Rogue's Mistress(17)

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.





Chapter Nine


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Late that afternoon, Julian stood in the parlor of his mother’s home on Prytania Street at the edge of the American District. He glanced around at the fabulously furnished room as he waited for Madelaine Devereux to appear.

Julian well remembered the trip to Europe his parents had taken nine years ago to buy furnishings for their Greek Revival masterpiece, which was only then being built. Now, this huge room sported part of the bounty of that particular treasure hunt: priceless Venetian crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceilings; white Carrara marble graced the fireplace mantels; rococo Louis XV desk and chaise, along with elaborately carved rosewood settees and chairs, added eye-catching elegance to the setting. His parents had spared no expense to make their home a showplace. Still, to Julian, this residence had always seemed more a museum than a home. He much preferred his smaller, cozier town house, which he had inherited when his parents moved here.

Julian remembered his parents’ trip to Europe for another reason—while his parents had been away, the fateful events had transpired at Madame Sophie’s bagnio, and Mercy O’Shea had first come into his life.

At the mere thought of his newly acquired fiancée, Julian began to pace the fine carpet with his hands clasped behind him and his features knitted in a formidable scowl. He’d had a memorable day thanks to his ward—and thanks to his own foolish drunkenness last night.

First, following Mercy’s astonishing visit, he had been compelled to rearrange his day; he’d hastily dispatched a note to his business partner, M’sieur Beaufort, entreating André to handle his appointments at the Exchange. Then he had gone to the convent and had awkwardly explained to Mother Anise and Sister Clarabelle that he and his ward were to wed. When Mother Anise had frankly asked him why he wished to marry Mercy, he had answered stiffly that it was obvious that his ward needed his continued protection and guidance.

Julian would not soon forget the meaningful glances the two women had exchanged, or the way Sister Clarabelle had raised her handkerchief to cover what he was certain had been a snicker. In no time, however, the two nuns had been overcome by their own ecstasies regarding the upcoming nuptials, talking incessantly of wedding nonsense. There had been a lament or two about Mercy having no suitable dowry: Julian had decried all such foolishness and had even written out a draft so that his bride-to-be could be suitably outfitted before the wedding day. The sisters had fallen on the money like beggars at a banquet, and the sounds of their effusive gaiety had followed him all the way out the door.

Too bad he felt no such joy at the thought of his upcoming marriage. Indeed, he was in a pickle, for he must now explain to his mother that he was about to wed a young woman she had never even met.

To be truthful, Madelaine had a slight knowledge of Mercy, as Julian had mentioned several times over the years that he was sponsoring an orphan who lived with the nuns at St. Mary’s Parish House. Yet Madelaine thought that Julian had become Mercy’s mentor at the request of the Catholic Charities; she had no idea of the true circumstances of his association with the girl. Julian had never told his mother of the events which had caused the deaths of Brendan O’Shea and Genevieve Dupree, and had impelled him to become Mercy’s guardian. Nor did he intend to tell her now. Still, she was bound to be astounded when he informed her of his plans . . .

“Julian, dear, pray don’t wear a hole in my carpet,” came a lyrical but firm female voice.

Julian’s mother stood regally in the archway. At forty-seven, Madelaine Devereux still exuded a classical beauty. She was tall and slender, and wore her gray-streaked brown hair upswept in a sleek bun. Her elegantly cut dress of rose silk organza finely complemented her lovely, patrician features and bright blue eyes; her fingers were bedecked with the many fabulous rings Julian’s father had given her over the years. An elegant ivory and silk fan was clutched in one beautifully shaped hand.

Widowhood agreed with his mother, Julian mused; after Julian’s father had died five years ago, Madelaine had spent the requisite year mourning him, then she had gone about her affairs with her usual aplomb. For advice in financial affairs, she turned to Julian; in all other matters, Madelaine Devereux managed her own life quite well, thank you.

Julian hastened over to embrace his mother, kissing her smooth, slightly rouged cheek. “Mama. You are looking well.”

“As are you, my son,” Madelaine answered, looking him over with a mother’s pride. “Well, do come in and let’s have a seat. I’ve asked Raoul to fetch tea and rice cakes.”

The two seated themselves, Madelaine on the settee and Julian in the silk damask armchair flanking her.

“Well, son, what brings you here today?” Madelaine asked.

Julian shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Mama, I’m afraid I have some—er—rather startling news.”

“Oh?” Madelaine was all attention.

“Yes. I have decided . . . to marry.”

“To marry?” Madelaine cried. She sat up straight, staring at her son in astonishment. “Well, it’s about time, I must say. And who is the lucky young woman? Perhaps Marie Dupont, or Gabrielle Bienville?”

Julian restrained a wince at the mention of the two giddy young debutantes his mother had been unsuccessfully trying to foist on him at various functions. “Non, ” he replied in acute discomfort. “Actually, I’ve decided to marry my ward.”

“Your ward!” Madelaine gasped, her hand fluttering to her breast. “You don’t mean that Mercy McCall?”

“Mercy O’Shea.”

“Whatever.” Madelaine’s blue eyes grew huge. “You’re planning to wed a child, Julian?”

He bristled. “Mercy is now eighteen years old.”

Madelaine shook her head in bewilderment. “My, my, where has the time gone? Still, didn’t you once say that the girl is the daughter of an Irish immigrant laborer?” She frowned disapprovingly. “Hardly a suitable match for you, Julian.”