Rogue's Mistress(63)

Such concerns had little meaning for Mercy. Her soul was deeply troubled. She’d been gone from New Orleans for over a month now, and still there had been no word from Julian.

What had she expected? she asked herself bitterly. Julian was doubtless delighted that she’d left, and was now having a grand time bedding Justine.

Still, to her everlasting shame, her heart hungered for him. She tossed and turned at night, yearning for his embrace. She awakened before dawn, feeling unrested, unsettled, bereft . . . Without him, she was like a lamp without a flame, cold, empty, and alone. It did not matter if people were around her, as they so often were. The wrenching loneliness was ever-present in her heart.

She glanced down at her left hand, watching the soft light gleam over her wedding band. Why she still wore the ring, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps a small, foolish part of her was unwilling to give up hope.

Not that she wasn’t urged, daily, to dissolve her marriage, both by Anton and by her grandparents. All three had done everything in their power to make inroads into Mercy’s heart and to convince her to divorce Julian and remain in Natchez.

She thought over the past weeks. Her mother’s trust had been put at her disposal. The Dubois had proved themselves marvelous hosts and devoted grandparents; they had taken Mercy around to numerous social gatherings, proudly introducing her to one and all as their granddaughter. No mention of her husband was ever made; indeed, Anton often served as her escort.

The thought of Anton brought a frown to her lips. While her cousin was forever gallant and solicitous, she had found he was becoming too aggressive of late—insisting that she proceed with the divorce and Church annulment, trying to take charge of her decisions and threatening her independence. He was also becoming too friendly for her tastes, constantly assuming that he would be her escort, and taking every opportunity to kiss her hand or cheek, to touch her arm or waist. For Mercy, it was hard to protest such casual and seemingly harmless intimacies, especially since they were cousins; still, the oft-spotted zealous gleam in his eyes disturbed her greatly. And, unfortunately, she had no support for her doubts from the Dubois, since they encouraged Anton’s attentions toward her. She’d assumed long ago that her grandparents must be plotting an eventual marriage between her and Anton, once she was divorced from Julian.

If she could ever persuade herself to divorce him. Mercy realized that, even if she could, remarriage would be impossible for her. No one could stir her as Julian did.

“Mercy!” came an exasperated male voice. “What on earth are you doing out here all alone? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Mercy turned to watch Anton emerge from the rear parlor through the opened Jeffersonian door. With his thick brown hair and chiseled features catching the light behind him, he appeared quite the dashing gentleman tonight.

“Are you all right, dear?” he asked worriedly, stepping closer.

“I just needed some air.”

He glanced out at the grounds. “It is a lovely night. Did you tire of all the political rhetoric inside?”

“Oh, yes.” She laughed.

He chuckled. “A number of our planters are up in arms at the threat of losing their cheap system of slave labor. Secession fever is definitely in the air. However, I have a feeling that if war comes, it won’t be for many years.” He patted her arm reassuringly. “Don’t fret now. Dinner will be served soon, and I’m sure Mrs. Dahlgreen will keep the conversation on more neutral grounds.”

She nodded, but did not reply, staring out at a distant chimney swift as it arced across the diamond-dotted sky. It was a romantic sight, she had to concede; yet she had no one with whom she could share this poignant moment.

Observing her pensive expression, Anton scowled. “You don’t seem quite yourself tonight, dear. Is something troubling you?”

Her fingers dug into the soft satin folds of her skirt. “I’m thinking that perhaps I should return to New Orleans.”

“What?” he exclaimed, his features aghast. “But Natchez is your home!”

She shook her head sadly. “I’ve enjoyed my visit here, but I’m not sure I can ever think of Natchez as my home.”

“Then you’re contemplating crawling back to that cad you married?” he demanded.

Mercy turned to him in anger. “I’m not crawling back to anyone. I just think perhaps it’s time I confront Julian and then get on with my life.”

He shook his head incredulously. “You’re deluding yourself, Mercy. You may think you want to denounce Julian Devereux, but if you go back to him now, I wager you’ll end up right back in his bed.”

Mercy was appalled, her cheeks flaming. She automatically drew back her hand to slap him. “Why, of all the—”

But Anton caught her wrist in a grip of steel, and his eyes burned avidly into hers. “Mercy, listen to me. I don’t mean to be crude, but I’m a lawyer, and I know something of these matters. You may claim to hate Julian Devereux, but I’ve seen the look in your eyes when you speak of him. If you go back to him now, you’ll be caught in his web. He’ll just go on exploiting your feelings—and betraying you at will with his mistress.”

Bitter tears stung Mercy’s eyes as she realized that Anton had spoken the truth. Still, she faced him proudly. “Let go of my wrist, please.”

“Of course.” At once, the passion in him died, and he regarded her contritely. “Mercy, forgive my rashness of word and deed. But as I’ve told you numerous times, there’s no need for you to return to New Orleans. I can handle the divorce for you from here—”

“I’m not going to hide behind you, Anton,” Mercy insisted, rubbing her sore wrist.

“You won’t be hiding, only protecting yourself from that villain,” he reasoned. As Mercy merely glowered at him stubbornly, he added, “Why must you insist on seeing him?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps because I’ve never been a coward—until now. Perhaps because I feel I owe him a hearing.”

He threw up his hands in exasperation. “After what he did to you?” With an explosive sigh, he nodded. “Very well, then. Let me know when you come to your senses and want to proceed with the divorce.”

As he turned for the archway, she felt feelings of sympathy stirring at his obvious frustration. She caught his sleeve and smiled. “Anton, I’m sorry. You’ve been very patient, and kind.”

“And I have every intention of becoming much more to you, darling,” he whispered with sudden intensity.

Before Mercy could protest, he caught her close and kissed her. She was stunned and outraged, not at all stirred by the assault of his wet, fleshy lips. She squealed and pushed against his chest, struggling mightily. After a moment, he released her; but his eyes held a fervent, victorious light.

“Don’t you ever do that again!” she warned, her eyes shooting sparks at him. “I’m a married woman.”

“Not for long, you won’t be,” he murmured with a smug, disturbing smile. Then, with greater tact, he added, “Mercy, surely by now you must know what you’ve come to mean to me.”

She was anything but appeased. Indeed, she was again tempted to slap him for his effrontery. But at that moment, Gaspard emerged from the parlor, motioning impatiently to them both. “So there you are! Hurry, now. Dinner is served.”

Anton bowed deeply and offered Mercy his arm. “May I have the honor?”

She would have cut him dead, except that she could not stoop so low as to create a scene in front of her grandfather. She had to be satisfied, instead, with tossing Anton a mutinous, warning look. With great reluctance, she perched her fingertips lightly on his sleeve. Her eyes were icy with hostility as she swept back into the parlor on his arm.

Meanwhile, Anton was smiling to himself. Mercy had better grow accustomed to his kisses, for soon she would be tolerating much more. Indeed, it was already growing most difficult for him to keep his hands off this lush little temptress. Her resistance was meaningless, of course, for he had long ago discovered that the more a woman fought him, the hotter she eventually was in bed.

Still, he must be patient. If he played his role with care, soon Mercy Devereux, as well as her vast fortune, would be all his.

For, unbeknownst to Mercy, but in consultation with the Dubois, Anton had already sent divorce papers to New Orleans to be signed by Julian Devereux. If the man were the coward that Mercy claimed, he would surely sign the papers and return them promptly; that way, he would be free to go on consorting with his mistress.

Anton had also contacted the Matrimonial Tribunal of the Natchez Diocese, and they should soon be writing to Devereux as well, to ask for his signature on a statement regarding the forced nuptials. With any luck, both the divorce and the Church annulment could be effected by spring, and Anton Gerard would then spend the rest of his days as one of the wealthiest men in Natchez . . .

***

In New Orleans the next day, the sounds of Julian Devereux’s cursing threatened to bring down the walls of his home.

That fateful morning, the servants scurried about, crossing themselves and speaking in shocked undertones. Maître had been up much of the night, pacing and drinking, as he so often did of late. Then this morning, when the post had arrived, and an official-looking document had found its way to maître’s desk, the man had gone insane. He was now in his study, throwing things and bellowing the most foul language. It could be a seasonal fever, or, even worse, a most dreaded dementia.