Rogue's Mistress(16)

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.