Rogue's Mistress(13)

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—”