Rogue's Mistress(20)

“Are you ashamed of those . . . true circumstances, m’sieur?”

Anger darkened Julian’s face. “I thought I warned you not to call me m’sieur.”

Mercy smirked at him. “Ah—but this time, it seems it is you who has come to beg for mercy, n’est-ce pas?”

To her surprise, Julian grinned, flashing perfect white teeth. “So it seems. Perhaps at this moment, you do have me at your mercy, mademoiselle.”

The words rolled off his tongue with a silky sarcasm that was downright amusing; Mercy quickly glanced out the window to hide her treacherous smile. By the saints, she refused to think of Julian Devereux as charming, nor would she ever be seduced by his glib tongue! She reminded herself firmly of his past and present perfidies, and pride forced a layer of ice over her heart.

“Do not worry, m’sieur,” she replied coolly, brushing wrinkles from her skirt. “I have no intention of telling your mother what you did in the past.” She dared to meet his gaze and added bitterly, “For you see, it is my shame, as well.”

***

It is my shame, as well. These words haunted Julian Devereux as he escorted Mercy up the sultry, fragrant path to his mother’s house. He stared at her walking beside him—looking so lovely, and so untouchable, with her strong chin thrust high and her delicate features etched in pride.

He wondered why he was proceeding with this sham of a marriage. The girl would never forgive him . . .

At his side, Mercy stared ahead at the white, two-story Greek Revival mansion, with its looming Doric columns, black shutters, gray-blue verandas, and striking oak front door with cut-glass panels. Hanging baskets spilled their perfumed greenery from the eaves, and delicate lace curtains fluttered at the windows. Inside, Mercy caught glimpses of fabulous European furnishings and ornate lamps dripping with crystal prisms that rang melodically in the breeze. She began to wonder if she hadn’t taken the meeting with Julian’s mother entirely too lightly.

In a gentlemanly gesture, Julian gripped her elbow as they ascended the steps together. Yet he released her as soon as they were safely on the veranda, and turned to rap sharply at the door. Staring at him standing next to her, so cool and remote, Mercy stifled a sigh. She was not particularly proud of herself for her stinging words to him in the carriage. Why was it that with Julian, her pride always got the better of her?

But then, what could the man expect after he had forced her hand this way? He was marrying her only to punish her, to degrade her by taking her to bed.

The very thought of being in bed with him seared Mercy’s senses like the heat of a blast furnace. She turned away to hide her guilty blush. By the saints, she must stop succumbing to this giddy, weak-kneed feeling every time she imagined Julian touching her!

Soon a gray-haired butler admitted them, showing them into a lavish parlor. Julian and Mercy sat as far apart as possible on the silk damask settee as they waited in strained silence for Madelaine Devereux to appear. Mercy was awed by the luxurious interior; the huge double parlor seemed even larger than the chapel at St. Mary’s.

“Why, Julian!” came a lyrical voice moments later. “And you must be dear little Mercy.”

Mercy glanced up to see a tall, slim, queenly woman wearing a lavender voile dress and fabulous jewelry. She was staring at Mercy with an expression of shocked pleasure.

As Julian rose, Mercy followed suit, cautiously watching the woman approach.

“Good afternoon, Mama.” Julian stepped forward and kissed his mother’s cheek. He inclined his head toward Mercy. “May I present my fiancée, Mademoiselle Mercy O’Shea. Mercy, this is my mother, Madelaine Devereux.”

“Why, Mercy. You’re just lovely.” Madelaine extended a bejeweled hand to the girl.

Mercy hastened forward and shook Madelaine’s slim, cool fingers. “Thank you, madame. I am most pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Madelaine turned to her son. “Julian, Raoul will be bringing in our tea shortly. But in the meantime, wouldn’t you like to have a constitutional about the grounds while your fiancée and I become better acquainted? I think you’ll find the rose garden spectacular right now.”

Julian frowned uncertainly. “Mama, I’m not sure . . .”

Madelaine touched her son’s arm. “Oh, Julian, you know how we females are. Constantly putting our heads together and gossiping. Don’t let us bore you with our prattle.”

At his mother’s alarming words, Julian glanced sharply at Mercy, but saw no hint of softening or entreaty in her eyes. Obviously, the girl had no desire to be rescued. Let her be left to his mother’s tender mercies, then, he decided grimly. “As you wish, Mama,” he said in clipped tones, and strode from the room.

“Do let’s sit down and have a nice long chat,” Madelaine said brightly to Mercy, as if oblivious of the tension Julian had left trailing behind him like smoke in the air.

Mercy respectfully waited for the older woman to seat herself on the settee, then she settled into the opposite corner and smoothed her skirts.

“Mercy, I must tell you again how delighted I am with you,” Madelaine began eagerly, looking her over carefully.

“Thank you, madame.”

“However, my son’s news has been something of a surprise.” With a scintillating laugh, Madelaine added, “Now, of course, you must supply all the juicy details.”

Heat suffused Mercy’s cheeks at Madelaine’s forthright request. “I—I don’t know what you mean, madame.”

“Don’t you?” Madelaine playfully tapped Mercy’s sleeve with her folded fan. “Here I thought you were a mere orphan my son was sponsoring. Yet it seems there was much going on behind the scenes that I was unaware of.”

Now that was an understatement, Mercy mused cynically. For a mean-spirited moment, she was tempted to spill out everything to Madelaine regarding Julian’s treachery. But then she remembered her promise to him, however grudging, and she realized with awe and some alarm that she would gain no satisfaction from assassinating his character before his mother.

Thus, she said primly, “I do not feel that your son’s decision to marry me is that unusual. After all, he is my guardian and has visited me for years at the parish house, to inquire after my welfare. His desire to wed me came as a natural consequence of that interest, I presume.”

Madelaine’s lips twitched as she regarded Mercy skeptically. “Of course, dear,” she said in the wry tone one might use to humor a dissembling child. “Still, to think that all this time, my son has been closeting away a convent bride, and the sly devil didn’t even mention this. Tell me, was it terribly romantic when he proposed?”

Mercy could not help but laugh. She realized that she really liked this outrageous, forthright lady. She remembered the awful, wonderful night when Julian had proposed—how he had ravished her lips, how he had insisted that she marry him. Recalling the wild light in his eyes, she murmured ironically, “Ah, yes. Terribly romantic.”

“And what did you say when he asked you?”

Studying Madelaine’s expression of avid fascination, Mercy decided that enough was enough. She would keep her word to Julian, but nothing required her to build a monument to deceit. “I said nothing, madame,” she answered truthfully. “You see, Julian did not ask me to marry him.”

“He didn’t ask? Then how did you become . . . ?”

Mercy clenched her jaw. “He told me I would marry him.”

Madelaine chortled her delight. “He told you? Ah, but that’s even better! These passionate Creoles.” With a confidential wink, she added, “You know, Julian is the very image of his grandfather.”

“Is he? And what of his father?”

Madelaine sighed. “Jacques was a fine man, but, truth to tell, he was rather dull. This impetuosity of nature must skip a generation. At any rate, Jacques’s father, Pierre Devereux—now that man was the very devil himself.”

“Was he?” Mercy was fascinated.

“Oui,” Madelaine confided. “As a young man, Pierre came here from France and established a successful cotton commission exchange. He fell hopelessly in love with a young debutante, Clarisse DeLeon. When she refused his suit, he kidnapped her and took her off to the river. He had a priest waiting on a keelboat.”

“Mon Dieu!” Mercy gasped. “So that’s where Julian acquired his—er—”

“Indeed,” Madelaine agreed, her blue eyes twinkling. “In fact, when Pierre and Clarisse stood before the priest and she still balked at the idea of taking her vows, Pierre threatened to . . . ” Madelaine leaned over and whispered the rest in Mercy’s ear.

“In front of everyone?” Mercy asked, her face as red as an apple.

The two women forced themselves into silence as Raoul lumbered into the room with a tea tray. Madelaine turned to begin serving the repast, and Mercy took a moment to collect herself. She now knew from whence Julian had inherited his dangerous, roguish nature. She also presumed he had inherited quite a bit of his nerve from his outspoken mother.

“Now—where were we?” Madelaine asked as she handed Mercy a filled teacup. She smiled. “You know, I like you, Mercy.”