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Rogue's Mistress(22)

By:Eugenia Riley


He chuckled. “Now, why should that surprise me?”

She tilted her chin. “If we are to proceed with this travesty of a marriage, then I am grateful to have madame’s assistance.”

“I see.” He studied her assessingly. “Be careful, Mercy. My mother has her fine points, of course, but she also tends to be domineering.”

Mercy harrumphed loudly. “That statement is quite amusing, since I can’t possibly imagine anyone more domineering than Madame Devereux’s son.” She regarded Julian suspiciously. “Your mother said I would take your mind off of . . .”

“Yes?” he inquired tensely.

Mercy shrugged. “She wasn’t specific. Something having to do with hot blood.”

Julian glanced away, releasing the breath he had been holding. Obviously, his mother had almost made a disastrous slip about Justine. He must again warn his mother to take all care. He inwardly cringed at Mercy’s imagined reaction if she learned about Justine and Arnaud now.

He watched Mercy cross her arms over her bosom and resume staring out the window. He groaned at the sight of her dipping bodice. More cleavage. More frustration.

***

Whatever do you think the bridegroom is for? Julian was still ruminating over his mother’s question as he led his fiancée back up the warm, nectar-scented path to the parish house. Mercy strode beside him, her fingertips barely touching his sleeve, her beautiful features as remote and implacable as ice—an ice he would so love to melt.

Being around her today had been sweet torture. He was hardly accustomed to this self-enforced role as proper fiancé. If he truly wanted something from a woman, he was used to taking it—and having her give back in full measure.

He also felt anxious about the longer period of engagement his mother had insisted on. What if Mercy found some way to weasel out of the marriage in the interim?

This he would not allow, he thought with sudden, fierce possessiveness. Whether or not mademoiselle wanted the marriage, he was going to have mademoiselle. Indeed, the chit deserved no less for baiting him so . . .

They passed beneath the crabapple tree where Julian had caught Mercy with Philippe only a few short days past. Mercy paused to stare wistfully at the tree, noting that the blooms were withering. A lifetime seemed to have passed since that fateful day when she had stood here with Philippe, and Julian had burst upon them so angrily.

Julian did not miss her poignant expression. “Remembering, Mercy?” he asked cynically. “Isn’t this the tree where you and your erstwhile fiancé kissed last week?”

She turned to him with eyes gleaming. “We didn’t kiss. You interrupted us.”

“You didn’t kiss?” he repeated in a deceptively mild voice. “Not ever?”

“Non. Not ever.” Recklessly, she added, “Not that I didn’t want to.”

Some ominous and intense emotion flashed in Julian’s eyes. He drew closer, his musky scent intoxicating her, his calm smile intensifying his dangerous masculinity. He idly fingered one of her lush red curls, and she fought back a shudder. Her heart pounded like a kettle drum in the explosive silence. He was so close and it was so hot on the path—so hot that Mercy felt like a powder keg ready to explode at his merest touch.

“Then my untimely intrusion prevented you from enjoying your treat?” he asked softly.

She didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking, or the way his words were so treacherously heating her veins. Nonetheless, she was not about to admit that Philippe’s touch left her cold. She faced him haughtily. “Yes.”

Julian smiled again. “Well, then. If it’s a kiss mademoiselle wants, it’s a kiss mademoiselle shall get.”

And she did, as Julian hauled her close and claimed her lips in a kiss as audacious as any ravishment. Mercy was horrified, infuriated. She wanted to scream and beat on his chest. But she couldn’t, for his lips were smothering hers. Indeed, she nearly swooned as his hot mouth crushed into hers with raw hunger. His tongue was deeply, rapaciously devouring her mouth; he tasted of tobacco and lust and torrid virility.

Mercy was scandalized, swamped by confusing and traitorous yearnings. She could feel Julian’s heat everywhere, seeping into her darkest, most secret parts, making her ache for him. He thrust a hand between their bodies, and his fingers caressed one tautened nipple with a delicacy that turned her knees to jelly. Mon Dieu, had she lost her mind again? Where was her self-control, her decency? She was tempted to rip at the studs on his fine shirt, to commit the most unspeakable acts with him right here in this hellishly hot garden.

At last his lips left hers briefly. She caught a sharp breath that only filled her lungs once more with his drugging scent. She drew a finger across her bruised mouth and stared up at him in awe and fear. He smiled down at her triumphantly, and she was enraged.

With breathless anger, she drew back her hand to slap him. “It wasn’t your kiss that I wanted—”

He caught her hand easily and smiled. “Wasn’t it?”

It was. The appalling admission sang in her very veins even as Julian locked his mouth on hers once more. Oh, what was wrong with her that she was so powerless over the devastating passion this man, her enemy, stirred? Even now, she was behaving like a spineless puppet, whimpering and moaning, opening her mouth to his ravenous possession. And he was responding in kind, seducing her senses with the mastery of his lips and the slow, provocative mating of his tongue.

When at last he released her, Mercy was so overcome that she swayed on her feet.

“Are you all right?” he asked, gripping her shoulder.

She threw off his touch. “What was that for?”

He grinned. “Actually, I thought you deserved a reward for not betraying me with my mother.”

“A reward!” Mercy’s entire body seethed in outrage. “To be all but ravished by you right here in the courtyard?”

In an offhand gesture that maddened her, Julian brushed a crabapple bloom from her shoulder. “I realize you must feel frustrated, darling,” he said with low intimacy, deliberately misinterpreting her comment, “but unfortunately, I cannot properly supply the rest until we’re married.”

“Ooooh!” A blinding rage practically choked off Mercy’s breathing. “Why, you audacious cad! I’ll tell your mother. I’ll tell her everything.”

“No, you won’t,” he replied calmly, straightening his cuffs.

“And why not, pray tell?”

He stared her straight in the eye and grinned. “Because you like her more than you like me, no?”

Mercy was so furious, she could only glare at him. Before she could protest further, Julian dragged her close for one last hard, possessive kiss. Afterward, she regarded him in a stupor.

“Hmmm,” he murmured, winking at her wickedly. “I do believe I’m jealous.” As she started to speak, he pressed his fingers on her mouth. “By the way, darling, you should resist the urge to cross your arms over your bosom, especially when you’re wearing such a low-cut frock.” He clucked deliberately as his fingers slid tantalizingly down her creamy throat—and much lower. “It does the most shocking things to your intended’s—er—baser appetites.”

Then, even as she gaped after him, quaking in horror and desire, Julian turned and strode away.

***

Upstairs in Mercy’s room, Mother Anise and Sister Clarabelle were hanging out of the window, avidly watching the scene below.

“Why, they’re kissing!” Sister Clarabelle exclaimed. “Should we stop them?”

Mother Anise waved a frail hand. “They’re formally betrothed now. It is allowed for them to kiss.”

“But, my heavens! He’s holding her so closely.”

Mother Anise raised a pale brow. “Would you want to be the one to go down and pry them apart? Besides, we’re here to chaperone them, are we not?”

“Of course.”

Both sisters smiled smugly and greedily returned their attention to the scene below.

“Isn’t love grand?” Sister Clarabelle asked dreamily.

***

Later that afternoon, Mercy lay curled on her bed. She still felt giddy and feverish, unable to escape the appalling ache deep in the pit of her belly.

The ache for him, for Julian! Oh, mon Dieu! What was she to do about her own horrifying weakness? The man had betrayed her, had taken over her entire life. She should hate him utterly, yet every time he touched her, she became a creature without pride, without shame, without will . . .

Oh, she was so confused! For today she had discovered new, devastating qualities in her fiancé. He was clearly much more than the bad-tempered tyrant she’d known for so long. Julian Devereux was capable of being charming, rakish, outrageous . . . And she was capable of being seduced. She realized that she had actually enjoyed his humor and their verbal sparring today. Madden her though he did, Julian could also beguile her with words every bit as easily as he could with his masterful kisses. How on earth was she to break his spell?

For clearly he was wrong for her, a dangerous scoundrel who had wrenched all her choices out of her own hands. She may as well fling herself from the parish house roof as give in to this insanity.

I cannot properly supply the rest until we’re married. She pounded her fist on her pillow at the memory of his bald promise. She was angry at him—but most of all, she was angry at herself because part of her wasn’t even sure she could wait.