Rogue's Mistress (9 page)

Just as the softness vanished from
Mercy’s eyes, any hint of conciliation fled from Julian’s. He continued down
the stairway, his expression grimly cynical. He strode out to meet her at the
fountain, drawing so close that she could smell the bay ram in his hair and see
the stubble along his jaw. Her heart pounded in the explosive silence.

With a clearly mocking bow, he
fixed his eyes for a devastating moment on the proud swell of her bosom. He
waited for her to speak.

His insulting look pushed Mercy
too far. She tossed her curls and announced stoutly, “M’sieur, I have come to
tell you that your dirty work is done. Philippe has withdrawn his challenge. I
shall become your wife—and cheerfully subject you to a lifetime of hell.”

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Julian was so flabbergasted by
Mercy’s astounding statement that he completely forgot to scold her for calling
him m’sieur. He simultaneously developed amnesia regarding his self-appointed
mission—to apologize for last night’s debacle and to let her off the hook.
Indeed, even coherent thought seemed beyond him as he stared at his proud young
ward in utter mystification.

“You
what
?” he managed at
last.

Annoyance flashed in Mercy’s eyes.
“Your pretense of innocence comes a bit late, m’sieur. Tell me, are you still
feeling the ill effects of your stupor last night?” Studying Julian’s coldly
gleaming eyes, Mercy decided resentfully that he wasn’t. Indeed, he looked
entirely too handsome and dangerous to be let loose among the female
population—namely
her
. “So when shall we proceed with this travesty?”
she finished flippantly, her chest heaving.

Julian continued to stare at her,
then, as she pursed her mouth to issue further invective, he raised a hand.
“Hold on here. What did you say to Broussard?”

“You’re well aware of what I said
to Philippe!” She laughed in bitter disbelief. “This from the man who gave me
step-by-step instructions last night.”

Julian clenched his jaw to stifle
a groan. “No doubt I did do just that,” he admitted with surprising humility.
“But, pray, indulge me and tell me what you told him.”

Mercy felt hot color rising in her
cheeks, especially as Julian continued to stare at her with such bold
curiosity. “Why, I told him just what you directed—that you and I are to wed,
that he must withdraw his challenge. I told him . . .”

“Yes?”

She bit her lip, then went on in a
quavering tone, “I told him that I’m in love with you.”

Julian hadn’t missed that slight
falter in her voice. “In love?” he repeated in an awed voice.

Mercy garnered her defenses and
spoke spitefully. “
Oui
. Desperation has made a consummate actress out of
me.”

Abruptly, the wonderment fled from
Julian’s features, replaced by his usual arrogance. “Ah, yes. You lied to
Broussard, of course. Obviously, love is something you’ll never feel for me.”

She tilted her chin defiantly.
“Obviously. Nor you for me.”

“Obviously,” he drawled.

They glared at each other in the
charged silence. Then, to Mercy’s confusion, Julian began to pace the
courtyard, raking his fingers through his hair and muttering a stream of rapid
French. She grew alarmed and intrigued. The brief respite had given her a
chance to realize how much his presence unnerved her. Just the brief, angry
words they had exchanged had drained her utterly.

No longer could Mercy delude
herself regarding the mesmerizing allure of this man. Indeed, she could not
take her eyes off him as he moved. She realized with horror and awe that he had
stirred something sensual within her, some dark, wanton need that would not be
quelled. Why else would she feel so tempted to give in to her enemy? Why else
would her senses fixate so crazily on the imagined, utter sweetness of her own
defeat and humiliation? Hate him though she did, Julian was clearly the most
frightening, the most fascinating, the most magnetic and masterfully handsome
man she’d ever known . . .

Julian, too, was enmeshed in
turmoil as he strode about the courtyard. By the saints, it seemed that Mercy
had actually taken seriously his mad ravings of the previous night. He’d put
the fear of God in the girl. Now what was he to do?

As his boots continued to pound
the flagstones, he spotted Mercy’s lower lip quivering, and a stunning heat
seared his loins. He remembered those sweet lips trembling beneath his last
night.

All at once, the part of him that
was all implacable male cried out,
Take her . . . You know you want her.
Just take her.

The voice was almost too hypnotic
to be denied. Then sanity brought him up short, and his intellect scoffed at
his base scheme. Take a cold, contemptuous bride to his bed? Take a wife who
hated him?

To devil with it all! Eager to put
an end to the insanity, Julian strode over to face Mercy. “What prompted this
change of heart?” he demanded.

“
Change of heart
!” Staring
at her self-righteous, glowering guardian, Mercy practically choked in her
indignation. “Have you so quickly forgotten your ultimatum?”

Julian crossed his arms over his
chest. “You forget that I know you, Mercy. I’ve been your guardian for nine
long years, and I’m well aware of your recalcitrant nature. It’s not like you
to give in—on anything—without a fight.”

“You would have killed Philippe!”

“True,” he conceded. “Still, there
must be something more.”

At his ruthlessly accurate discernment,
Mercy swayed slightly on her feet. Julian had just placed his finger directly
on a nerve, and she was appalled to feel the sting of tears. She glanced away
to hide her humiliating show of emotion; yet Julian was quick to close in,
gripping her chin and forcing her to face his smoldering countenance. The
direct, probing look stripped her defenses.

All at once, Mercy’s senses were
in a shambles. The pressure of his fingers sizzled through her like darts of
fire. Her stomach clenched, and sweat broke out on her upper lip.

Mon Dieu
, this was madness!
If she ever let him know that he affected her this way, she would be doomed.

“What is the reason, Mercy?” he
pressed remorselessly.

Somehow, she managed to toss her
chin free of his grasp, even as her mind scrambled for a response. Then, saints
be praised, an element of truth sprang forth to rescue her. Again, she
remembered Julian’s torment of last night, when he’d asked,
Do you know what
it’s like to have someone hate you, year after year?
She shuddered. Julian
had
spent a lot of time, money, and patience on her over the years, only to be
rewarded with her contempt. Guilt stabbed her anew, a twinge of conscience that
was actually a comfort to her now. She realized that there was a second reason
she was marrying him—beyond his show of brute force.

She faced him bravely. “Last night
made me . . . realize some things.”

A slender hope flared to life in
Julian’s heart at her words. “Yes?”

She twisted her fingers together.
“When you told me about my mother.”

Abruptly the small flame flickered
and died. “Go on.”

Clenching her fists, she said
stoutly, “Whatever happened in the past—I mean, regarding my father—I must
admit that you have dealt fairly, even generously, with me over the years. And,
after what happened between us last night, I became aware that I’m not the only
one who has known pain in all of this. What you said was in part true—I have
hated you and blamed you for years. The sisters taught me to be fair and
charitable, and I have realized that I may have treated you unjustly in some
ways. I suppose, then, that I felt some measure of—of pity for you.”

Julian’s vision abruptly flooded
with red. “
Pity
?” he repeated in a blood-chilling voice. “I don’t want
your damned pity.”

Mercy floundered as she felt the
full, stinging force of his anger. “But isn’t that why you want to marry me?
Aren’t you still trying, in some way, to atone for your role in my father’s
death?”

Julian bristled with affronted
pride. “To hell with your pity and your forgiveness.” He drew closer, breathing
hard as he looked her over in an insulting fashion. “Do you actually think that
I squandered all my money on you over the years out of guilt? I did it to groom
a suitable wife.” His gaze came to rest on the seething swell of her bosom. “And
now,
ma chère
, I will see my investment made good.”

Mercy was stunned, even as his
rakish gaze both humiliated and stirred her. “Why, you insufferable cad! You
did all of this expecting to be repaid with the sacrifice of my life to you?
Then you’re every bit as black-hearted and crass as I thought you were!”

“Indeed,” Julian agreed with a
terrible smile. “But think of the benefits the arrangement will have for you.
You’ll have my name, my money, my protection—and my child each year.” As she
stared at him in wide-eyed horror, he studied her more baldly. “Ah, yes, sweet
Mercy. Do not think for a minute that this will be simply a
mariage de
convenance
. I’ve invested in you handsomely—and I shall be repaid in full.”

“You’re crude and repulsive!” she
cried.

Julian glanced toward the parlor,
where Sister Clarabelle sat straining her ears and watching with fascination.
Turning back to Mercy, he lowered his voice. “Were the good sister not present,
I would proceed to show us both exactly how crude and repulsive you find me.
But then—after last night—we’re both well aware of your weakness, aren’t we?”

“Ooooh!” she sputtered.

“The marriage will be performed as
soon as the banns can be read,” he declared.

And, turning on his heel, Julian
strode away, leaving Mercy to tremble in mortification.

***

A moment later, a wild-eyed Julian
stormed into the parlor. At the window, Sister Clarabelle jumped and stared at
him. Yet Julian seemed oblivious to the woman’s presence. He strode to the
sideboard and poured himself a snifter of brandy. He had downed his drink and
was starting on his second round when a discreet cough directed his attention
to the nun.

Julian set down his drink and
bowed awkwardly. “My pardon, Sister. Mam’selle Mercy is waiting for you in the
courtyard.”

Sister Clarabelle rose unsteadily
to her feet. “M’sieur, would you kindly tell me what has transpired between you
and your ward?”

He frowned. “Mercy hasn’t told
you?”

“
Non
.”

Julian sighed, avoiding her eye.
“Sister, I promise you that I’ll come to the parish house this afternoon and
explain everything to you and Mother Anise.” He ground his jaw. “But for now,
suffice it to say that my ward will not be marrying young Broussard—or joining
your ranks.”

Hot color stole up the nun’s lace.
“
Oui
, m’sieur. We shall expect you later today, then.”

“Good day, sister.”

After she left, Julian picked up
his brandy snifter. He sipped his drink, his eyes gleaming with grim light.
Pity
,
he thought. The nervy little chit
pitied
him, and that was why she had
agreed to wed him! She held no feeling in her heart for him, save a curious
mixture of pity and contempt. A fine basis for a marriage.

At least, for once, she’d owned up
to the fact that she’d put him through pure hell over the years. Unbidden, a
memory sprang to mind, of Mercy when she’d been twelve. He’d been summoned to
the parish house to reprimand her after she’d locked one of the nuns in the
broom closet—and this to escape a well-deserved switching for setting a mouse
loose during vespers! He remembered the little witch facing him down. Mercy had
been utterly reckless, defiant, and bereft of remorse. He’d almost lost control
and taken her over his knee.

Welcome to your marriage,
Devereux
, he thought. He finished his drink and muttered a curse.

Then he groaned as he remembered
the horrible things pride had just forced him to say to Mercy—that he had
raised her for his wife, and that he would now see his investment made good.
Both statements were utterly false, of course. What was it about the girl that
provoked him so? Why was it that every time he was around her, he ended up
saying exactly the opposite of what he truly felt?

Well, the die was cast now. He
would marry the girl and consign them both to a loveless, stormy marriage.

For one fact stood out clearly in his
mind after seeing Mercy again—there was no way in hell that he would let mealy
mouthed Philippe Broussard take her to wife. At least he would have the
satisfaction of bedding her frequently and thoroughly—though it could never
mean to her what it would to him.

Would it be worth facing the
contempt in her eyes?

He poured himself a third drink.
Perhaps he was deserving of some measure of compassion after all, he mused
ruefully, thinking of his future with his headstrong, spiteful ward.

***

Mercy seethed with fury as Jacob
drove her and Sister Clarabelle back to the parish house. Julian’s coarse,
cruel statements still bombarded her mind.

She was clearly a complete idiot
for ever feeling compassion for Julian Devereux. To think that she had even
considered him generous in raising her, when all the time he’d had his own,
base motives in mind.

To groom a wife! To rear a proper
bedmate! It was depraved. He had killed her father, and now he intended to ruin
her life. Well, M’sieur Devereux would be in for a fine surprise, for it would
now be her pleasure to ensure that his “investment” brought him nothing but
grief.

But what on earth would she do
when they were married and he took his husbandly due? If he took her in his
arms again, she’d surely go up in flames. And once they were married, he’d
touch her—and much more.

Imagining the “more,” Mercy felt
heat searing her cheeks. She well remembered Mother Anise’s requisite lecture a
few years past. Mercy had been frightened when she’d first experienced her
monthly time, and the nun had dutifully taken her aside and had explained in
terse, embarrassed tones the basics of marriage and reproduction.

But the nun had hardly prepared
her for
everything
Julian so obviously intended to impose on her.

Mercy had heard her share of
schoolgirl gossip about the horrors of the wedding night. Remembering the hard
length of him thrusting against her so brazenly, she shuddered. He would surely
kill her.

Part of her still couldn’t believe
that Julian Devereux intended to take her to wife. Yet what frightened Mercy
most of all was that a small, traitorous part of her was secretly glad.