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Rogue's Mistress(19)

By:Eugenia Riley

“Perhaps not,” he conceded ironically. He squeezed her hand. “You’re sure you’re at peace with my betrothal?”

She nodded. “It is what I want for you, Julian.”

Nonetheless, he continued to study her tensely. “As I explained to you the last time we were together, this will change nothing as far as my obligation to you and Arnaud is concerned.”

“Julian, that goes without saying. There is no one in this world that I trust more than you. However—have you told Mercy about me and Arnaud?”

With an abstracted expression, Julian got up and began to pace. “To tell you the truth, Mercy’s so resistant to the idea of marriage that I’m afraid if I tell her now, she’ll have the perfect excuse to defy me utterly. After we’re wed . . . At that point, there will be little she can do.”

“Julian!” Justine was clearly appalled. “You’re taking a terrible risk, my dear. You must love her hopelessly.” When Julian did not reply, Justine added softly, “Is Mercy so very resistant to the idea of wedding you?”

He nodded grimly. “She’s vowed to hate me for the rest of her life.”

Compassion filled her gaze. “You haven’t told her the truth about her father’s death?”

He shrugged. “What purpose would it serve? She’d still regard me with contempt.”

“Oh, I think that will change once you begin living together as man and wife.” Justine smiled wisely.

Abruptly, Julian grinned, and an expression of tender amusement flashed between the two former lovers. “You think it will?”

“Don’t let her shut you out, Julian.” Justine’s lovely amber eyes darkened with turbulent emotion. “That’s how it began with Mama and Papa. Mama was never content to be the mistress of a white man. She wanted Papa to give up his society wife for her. Of course, he never did. But from the time I was little, all I can remember is the fights, the screaming, the recriminations.” She shuddered. “How much better it would have been had Mama accepted things as they really were instead of wishing for the impossible.”

Julian shook his head. “You grew up living with all that bitterness, and you’re still willing to be friends with me now?”

Justine glanced away. “Of course, Julian. I’ve told you all along that it is your happiness that I want the most.”

“You’re truly incredible,” he breathed.

The charged moment ended as a young voice cried out, “Papa! Papa!”

Julian turned in delight as Henrí entered the room carrying Arnaud. Grinning, the manservant explained, “I heard him stirring so I decided to bring him in, maître.” He gently set the boy on his feet.

Julian hunkered down and grinned. “Come here, my son!”

Arnaud danced over to his father, and Julian quickly scooped the child up into his arms. As father and son laughed and chatted, Justine glanced at Henrí near the portal. The two exchanged a secret smile.





Chapter Ten


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On Tuesday afternoon, Mercy sat on her bed at the parish house and reread for the tenth time the terse missive she had received from Julian yesterday, written in his bold, masculine script:



Mercy,



Tomorrow afternoon, I shall be taking you to meet my mother. Kindly be ready and meet me in Mother Anise’s office promptly at three.



Julian



Mercy crumpled Julian’s note and tossed it across the small room. How dare the big brute issue her orders, as if she were already his possession.

Yet Mercy knew that there was no way she could avoid going with him. Julian had also been devious enough to send Mother Anise a similar note outlining his plans, and the mother superior had promptly informed Mercy that, since this was to be a brief outing during the day, and since she and Julian were now formally betrothed, they could go without a chaperone. The idea that Mercy might not want to take part in a jaunt with Julian Devereux had never even been considered.

To make matters worse, the nuns were already proceeding full tilt with the wedding plans. Indeed, they had turned Mercy into a veritable pincushion, constantly measuring and fitting her for her wedding gown. And this morning, Mother Anise had announced that she and Sister Clarabelle would be taking a thorough inventory of all Mercy’s possessions while she was gone, to determine what else she needed for her trousseau. M’sieur Devereux was paying for everything.

Mercy clenched her fists in outrage. Thanks to M’sieur Devereux, her privacy was destroyed and she was being treated like a kept woman. How she longed to stand before the altar wearing nothing but rags, to show everyone the contempt she felt for Julian. Then she glanced down at the clothing she had chosen for today’s outing and giggled; Julian would be in for a shock when he came to fetch her. And, of course she cared nothing about the impression she might make on his hoity-toity mother.

A sharp rap at the door cut short Mercy’s musings. She crossed to the portal and threw back the panel. Sister Clarabelle stood in the corridor with a ridiculous smile on her face.

“Mon enfant, your intended has arrived to fetch you,” she trilled gaily. Then she frowned as she took in Mercy’s patched, faded muslin gown and ragged gray bonnet. “Mercy! You may not go to meet Madame Devereux in such disgraceful attire.”

“Why not?” Mercy asked recklessly. “I think I look quite fetching.”

“You look as if you’re fetching in the cows,” Sister Clarabelle quipped grimly. The nun gasped. “Why, I recognize that dress and bonnet now. You stole them from the basket we prepared for the poor. What a shameful stunt, Mercy.”

Mercy tossed her head to hide a guilty blush. “I see nothing at all shameful about my modest clothing. Didn’t the ancients don sackcloth and ashes to show their humility?”

Sister Clarabelle rolled her eyes and strode over to the armoire, taking out Mercy’s fine yellow muslin dress and matching taffeta bonnet. Laying the items across the bed, she said in a tone that brooked no challenge, “You’ll remove those unsuitable garments at once and don these. I shall wait in the hallway until you hand me the items you—er—requisitioned. Now hurry, child. M’sieur will not be pleased that you’ve kept him waiting.”

M’sieur can rot in hell, Mercy thought spitefully. But she did little more than grind her jaw in defeat as Sister Clarabelle glided from the room in a rustle of her wool skirts. A moment later, she thrust her arm into the hallway, her imperious fingers clutching the dress and bonnet in question.

***

Fifteen minutes later, Mercy was ensconced with Julian inside his coach. They were headed out of the Quarter, toward the area known as the American District.

The afternoon was hot and humid, the air oppressive inside the coach. Yet Mercy’s heat seemed to be coming from another source. Her fiancé sat quite properly across from her on the matching, richly grained leather seat. As always, Julian looked frightfully handsome—and equally formidable. He was garbed all in intimidating black, from the shine on his boots to the crown of his silk top hat. Only the white of his shirt linen and the gold of his silk brocade vest offered relief from the cheerless formal tones. Still, he radiated raw virility—one look into his bright, probing eyes, one glance at his long, muscled legs, was enough to make her mind teem with shameful thoughts.

She knew he was furious at her for keeping him waiting at the convent. He’d made no comment regarding her tardiness, but his state of mind was apparent now as he drew out his ornate pocket watch and flipped it open, scowled at the dial, then snapped the lid shut and replaced the watch in his vest pocket.

She wondered if he felt at all daunted by the prospect of introducing her to his mother. Mercy knew little about Julian’s parents, other than the basic facts that his father had died a few years past and his mother lived in a society mansion. She wondered idly what his mother would think of his desire to wed a penniless orphan. Indeed, perhaps she should feel daunted at the prospect of meeting Madame Devereux, but she didn’t. She still felt entirely too resentful toward Julian regarding the forced marriage.

At last he broke the strained silence. “You have been well, Mercy?”

The hint of solicitude in his tone prompted a treacherous softening in Mercy’s heart. Fighting the unwelcome weakness, she stared into his bright blue eyes. “Oui.”

He cleared his throat. “Mercy, I have . . . a favor to request.”

“A favor? Do you mean to say that the mighty Julian Devereux is actually going to ask for once, instead of merely dictating to me?”

Julian groaned and slanted her a reproachful look. “Can we not set aside our antagonism for one afternoon, for the sake of my mother?”

Mercy crossed her arms over her chest. “I certainly bear the woman no ill feeling.”

Julian sighed, even as he inwardly winced as the motion of Mercy’s arms unwittingly tugged down the low bodice of her gown and revealed an enticing glimpse of cleavage. He hastily drew his gaze away from dangerous territory. “Well, at least that’s a beginning.”

She stared at him through narrowed eyes. “What is this favor you seek?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve never told my mother—well, how you actually became my ward. She thinks I have sponsored you at the request of the Catholic Charities.” In a strained voice, he added, “Truth to tell, I’d prefer that she never know the true circumstances of our meeting.”