Rogue's Mistress(24)

“Whatever you wish, Mama.”

“Madame, I don’t need—”

Madelaine dismissed Mercy’s mutiny with an imperious wave of a beringed hand. “Mercy, you cannot possibly maintain your proper place as Julian’s wife without a personal maid.”

Madelaine’s tone brooked no nonsense, and when Mercy glanced at Julian, he only winked at her—the devil!

Meanwhile, Madelaine had turned her attention back to Mercy’s frock and was scrutinizing the styling closely as a passing streetlamp cast its wavering glow inside the coach. “I do love the lines of your gown, my dear. Isn’t it a creation of Madame Lafayette on Royal Street?”

“Why, yes. How did you know?”

“She did my gown for the Momus Coronation Ball last year.” Fingering a fold of the silk, she added, “The color is perfect for you, but you could use some jewelry.” She turned to her son. “Don’t you agree, Julian?”

“I think Mercy looks quite lovely without embellishments.”

Madelaine rolled her eyes. “Oh, you men! We must get Mercy some suitable jewels at once.”

“Perhaps I might buy mademoiselle a bauble or two, if she can persuade me to favor her,” Julian teased Mercy, his eyes twinkling.

“Julian, you rogue!” Madelaine exclaimed.

Mercy, meanwhile, was glad they had turned down a street with few lamps, for her face was now as red as Julian’s vest!

“I’ve an entire small chestful of jewelry left me by Grand’mère,” Madelaine explained to Mercy. “We can sort through all of it soon and you can choose the pieces you like . . .”

Madelaine continued to dominate the conversation with small talk. Soon they arrived at the Beaufort town house on St. Peter. Henrí opened the door and helped the ladies out. Julian followed, disentangling the lacy hem of Mercy’s dress when it snagged on the door handle. She murmured a thank you and he tossed her a sardonic grin.

In the balminess of the late spring evening, the threesome approached the stucco town house, Julian with a lady on each arm. Julian rang the bell, and soon a black manservant appeared. With a bow, he opened the gate and bade them enter. Madelaine swept inside first, looking regal in her dress of vibrant blue silk.

Mercy started to follow, but Julian held her back, gripping her slim waist with his hands and turning her to face him. Staring boldly down at her bodice, he murmured, “Didn’t I warn you about these low-cut dresses? I will not tolerate this indiscreet habit of yours after we’re married, chérie.”

Mercy was infuriated by his audacious dictate—not to mention his seductive tone. She felt her heart race as she took in his mocking features and caught his faint scent of brandy and bay rum. She wondered idly how much he’d had to drink tonight. Garnering all her defenses, she snapped, “The day you tell me what to wear is the day the Mississippi boils over. Now unhand me, m’sieur.”

He chuckled, but his eyes held a glint of steel. “Do not fret yourself, mademoiselle. All too soon, it will be my duty—and my pleasure—to tell you what not to wear.”

At last he released her, and Mercy stormed through the gate, past the confused manservant. Her face was crimson. As she trooped through the courtyard toward the parlor, she mused ruefully that she was surprised she hadn’t doubled over with a stomach cramp—for she so burned where Julian’s large, provocative hands had touched her.

***

An hour later, Mercy and the others were gathered at the Beauforts’ Empire dining table, with its snow-white linen and Old Paris china. Discreet servants poured wine and served soup, while in the shadows near one wall, an adolescent lad stood pulling the cord to the giant punkah fan, which swung to and fro over the table like a polished walnut apron.

Sampling the first course of rich turtle soup, Mercy glanced around at the assemblage. The Beauforts were a colorful couple, both barely above five feet in height. André was dark and balding, with a trim mustache and flashing Creole eyes; Mignon was fair and serene, with cornflower-blue eyes and a perpetual smile. As host and hostess, the Beauforts sat at opposite ends of the table; Julian and Mercy sat across from each other toward one end, flanking M’sieur Beaufort. Toward the other end were seated Madelaine Devereux and M’sieur Robert Townsend, a businessman from the East who was currently a houseguest of the Beauforts. At the center of the table, on either side of Julian and Mercy, sat the Beaufort twins, Celeste and Charles. Blond, blue-eyed and nineteen, the twins resembled their mother. Charles fawned over Mercy, constantly asking her if she would like more wine or soup, while his sister, across the table, made eyes at Julian.

The conversation was brisk but dull, as far as Mercy was concerned. Mention was made of a rather mediocre opera now playing at the Theater d’New Orleans. The small yellow fever epidemic now breaking out in the Quarter was discussed in hushed tones.

M’sieur Townsend, who was in town to buy cotton for his northern factory, discussed the political climate back East. He had actually been present at the Washington Monument grounds last year on the Fourth of July, when President Taylor had overindulged in food and drink, and died of a violent stomach ailment several days later. “It was almost enough to persuade one to give up rich food and strong drink,” Townsend said, and everyone laughed. To the fun-loving Creoles, sumptuous foods and fine spirits were the staff of life.

“Speaking of which,” M’sieur Beaufort said with a proud grin, “I believe a toast is in order, to my partner and his new fiancée.”

“Now, André,” Madelaine scolded in scandalized tones, “you know we’re not making our announcement public until next week.”

André waved her off. “We’re all friends here, Madelaine.” Raising his glass, he added, “To Julian and Mercy.”

The others present politely raised their glasses and repeated the toast; the crystal clinked and the wine was consumed. Setting down her goblet, Mercy stared across at Julian, who was studying her with a mocking smile. They had not exchanged a single word since he’d made his outrageous remarks out at the gate, and she still seethed at his audacity. How dare the big oaf criticize her clothing—after all, she was only honoring the dictates of fashion. Even the nuns, who were the soul of propriety, had found her frock delightful.

All too soon, it will be my duty—and my pleasure—to tell you what not to wear. Julian’s arrogant promise still burned across her mind, and she restrained a shiver at the lewd images his words evoked. She chided herself for ever feeling the slightest joy at the thought of being with him tonight—the insufferable cad. So he wanted to play the role of the jealous, possessive fiancé; indeed, he had practically accused her of coquetry just because she had worn appropriate clothing. She would find a way to exact revenge from him—and her revenge would be sweet.

As Charles Beaufort turned to her with a basket of bread and said with adoring eyes, “Would mademoiselle care for a roll?” the perfect retribution occurred to Mercy. Julian had accused her of indiscretion—so let her be indiscreet, in the presence of everyone, when there was nothing he could do about it. Moreover, if she made a complete fool of him, perhaps his Creole pride would be affronted enough that he would call off this absurd engagement.

She flashed Charles her most dazzling smile and touched his hand. “Why, of course, m’sieur. You are so gallant. And would you pour me more wine?”

“Certainly, mademoiselle.” Flustered and blinking rapidly, Charles lurched forward and grabbed the decanter with such clumsy abandon that he practically knocked over Madelaine Devereux’s wineglass in the process. He stammered an apology to Madelaine, then sloshed red wine into Mercy’s glass and grinned at her idiotically.

“Thank you, m’sieur,” she said, winking at him coyly. “And now you must tell me all about your planned European tour in the fall.”

Charles stumbled all over himself as he told Mercy of his scheduled Grand Tour. Ignoring his graceless delivery, Mercy leaned toward him and hung on his every word, occasionally touching his arm or gazing raptly into his eyes.

Her blatant flirtation was not lost on the others at the table—particularly Julian. He seethed with outrage as he observed his fiancée playing the role of tease, fawning all over the cloddish Charles Beaufort. He suspected that she was performing her brazen little act deliberately—but she was definitely achieving her goal. He was a proud man, and his fiancée was disgracing his manhood tonight.

Of course, he could retaliate in kind, by encouraging Celeste Beaufort, who had been making overtures to him all evening, blinking at him through her washed-out eyelashes and simpering at him from behind her fan. But all he could think of was how wan the artless girl waxed next to Mercy. Celeste was as pale and transparent as water; Mercy as bright and vibrant as a flame. And that dress—that tantalizing, erotic splash of emerald! All evening, the scandalous décolletage had been a constant source of torment for his ravenous loins. And he could only imagine what the alluring proximity of that low bodice was doing to Charles Beaufort, especially as Mercy now laughed gaily and leaned toward him with an impudent dip of cleavage. With great restraint, Julian managed not to bolt out of his chair, knock Beaufort senseless, and drag Mercy off to be taught a lesson she would not soon forget.