
loving spirit. To this day, she missed her mother, hungered for the nurturing
presence that had been so sadly absent in her life ever since. In fairness to
Julian, she couldn’t deny that her father had gone drinking on the night her
mother died, and that it was Julian, ultimately, who had sat with her mother as
she passed away. And she had to admit that Julian had honored his deathbed
promise to Corrine O’Shea.

Mercy realized that Julian, too,
had suffered from his role in her father’s death, and especially from her own
lack of any compassion or forgiveness. Perhaps she had judged him too harshly.
Perhaps, if not for her own pride and Julian’s arrogance, they might have
settled this matter between them long ago. Still, Julian was the man who had killed
her father, and, given the strong clash in their personalities, she shuddered
at the thought of being married to him.

She wondered why Julian seemed so
determined to wed her. Perhaps it was the continuing sense of obligation he
felt, combined with his guilt over her father’s death. Or perhaps, she mused
cynically, the cad simply wanted to bed her. That alone seemed patently obvious
after last night. Her cheeks flamed as she recalled him dragging her into his
arms, his hot mouth pressing on hers, his bare chest crashing her soft breasts
. . . She winced as she recalled the wicked heat that had streamed through her
body at his touch. While Mercy had no previous experience with a man’s passion,
all her feminine instincts told her that Julian Devereux had kissed her with
the skill of a connoisseur.

At any rate, damn his eyes for
taking charge of her life this way. She would wed him to save Philippe, but if
he thought he was getting a docile, submissive wife, the man was going to be in
for a massive shock.

Mercy was afire with righteous
indignation when Jacob pulled the buggy to a halt before Julian’s town house on
Royal and her balloon abruptly burst. Sister Clarabelle, who had been patiently
quiet during their journey from the Hotel Broussard, noted Mercy’s lost, pale
expression. Laying a hand on the girl’s arm, the nun asked quietly, “Will you
now tell me what is going on, child?”

Mercy turned to her with a smile.
The elderly sister was her favorite among the nuns at the parish house. “Sister
Clarabelle, you’ve been very patient, and I assure you that shortly the mystery
will end. It’s just that I must speak with my guardian, and then . . .” Mercy
paused, a grim light flashing in her eyes. “I’m sure that before day’s end,
M’sieur Devereux will explain everything to you.”

The sister nodded wisely. “Very
well, then,
mon enfant
.”

***

Mercy stood in the lush patio of
Julian’s stylish town house, waiting for him to appear. The day had grown
hotter, and sweat prickled the nape of her neck. She suspected her discomfort
was due as much to tense anticipation as to the heat—and the knot in her
stomach only reinforced this grim conclusion.

To the east of her, she could see
Sister Clarabelle sitting inside by the parlor window, sipping tea as she surveyed
the scene. Mercy was grateful that the sister had consented to allow her to
speak with her guardian in relative privacy, although she wasn’t looking
forward to their interview one bit.

She looked around her at the
fountain spurting its brilliant streams of water, at the bees buzzing around
the colorful petunias, at the lush banana trees rippling in the breeze. The
courtyard seemed shut off from all earthly care, surrounded by high stucco
walls and lovely iron-lace balconies. Yet the tranquil setting seemed to taunt
Mercy; even the sweet perfume of nectar filling her lungs brought her no
feelings of serenity.

For any moment now Julian Devereux
would descend that lovely, curved cypress stairway and the two would have their
reckoning.

Reckoning. The verdict was already
in, and the victory was his entirely.

Mercy remembered the moment when
they had been admitted to the house by Julian’s servant, Henrí. The merest hint
of surprise had flickered in the servant's honey-brown eyes as he had said in
his low, smooth voice, “I will tell M’sieur Devereux that you have come to
call, mam’selle.”

There had been something quite
discerning about the servant’s smile, Mercy now mused. She wondered idly how
much he already knew about her relationship with Julian.

Then her head snapped up at the
sound of footsteps on the stairway. She watched, transfixed, as Julian Devereux
descended into the courtyard . . .

***

Julian was in complete charge of
his emotions—until he saw Mercy standing in the courtyard beneath him. The sight
of the girl momentarily stole the breath from his lungs, and he paused on the
stairway, gripping the weathered banister.
Mon Dieu
, she was a vision
today in her lovely yellow dress and matching bonnet; her lush red curls
cascaded down her back. He remembered tangling his fingers in that silky mane
last night, even as his hungry lips had thoroughly ravished hers. He remembered
her trembling and moaning against him, whether in response or fear, he knew
not. Now, she looked so tall and regally beautiful, so slender and so tempting—

She was staring up at him, looking
equally transfixed, and he wondered at the curious, unguarded expression
flashing across her wide green eyes. What was it he saw there—trepidation,
vulnerability, the merest flicker of a softening? Could it be that the girl
possessed a heart, after all?

For a moment, he almost lost sight
of his good intentions. For a moment he thought,
Damn us all to perdition, I
must have her
. Then he watched pride clench Mercy’s lovely features, pride
and icy contempt. And the moment of awareness fled so quickly that Julian
wondered if it had ever occurred.

He continued down the stairs, his
features tightening in implacable resolve as he prepared to do what he must . .
.

***

In the garden below, Mercy felt
equally mesmerized the instant she spotted Julian coming down the staircase.
His was the proud bearing of a prince—his gait long and sure, his boots hitting
each step with confidence, his powerful thigh muscles rippling against his
fawn-colored trousers. She quickly took in his chocolate-brown velvet frock
coat, his ruffled linen shirt and black silk cravat. Her eyes settled on his
freshly shaven face, and for a treacherous moment, a softness shone in her eyes
. . .

Fighting her own traitorous
feelings, Mercy studied her adversary more closely, but found no comfort there.
In his elegant clothing, Julian looked almost like an imposing stranger, rather
than the wild-eyed, disheveled madman who had practically forced himself on her
last night. Yet he was every bit as intimidating.

He stopped midway and stared at
her, and for once his expression was open, unguarded, even curious. She noticed
that one hauntingly familiar, rakish curl dangled with unspeakable sensuality
across his forehead.

Suddenly and disastrously, she remembered
everything from last night in humiliating detail—Julian hauling her into his
arms and making her feel things she would not confess to the devil, Julian
mastering her will with just one kiss . . .

Awareness hit her like a physical
blow. Memories of last night both aroused and terrified her, making her realize
what devastating power her dark, arrogant guardian held over her. Then pride
rose up to save her, and an instinct of self-preservation drove up icy barriers
around her heart.