Rogue's Mistress(48)
As Henrí helped her out of the coach, Mercy studied the slate-roofed bungalow with its whitewashed façade and green shutters, the potted geraniums lined up across the gallery and the lush roses lining the path to the front door. No wonder Julian liked to visit this homey little retreat, she thought achingly.
Her heart pounded in trepidation as she started up the path with Henrí following her at a respectful distance. Only the manservant’s presence kept her from turning and fleeing. Again she bemoaned her own foolishness in coming to see Julian’s mistress.
Too late for second thoughts now, she mused morosely, as she stood before the carved front door. She hesitated a moment, then rapped the handsome brass knocker.
In less than a minute, the door swung open and a lovely woman stood before Mercy. Mercy smothered a gasp; she had never expected Julian’s mistress to be quite this ravishing!
Tall and statuesque, Justine Begué looked to be in her mid-twenties and was exotically beautiful. She was dressed in a ruffled gold taffeta frock complemented by ruby and sapphire rings and a necklace of stunning topaz; her rich brown hair was piled high on her head.
Justine was gazing at Mercy with polite curiosity; at last Mercy realized that she was staring quite rudely. “You are Justine Begué?” she inquired awkwardly.
“Oui,” the woman replied in a deep but feminine voice.
Mercy’s fingers twisted the ties of her reticule. “I wished to meet you. You see, I’m—”
“You are Julian’s bride, no?” Justine inquired.
“That’s correct,” Mercy acknowledged with a stiff nod.
“Please, madame, come in,” Justine said. Looking past Mercy, she also nodded to Henrí.
In strained silence, the two followed Justine into the posh bungalow. The interior smelled marvelous, filled with the sweet, spicy scents of homemade potpourri. In the parlor, Mercy took the chair her hostess indicated, while Justine sat down flanking her on the settee. Henrí slipped tactfully from the room; Mercy heard a door shut toward the back of the house.
Mercy glanced about the room, noting the lavish furnishings and expensive accoutrements. She turned back to Justine. “Your son is—”
“Arnaud is out back, playing in the walled garden. He’s perfectly safe there, but I assume Henrí has gone to watch over him.”
Mercy nodded. “That is good . . .” She dared to meet the other woman’s gaze. “I have no desire to involve your child in this.”
“I see.” Justine smiled quizzically. “You know, I’ve been rather expecting that you would come, madame.”
Mercy’s chin raised up a notch. “Have you?”
“Your curiosity is understandable under the circumstances.”
“I expect so,” Mercy said tightly. She studied the room in greater detail, noting the fine rosewood pieces, the plush rug, the imported clocks and gewgaws. She swallowed with an effort. “I can see my husband’s touch here.”
Justine slanted a sympathetic glance toward Julian’s proud young wife. “It would help if you would tell me what you wish to know, madame.”
“What I wish to know,” she repeated ironically. “What I wish to know . . .” Her bright gaze flashed defiantly to Justine, and her words spilled forth passionately. “I wish to know what he means to you. What hold you have over him. What claim you make on his future.”
“You love him very much, no?” Justine asked gently.
Mercy’s hand flew to her mouth, and she was unable to restrain a small gasp at Justine’s directness. It occurred to her suddenly that she had come here to fight for Julian—and fight she would. Her gaze collided proudly with the other woman’s. “Oui,” she said simply.
Justine leaned forward. “Madame, you have nothing to fear from me.”
Mercy laughed incredulously. “How can you say that? Julian has a child with you!”
“That’s true. But the fact of the matter is, my relationship with him has been platonic for some time now.” She studied Mercy closely. “I suspect, ever since he fell in love with you.”
“What?” she gasped, her features blanching.
Justine nodded. “You must know that Julian loves you quite hopelessly.”
Sudden tears stung Mercy’s eyes, and she glanced away in embarrassment. “Actually, I know nothing of the kind.”
“I realize your relationship with Julian over the years has been turbulent. But why do you think he wanted to marry you?”
“I really don’t know,” Mercy admitted, lacing her fingers together. “Some continuing sense of duty, perhaps. He’s never really told me of his true feeling or motives—just as he never told me of you until after we were married.”
Justine sighed. “You’re angry with him now because he didn’t tell you about me and Arnaud prior to your marriage?”
“Of course I’m angry.”
“I implored him to tell you the truth—”
“You implored him?” Mercy cut in in disbelief.
“Oui. But I think he withheld the facts from you because he was afraid of losing you.”
Mercy laughed bitterly. “Forgive me if I find your statement hopelessly naive. Julian didn’t tell me the truth because he wanted to continue seeing you—and your son.”
Justine released a long breath, and gazed at Mercy sadly. “That may have been part of his motive, but not in the way you would think. As I have already stated, Julian and I are friends now.”
Mercy frowned skeptically. “Tell me, do you not feel at all threatened by the fact that Julian has married me?”
“I want his happiness,” Justine said simply.
“And what happiness, what future, is there for you without him?” Mercy demanded.
Justine shrugged. “My needs are simple, madame. I have my son, my cottage. I’ve never expected more.”
“Not even when Julian asked you to marry him?”
She sighed. “So he told you?”
“Actually, his mother did.”
Justine nodded. “Julian offered to marry me because of the child. But I realized, of course, that his wedding me would have been a disaster for him personally. Therefore, I refused.”
Mercy dared to look the other woman straight in the eye. “Did you love him?”
Justine met Mercy’s gaze unflinchingly. “Yes, madame, I did. I still do today, but in a much different way. I love him like a brother.”
Mercy shook her head ironically. “Forgive me if I find all of this most difficult to believe.”
“Is it difficult for you to believe that I would place Julian’s welfare above all else?” Justine challenged.
Staring at Justine’s open, honest face, Mercy realized that she was quite sincere—at least in her devotion to Julian. “I think you care for him deeply,” she murmured. “And it’s no wonder he’s so—er—fond of you.”
“And what about you, madame? Do you place his happiness above all else?”
“I . . .” Mercy gestured lamely. At last she said fatalistically, “What does it matter? It’s obvious that my husband is indifferent to whatever I may feel about him.”
Justine laughed. “Oh, madame. Let me assure you that Julian is anything but indifferent to your feelings. Give him a chance, I implore you.”
Mercy was staring confusedly at Justine when a child’s voice trilled out, “Mama! Look what I found.”
Mercy turned toward the archway and watched a boy of four dance into the room carrying a stalk of blooming lavender. Mercy’s heart melted at the sight of Julian’s son. So this was her husband’s love child. With curly black hair and smooth features, Arnaud was a miniature of his father; he was dressed in a snappy black suit with knee-pants and a red bow tie.
Justine held out her hand to her son. “Come here, Arnaud, and meet our guest.”
The boy hurried to his mother’s side, ensconcing himself in the safety of her outstretched arm. He turned to stare at Mercy with polite curiosity.
Justine cleared her throat. “Arnaud, this is—”
Mercy leaned forward and interrupted, “Arnaud, I am Mercy, a friend of your mother’s.”
“How do you do, madame?” the boy asked, bowing gallantly.
Mercy couldn’t resist a smile; the child was utterly charming. “I am fine, thank you. And you?”
Suitably encouraged, Arnaud walked over to their guest, thrusting the stalk of lavender beneath Mercy’s nose. “The flowers smell very sweet, don’t they, madame?”
“Arnaud!” Justine gasped from the sidelines. “Pray, don’t stab our guest with that stalk!”
“It’s all right,” Mercy hastily assured her. She turned irresistibly to Julian’s child, melting at the look of innocent expectation in his huge blue eyes. She took a deep breath of the flowered stalk he extended. “Oh, yes, Arnaud. The blooms are divine.”
He nodded happily. “Will you take them home?” he asked generously. “To make . . .” He frowned and turned to his mother. “What is it you make with the blooms, Mama?”
“A potpourri, love,” Justine said with an adoring smile.
Arnaud nodded and laid the stalk across Mercy’s lap. “You must make one, as well.”