Rogue's Mistress(25)
“I say, Devereux, what do you think the price of cotton will do this fall?”
As an impatient male voice interrupted his musings, Julian glanced down the table at a scowling Robert Townsend; the Easterner was now negotiating a contract with Julian’s firm to supply cotton for his cloth factory.
“My pardon, m’sieur,” he responded with a patient smile. “I think the price will hold steady at around seventy-five dollars a bale.”
“I’ve heard that there’s been a lot of flooding up in St. James Parish,” Townsend was continuing worriedly, scratching his goateed chin. “If many of the crops are destroyed, the price could skyrocket.”
“Which means it only makes more sense for you to contract with us now,” Julian continued smoothly. Staring pointedly at Mercy, he added in a loud voice that she could not possibly miss, “For who knows? Perhaps the Mississippi will boil over before the end of the season.”
At his words, a flutter of nervous laughter drifted down the table. Afterward, everyone paused to wonder why M’sieur Devereux and his fiancée were suddenly staring at each other with such hot, scathing anger.
***
Silence prevailed inside Julian’s couch as Henrí drove the threesome back toward the parish house. Even the normally ebullient Madelaine had little to say as she sat with lips pursed and fingers laced tightly together.
As soon as Henrí brought the carriage to a halt, Julian alighted and grimly offered Mercy his hand. He was looking forward to the few minutes it would take to escort her back to the parish house—a few minutes he would make certain would be forever burned in her memory.
Unfortunately, even as he helped her out of the carriage, the gatekeeper, Old Hugo, ambled forth from the conciergerie. “Good evening mademoiselle, m’sieur,” the elderly Creole said, bowing respectfully. To Julian, he added, “Mother Anise instructed me to watch for Mam’selle Mercy and escort her inside.”
Frustration churned inside Julian at the old man’s words; he was blocked and he knew it. With as much grace as possible, he handed Mercy over to the gatekeeper. “Good night, Mercy,” he said in an ominous voice. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”
“Good night, m’sieur,” she replied cheerfully, dancing off in a swirl of skirts.
Julian ground his jaw and turned back to the carriage.
***
When Mercy entered the parish house a moment later, Mother Anise and Sister Clarabelle rushed up with eyes aglow. “Did you have a good time, my dear?” Mother Anise asked.
Remembering Julian’s dark, smoldering look as he left her, Mercy beamed with happiness. “I had a wonderful time,” she said gaily.
***
“Your fiancée made a fool of you tonight,” Madelaine said.
Julian glanced sharply at his mother; she had uttered her damning words before the carriage had even rattled off again. “Do tell, Mama. Frankly, I hadn’t noticed.”
“We were among friends tonight,” Madelaine continued, ignoring her son’s flash of temper. “But you must take the girl in hand. She’s a strong, willful young woman, and you must take care not to break her spirit. Nevertheless, you cannot let her run wild. It is unthinkable that she might disgrace you at our soirée at the St. Louis next week. You must not allow her to do so.”
“Mama, I did not allow Mercy to do anything tonight.”
“That’s precisely my point. You’re hardly in charge of your own fiancée.”
Julian did not reply. He knew his mother was right, and he had no real defense to offer. As a man, he should be in charge of his own fiancée, and he most definitely was not. If only the gatekeeper hadn’t come forward at that critical moment, by now, he and Mercy could have had their reckoning. Yet, to his fury and frustration, she had escaped utterly unscathed.
Nevertheless, the girl had managed a reprieve, not a pardon, he reminded himself with bitter purpose. Let the little tease play her cat and mouse games; he would catch her at her own ruse and exact a savage revenge.
And he would claim at least one thorough, punishing kiss for each and every time the chit dared to call him “m’sieur.”
***
At the convent later that night, Mercy found sleep elusive. She realized she had actually enjoyed making Julian jealous tonight and had taken a certain perverse pleasure in his possessiveness. Yet she had also toyed with him like a small, reckless mouse daring a large, powerful cat to pounce.
Was she suicidal?
Even more demoralizing, she realized that she had spent the entire evening with Julian without even once thinking of him as the man who had murdered her father. Nor had she indulged a split second wishing she were still engaged to Philippe Broussard.
These realizations frightened her more than Julian Devereux himself.
Chapter Twelve
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The following days afforded Julian little opportunity to be alone with Mercy. The two of them went out several more times at the invitation of young couples he knew. Mercy’s new maid, Risa, a pretty, soft-spoken girl of seventeen, rode with them each time to honor the dictates of propriety.
Julian and Mercy went to the opera with Francois and Andréa Ravel, and attended a lecture on the Far East with Claude and Charity La Ronde. Mercy acted curiously well-behaved and modest on all occasions—even when they went for an intimate dinner at the Napoleon House with Julian’s best friend, Nicholas Bienville, and his vivacious little fiancée, Honoree Rossini. Bienville, a notorious rake, stared at Mercy blatantly throughout dinner, yet she seemed immune to his charms. Nevertheless, Julian exchanged some heated words with Nicholas when the men went out to the courtyard for cigars, and the two “friends” quite nearly engaged in an impromptu duel.
Actually, though Julian did not know it, Mercy was behaving herself for a reason. She had a feeling that if she played the coquette too often, Julian would move in quickly to curtail her fun. Indeed, she was well aware that only Old Hugo’s intervention had saved her from savage retribution at Julian’s hands on the night of the Beaufort dinner party. She would not soon forget the smoldering look in his eye when he had reluctantly released her, after she had made such a fool of him at dinner. Considering his proud, volatile nature, she reasoned that she would be lucky to escape unscathed one additional time—if at all! Accordingly, she decided that she must bide her time and play her hand to optimum advantage.
Which meant she would need to disgrace Julian at the worst possible moment, at the ball his mother was giving to announce their betrothal. If she made a fool of him at his own engagement party, he’d surely have no choice but to call off the wedding, she decided vengefully.
This thought was very much on Mercy’s mind on the night of the ball itself, as she dressed at the parish house. She was assisted by Risa, as well as by Madelaine Devereux, who had insisted on coming by to supervise Mercy’s preparations. The nuns had tactfully withdrawn, rather than try to add their presence to the already crowded room.
Wearing just her undergarments and a loose wrapper, Mercy sat on a straight chair before the pier mirror, with Risa standing behind her and arranging her coiffure with brush and curling iron. Madelaine, wearing a regal ball gown of coral silk, stood next to the girl, observing with a frown.
“No, Risa, do not pile any curls on top of mam’selle’s head,” Madelaine directed. “Mam’selle’s face is long—really, of perfect proportions—but we do not need to accentuate the effect. Kindly pull her hair away from her face and let the curls trail down her nape. And, mind you, leave a small curl free to dangle by each ear.”
“Yes’um,” Risa said obediently, following the imperious instructions diligently.
Mercy slanted the slave a compassionate smile; she liked the shy, respectful girl greatly. Then, observing Madelaine Devereux’s intent expression, Mercy twisted her fingers together nervously. How would the socially prominent widow feel when her future daughter-in-law ruined her soirée by disgracing both mother and son?
Guilt churned inside Mercy. She certainly bore Madelaine no ill will, yet she was about to cause the woman no small amount of embarrassment and perhaps even genuine anguish. But neither was she willing to let Julian take complete charge of her life this way. If Madelaine got caught in the middle, then that was strictly Julian’s fault for trying to force this marriage on her in the first place.
When Mercy’s coiffure was completed, Risa laced a spray of pale pink camellia blossoms over one ear as a finishing touch. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Mercy realized that Madelaine had been right—she did look better with her hair more simply styled, and the small curls near her ears were a definite seductive touch—though not for the role Madelaine had in mind, Mercy was sure.
Since Creole women often wore light makeup, Risa worked subtle amounts of rouge into Mercy’s cheeks, following up with a finishing coat of rice powder. Both women then helped Mercy don her corset, her many petticoats, and her ball gown—a stunning vision fashioned of sapphire-blue satin. Once all the gleaming folds were in place, Madelaine stood back slightly, admiring the girl.
“You look fabulous, darling,” she murmured. “No wonder my son is so taken with you.”