His seductive endearment and tender plea were hardly lost on her. Indeed, by now, her senses were in such a shambles that she felt light-headed. His gaze held hers in an electrifying moment of questioning, of intimacy, of anguish and uncertainty. Then he reached out and gently clasped the necklace around her neck.
The cold weight of the stones brought reality crashing in on her. Suddenly, it all seemed so ironic—Julian fastening a sapphire noose around her neck, just as he was shackling her very life to his own. As for going forward from here—how could he ever expect her to forgive or forget what he’d done to her own father? Was she supposed to betray the memory of her own flesh and blood?
“You’re deluding yourself, Julian,” she said with agonized bitterness, no longer ashamed to let him see the tears shining in her eyes. “You can’t just steal another human being for your own selfish purposes—you have to ask. Nor can you buy me with your baubles. The past can never be put to rest between us—never!”
Her stinging diatribe scored. Anger flared in his eyes and he gripped her arm with steely fingers. “I suppose you’re still pining after that fop Broussard?”
“Yes!” she cried, flinging off his touch.
Mercy fled for the safety of the salon.
Chapter Thirteen
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The past can never be put to rest between us—never!
Mercy’s bitter words haunted Julian. As the guests began to arrive, he stood in the shadows of an archway near the back veranda, sipping brandy and morosely reliving his argument with his fiancée.
What an utter idiot he had been to try to effect a reconciliation between them tonight. What a fool he had been to presume that her attitude toward him had changed. Obviously, there could never be any feeling between them besides acrimony. Mercy had only agreed to the marriage because he’d blackmailed her, and because she’d felt some misplaced sense of guilt toward him due to her past recalcitrance and continuing hatred.
Pity. Mistrust. Hatred. A fine basis for a marriage!
What was he to do then?
Obviously, they would have to muddle through this evening—and even suffer through Mama’s planned announcement of their betrothal. Later, he’d speak with Mercy in private and do what he’d known he must do for weeks now—call off this disastrous marriage.
***
Mercy, too, was enmeshed in turmoil as she stood with Madelaine and M’sieur Townsend, greeting the arriving guests at the entrance to the salon.
“Where’s Julian?” Madelaine whispered to Mercy worriedly.
Feeling guilty, Mercy shrugged. “I don’t know, madame.”
Madelaine’s lips were pursed to pursue the subject when another guest swept up. “Why, Madame Pontalba,” Madelaine said, graciously extending her hand. “How lovely you look tonight. You remember Mercy O’Shea, of course? And may I introduce a business associate of my son’s, M’sieur Robert Townsend from New York? As for Julian, he is here somewhere and will be joining us shortly, I’m sure . . .”
Mercy mouthed platitudes and shook hands. All the while, her thoughts remained consumed with Julian and their heated exchange. Already she regretted her cruel words to him. Indeed, each time she touched the necklace at her throat, she was reminded of his kindness. Earlier, Madelaine and M’sieur Townsend had gone into ecstasies over Julian’s dazzling engagement gift, and Madelaine had informed Mercy that the sapphires were surely worth more than her son’s town house in the Quarter. Knowing that he had spent a small fortune on her did little to assuage her guilt.
But nothing could change the fact that Julian had forced her into this betrothal. And how could he expect her to lay the past to rest as casually as she might brash a fly from her sleeve? No necklace was worth the cost of her loyalty to her parents.
Still, her feelings were so torn, and she again wavered in her determination to disgrace Julian tonight . . .
Soon, the salon filled up with happy, laughing Creoles. The guests milled near the serving tables, sipping champagne and sampling the fabulous buffet—snails bourguignon and oysters Bienville, bouillabaisse à la Creole, baked redfish and pickled herring, tempting fruit and rice dishes, and delicate desserts ranging from cherries jubilee and crepes suzette to petit fours.
Mercy hung back, away from the festivities, while Madelaine circulated with Robert. A few guests paused to chat with her, but she answered their inquiries mostly in monosyllables.
At last she spotted Julian sipping brandy in the shadows of an archway across the room. Their gazes met briefly—his cold and contemptuous, hers proud and equally unflinching.
Then Mercy became distracted as Mignon Beaufort swept up to offer congratulations. Mercy spoke briefly with André’s wife, and when she was able to look for Julian again, she found he had vanished.
Abruptly the strains of a Chopin waltz swelled within the room. Mercy turned distractedly toward the orchestra, watching the conductor wave his baton as the musicians sawed away. A hush fell over the crowd as the guests moved toward the walls to allow room for the dancing to begin. Yet no couples took the floor.
Mercy realized with horror that the attendees were politely waiting for Julian to come forward and ask her for the first dance. They were the guests of honor, after all.
In the devastating silence, he did not appear at her side.
Mercy’s cheeks were burning with shame when Nicholas Bienville glided up. “May I have the honor, mademoiselle?” he asked, his rakish dark eyes glittering as he extended his arm.
“Of course, m’sieur,” she replied proudly, gripping his sleeve.
As Bienville swept her onto the floor, she glanced around for Julian. He was nowhere to be seen.
***
Nicholas Bienville proved to be a marvelous dancer. Tall, dark, and lithe, he led Mercy about with studied grace and perfect rhythm on the dance floor. Soon, other couples joined them.
Nicholas was also a consummate flirt—but then, Mercy was quite aware of his roguish nature after she and Julian had supped with him and his fiancée at the Napoleon House recently.
Soon after they began dancing, he murmured gallantly, “You look divine tonight, mademoiselle. I’m surprised my good friend Julian did not rush forward to claim you for this first waltz. Such is the Creole tradition at engagement parties.”
“It seems my fiancé is not a traditional man,” Mercy murmured. Her words were casual, but her eyes gleamed with hurt and bitterness at Julian’s deliberate affront. Perhaps her words to him on the veranda had been cruel, but she hadn’t slighted him in public.
She would now! Julian would pay. And Bienville’s presence gave Mercy the perfect opportunity to begin implementing her more nefarious scheme for the evening—a vengeful goal she eagerly embraced once more.
Staring boldly up at Nicholas, she batted her long eyelashes and preened. “At any rate, m’sieur, I am most happy to be sharing the first waltz with you.”
Her words brought a delighted grin to Bienville’s face, and a feral narrowing of his dark eyes. “Devereux’s loss is most assuredly my gain. When I came here tonight, I hardly dreamed I would share the first dance with such a delightful creature.”
Mercy frowned in confusion as well as some guilt as his words reminded her that he was engaged. “And where is Honoree tonight?”
He sighed. “Alas, we had a spat. Truth to tell, she may be calling off our betrothal.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mercy murmured sincerely. “She’s really very sweet.”
“Quite true.” He shrugged, then grinned. “But I fear I’m not settled down enough for her as yet.” Drawing Mercy scandalously closer, he wiggled his dark brows devilishly. “I’m far too susceptible to the charms of fair belles such as yourself.”
Mercy laughed gaily and flashed her most dazzling smile. “Actually, I’ve been looking forward to this evening—and to meeting all of Julian’s friends.”
“All?” Bienville repeated meaningfully.
“All.”
***
Word that Mercy intended to dance with all Julian’s friends spread like wildfire through the ballroom. Soon, eager young Creoles were lining up for a chance to twirl the captivating beauty around the salon. Julian’s friends were not only dancing with Mercy; they were laughing at him behind their hands. Obviously, Devereux had lost charge of his own fiancée. Perhaps le bon Dieu would take pity on the poor fool, for his fiancée clearly had none in her heart for him. It was a scandal, of course, but then Creoles loved le scandale.
None of this was lost on Madelaine Devereux. Outraged, she left Robert’s side and went to find her son.
As host, Julian had been called away to the back veranda by André, to soothe tempers in a political discussion that was rapidly becoming a full-fledged drunken brawl. He and André had just managed to calm the two elderly gentlemen when Madelaine swept up and grabbed her son’s sleeve. Tugging him away from the others, she informed him in a tense whisper, “You must do something, Julian—your fiancée is disgracing you with all your friends!”
Wearing a scowl, Julian followed Madelaine back into the ballroom. For a few moments, he stood watching Mercy dance and flirt with all his friends.
“Look at her, Julian!” Madelaine exclaimed in disgust. “How can we even make our announcement, the way she is behaving? You must take her in hand, or you’ll never be able to hold your head up in the Vieux Carré again.”