Rogue's Mistress(23)

Chapter Eleven


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True to her word, Madame Devereux eagerly took Mercy in hand, introducing her to all her prominent friends. She began by taking the girl to visit her closest confidants, and each time, she discreetly mentioned that Mercy was soon to wed her son. Madelaine never missed an opportunity to inform her friends that Mercy’s mother hailed from the aristocratic Dubois family of Natchez; she made light of the Irish element in Mercy’s heritage. Madeline’s strategy annoyed Mercy, but she kept her peace out of respect for the matron. The woman was wise enough never to actually criticize Brendan O’Shea, and she constantly praised Corrine; such tactics were hard for Mercy to resist.

The Creoles of the Quarter loved both romance and mystery, and soon Mercy O’Shea, the half-Creole, half-Irish fiancée of masterful, mysterious Julian Devereux, became the newest object of fascination in the Vieux Carré. Invitations poured in from women in the most socially prominent families.

The nuns at St. Mary’s were still proceeding with the wedding plans, as well as with Mercy’s trousseau. Some of her new dresses were being fashioned by a modiste from the Quarter, but all of her lingerie was being hand sewn by the nuns.

At first, Julian was largely left out of days that were filled with constant social calls, fittings, and shopping. But, as word of the engagement spread, Mercy and Julian were soon invited to attend evening events as a couple.

Their first invitation, for an informal dinner party, came from Julian’s business partner at the Exchange, André Beaufort. As soon as the nuns were informed, they made sure that a suitable gown for Mercy was readied in time.

On the evening of the dinner party, everyone at the convent was atwitter with excitement—except Mercy. The nuns twirled in and out of her room. One of the younger nuns, Sister Danielle, spent hours laboring over Mercy’s coiffure with a curling iron. She pulled Mercy’s wavy locks up and away from her face, coiling elaborate ringlets on top of her head. A luscious cascade of curls trailed down her nape. As a final touch, the nun placed a spray of white camellia blossoms near one ear, in the style so popular with Creole women.

When the moment came for Mercy to don her dress, Mother Anise and Sister Clarabelle gathered about her, watching raptly as Sister Danielle helped Mercy pull the emerald-green watered silk carefully over her head. “Mind your coiffure, mon enfant,” the nun scolded.

As the folds of the shimmering fabric fell into place, all three nuns gasped their delight. Even Mercy was compelled to stare at her transformed visage in the pier mirror. The green dress was breathtaking—styled off the shoulders, with white lace half-sleeves. The neckline plunged dramatically, highlighting her firm breasts; the waist cinched tight, emphasizing her slenderness; the skirt was full and feminine, with three tiers of Alençon lace embellishing the hem. With her hair pulled high on her head, Mercy had to admit that she had never looked lovelier. Too bad she was being escorted by Julian Devereux.

The nuns clapped their hands and trilled comments about how charmante and ravissante their young charge looked. Staring at the three smiling sisters, Mercy mused that this had to be a high point in their normally dull lives. She felt a twinge of conscience for all the trouble she had caused them over the years through her headstrong, defiant behavior. They were all so happy for her now, thrilled that she’d made such a fine match—even if she wasn’t happy for herself. Thus, smiling radiantly, she said to them, “Thank you all so much for helping.”

Just then, a fourth nun, Sister Marie, burst in to announce that Julian had arrived. The tittering nuns waited at the top of the stairs as Mercy glided down to meet him in the vestibule below. When she caught sight of him, she almost tripped over her hem.

For Julian stood below her dressed entirely in white! A superbly cut white wool frock coat tapered from his broad shoulders to his trim waist; the creases of his sharp white trousers rested on top of polished boots of light brown. His outfit was completed by a satin brocade vest of cranberry red, a black string cravat, and a white Panama hat. All and all, he looked as rakish and dangerous as the riverboat gambler Mercy had seen one day at the French Market. She’d caught only a brief glimpse of that man, helping a lady with unnaturally red hair into his buggy, before Sister Clarabelle had scolded her for staring. Now she couldn’t take her eyes off Julian. She had never known that white could be such a wicked color.

He seemed to be gazing up at her, too, although it was hard to tell with the brim of his hat shading his eyes.

Below her, Julian was staring—indeed, he was mesmerized as he watched his fiancée float down the stairs. He’d always known that Mercy was beautiful, but tonight her ravishing perfection hit him like a physical blow. Never had the long, lovely contours of her face stood out as they did now with her hair pulled up high; never had her large eyes gleamed with such brilliance as they caught the vibrant emerald-green of her frock. The dress was a seductive showcase for her slender throat, her rounded, upthrust breasts, and her slim waist. How he longed to plant his hands on that tiny waist and haul her close. And if the other men present tonight experienced the same reaction to her alluring attire and daring décolletage, they would both be in plenty of trouble. Jealousy seared him at the thought that any other man should feast his eyes on her loveliness.

He had missed her over the past days, he realized with a sudden, sinking feeling. He had tried not to think of her, tried not to remember the hungry kisses he had forced on her the last time they were together. Yet a slender hope flared inside him every time he recalled how she had seemed to soften slightly in his arms, how she had opened her soft, sweet lips to his torrid possession . . .

Mon Dieu, this was madness! He was laying his heart on the line for the girl to slice to ribbons with her vindictiveness. Yet he was powerless to resist her spell. Indeed, as she now seemed to trip slightly and gripped the banister, he was suddenly all solicitousness, rushing forward.

His resonant, slightly sardonic voice drifted up to her. “Are you in need of some assistance, Mercy?”

Mercy froze at the sound of his deep, tantalizing voice. High color flamed in her cheeks as she realized how silly she must look, standing as if transfixed on the stairway. “Er—no,” she stammered. “It’s just that I snagged my slipper on a petticoat or something, and I thought I was going to trip. But I’m fine now, really.”

Julian reached her side and offered his arm—and a grin. Her pulses pounded at his mesmerizing nearness.

“Nonetheless, I shall offer my escort, mademoiselle,” he drawled. “You do look enchanting tonight, and it would be a shame to ruin that lovely frock or that perfect coiffure with a tumble down the stairs.”

“You wouldn’t mind, then, if I broke my neck?” she asked with mingled sarcasm and humor.

“That would surely be the gravest misfortune of all,” he teased back.

Staring into the blue eyes that regarded her with such amusement and unabashed interest, Mercy clutched his arm tightly so that he wouldn’t notice how her fingers trembled. It struck her suddenly that she knew next to nothing about this man and his supposedly “hot” blood. He could be a gambler or a womanizer, for all she knew—and his mother might be blithely assuming that she would reform his profligate nature once they were wed.

But she did know one thing, and this knowledge both frightened and fascinated her: She was no longer sorry she was spending the evening with Julian Devereux.

***

When Julian ushered Mercy into his carriage, her bubble burst. Sitting half in a shadow was Madelaine Devereux.

Mercy realized that she was actually disappointed that she wouldn’t be traveling to the Beaufort home alone with Julian.

“Why, Madame Devereux—what a pleasant surprise.”

Madelaine evidently read the girl’s eyes. “Hello, darling,” she said brightly, grasping Mercy’s arm and helping her into the space beside her. “You look ravishing tonight. I’m sorry to intrude on your evening with Julian, but as I’m sure you know, it would not be proper for the two of you to go out without a chaperone.”

“Of course, madame—it is a distinct pleasure to share the evening with you,” Mercy said, forcing a cheerful tone.

“Mama and her sense of propriety,” Julian commented drolly as he shut the door and settled into the seat opposite the women.

“Oh, hush, Julian,” Madelaine said stoutly as the carriage rattled off. “You’re a fine one to complain, wearing such outlandish attire to a dinner party. Why, you look like a riverboat gambler!” Irately, she turned to Mercy. “Doesn’t he look like a riverboat gambler?”

“Oui, madame,” she said gravely.

Julian only chuckled. “Now, Mama, proper duennas are not allowed to complain. They’re supposed to sit back and knit or something while we turtledoves make calf eyes at each other.” He leered at Mercy for emphasis, and she fought a snicker.

“Speaking of which,” Madelaine went on, ignoring Julian’s sarcasm and his wolfish expression, “I think it’s high time Mercy acquired a personal maid. I’ve a well-trained black girl I can send over to her at the parish house.”