Yet if she truly hated Julian, how could she explain her response to him last night? She mentally relived the scene between them in horror and fascination. All her life Mercy had felt completely in charge of her own feelings—until last night, when his electrifying sensuality had taken complete charge of her emotions—indeed, of her very body. How could she feel such unspeakably wicked cravings for a man she hated?
What was it Julian had said? A strong emotion, hate. Remembering the turmoil in him, Mercy felt a small stab of regret. She recalled his telling her that her mother had asked him to care for her, and a treacherous softening threatened to storm the fortresses of her heart. Mercy well remembered Corrine O’Shea—her beauty, her kindness, her loving spirit. To this day, she missed her mother, hungered for the nurturing presence that had been so sadly absent in her life ever since. In fairness to Julian, she couldn’t deny that her father had gone drinking on the night her mother died, and that it was Julian, ultimately, who had sat with her mother as she passed away. And she had to admit that Julian had honored his deathbed promise to Corrine O’Shea.
Mercy realized that Julian, too, had suffered from his role in her father’s death, and especially from her own lack of any compassion or forgiveness. Perhaps she had judged him too harshly. Perhaps, if not for her own pride and Julian’s arrogance, they might have settled this matter between them long ago. Still, Julian was the man who had killed her father, and, given the strong clash in their personalities, she shuddered at the thought of being married to him.
She wondered why Julian seemed so determined to wed her. Perhaps it was the continuing sense of obligation he felt, combined with his guilt over her father’s death. Or perhaps, she mused cynically, the cad simply wanted to bed her. That alone seemed patently obvious after last night. Her cheeks flamed as she recalled him dragging her into his arms, his hot mouth pressing on hers, his bare chest crashing her soft breasts . . . She winced as she recalled the wicked heat that had streamed through her body at his touch. While Mercy had no previous experience with a man’s passion, all her feminine instincts told her that Julian Devereux had kissed her with the skill of a connoisseur.
At any rate, damn his eyes for taking charge of her life this way. She would wed him to save Philippe, but if he thought he was getting a docile, submissive wife, the man was going to be in for a massive shock.
Mercy was afire with righteous indignation when Jacob pulled the buggy to a halt before Julian’s town house on Royal and her balloon abruptly burst. Sister Clarabelle, who had been patiently quiet during their journey from the Hotel Broussard, noted Mercy’s lost, pale expression. Laying a hand on the girl’s arm, the nun asked quietly, “Will you now tell me what is going on, child?”
Mercy turned to her with a smile. The elderly sister was her favorite among the nuns at the parish house. “Sister Clarabelle, you’ve been very patient, and I assure you that shortly the mystery will end. It’s just that I must speak with my guardian, and then . . .” Mercy paused, a grim light flashing in her eyes. “I’m sure that before day’s end, M’sieur Devereux will explain everything to you.”
The sister nodded wisely. “Very well, then, mon enfant.”
***
Mercy stood in the lush patio of Julian’s stylish town house, waiting for him to appear. The day had grown hotter, and sweat prickled the nape of her neck. She suspected her discomfort was due as much to tense anticipation as to the heat—and the knot in her stomach only reinforced this grim conclusion.
To the east of her, she could see Sister Clarabelle sitting inside by the parlor window, sipping tea as she surveyed the scene. Mercy was grateful that the sister had consented to allow her to speak with her guardian in relative privacy, although she wasn’t looking forward to their interview one bit.
She looked around her at the fountain spurting its brilliant streams of water, at the bees buzzing around the colorful petunias, at the lush banana trees rippling in the breeze. The courtyard seemed shut off from all earthly care, surrounded by high stucco walls and lovely iron-lace balconies. Yet the tranquil setting seemed to taunt Mercy; even the sweet perfume of nectar filling her lungs brought her no feelings of serenity.
For any moment now Julian Devereux would descend that lovely, curved cypress stairway and the two would have their reckoning.
Reckoning. The verdict was already in, and the victory was his entirely.
Mercy remembered the moment when they had been admitted to the house by Julian’s servant, Henrí. The merest hint of surprise had flickered in the servant's honey-brown eyes as he had said in his low, smooth voice, “I will tell M’sieur Devereux that you have come to call, mam’selle.”
There had been something quite discerning about the servant’s smile, Mercy now mused. She wondered idly how much he already knew about her relationship with Julian.
Then her head snapped up at the sound of footsteps on the stairway. She watched, transfixed, as Julian Devereux descended into the courtyard . . .
***
Julian was in complete charge of his emotions—until he saw Mercy standing in the courtyard beneath him. The sight of the girl momentarily stole the breath from his lungs, and he paused on the stairway, gripping the weathered banister. Mon Dieu, she was a vision today in her lovely yellow dress and matching bonnet; her lush red curls cascaded down her back. He remembered tangling his fingers in that silky mane last night, even as his hungry lips had thoroughly ravished hers. He remembered her trembling and moaning against him, whether in response or fear, he knew not. Now, she looked so tall and regally beautiful, so slender and so tempting—
She was staring up at him, looking equally transfixed, and he wondered at the curious, unguarded expression flashing across her wide green eyes. What was it he saw there—trepidation, vulnerability, the merest flicker of a softening? Could it be that the girl possessed a heart, after all?
For a moment, he almost lost sight of his good intentions. For a moment he thought, Damn us all to perdition, I must have her. Then he watched pride clench Mercy’s lovely features, pride and icy contempt. And the moment of awareness fled so quickly that Julian wondered if it had ever occurred.
He continued down the stairs, his features tightening in implacable resolve as he prepared to do what he must . . .
***
In the garden below, Mercy felt equally mesmerized the instant she spotted Julian coming down the staircase. His was the proud bearing of a prince—his gait long and sure, his boots hitting each step with confidence, his powerful thigh muscles rippling against his fawn-colored trousers. She quickly took in his chocolate-brown velvet frock coat, his ruffled linen shirt and black silk cravat. Her eyes settled on his freshly shaven face, and for a treacherous moment, a softness shone in her eyes . . .
Fighting her own traitorous feelings, Mercy studied her adversary more closely, but found no comfort there. In his elegant clothing, Julian looked almost like an imposing stranger, rather than the wild-eyed, disheveled madman who had practically forced himself on her last night. Yet he was every bit as intimidating.
He stopped midway and stared at her, and for once his expression was open, unguarded, even curious. She noticed that one hauntingly familiar, rakish curl dangled with unspeakable sensuality across his forehead.
Suddenly and disastrously, she remembered everything from last night in humiliating detail—Julian hauling her into his arms and making her feel things she would not confess to the devil, Julian mastering her will with just one kiss . . .
Awareness hit her like a physical blow. Memories of last night both aroused and terrified her, making her realize what devastating power her dark, arrogant guardian held over her. Then pride rose up to save her, and an instinct of self-preservation drove up icy barriers around her heart.
Just as the softness vanished from Mercy’s eyes, any hint of conciliation fled from Julian’s. He continued down the stairway, his expression grimly cynical. He strode out to meet her at the fountain, drawing so close that she could smell the bay ram in his hair and see the stubble along his jaw. Her heart pounded in the explosive silence.
With a clearly mocking bow, he fixed his eyes for a devastating moment on the proud swell of her bosom. He waited for her to speak.
His insulting look pushed Mercy too far. She tossed her curls and announced stoutly, “M’sieur, I have come to tell you that your dirty work is done. Philippe has withdrawn his challenge. I shall become your wife—and cheerfully subject you to a lifetime of hell.”
Chapter Eight
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Julian was so flabbergasted by Mercy’s astounding statement that he completely forgot to scold her for calling him m’sieur. He simultaneously developed amnesia regarding his self-appointed mission—to apologize for last night’s debacle and to let her off the hook. Indeed, even coherent thought seemed beyond him as he stared at his proud young ward in utter mystification.
“You what?” he managed at last.
Annoyance flashed in Mercy’s eyes. “Your pretense of innocence comes a bit late, m’sieur. Tell me, are you still feeling the ill effects of your stupor last night?” Studying Julian’s coldly gleaming eyes, Mercy decided resentfully that he wasn’t. Indeed, he looked entirely too handsome and dangerous to be let loose among the female population—namely her. “So when shall we proceed with this travesty?” she finished flippantly, her chest heaving.