He smiled down into her flashing eyes. “Don’t worry,” he quipped. “After we’re wed, I’ll see to it that you earn each and every one of those jewels.”
Mercy could only glare at him, her chest heaving.
He extended his arm. “Shall we rejoin the others, my dear? I think Mama would like to make her announcement.”
***
For the balance of the evening, Mercy played the proper fiancée. She danced only with Julian and stayed by his side, her expression cool and sullen.
The Creoles again chuckled behind their hands—this time, in appreciation of M’sieur Devereux’s stunning coup. Obviously, the man had taken his headstrong, flirtatious little fiancée outside and had straightened her out royally. Indeed, wagers were made that the first Devereux issue would arrive within nine months of this very night.
Madelaine, too, watched with relief from the sidelines. Thank le bon Dieu, Julian had taken the recalcitrant girl in hand. From the smoldering look in her son’s eyes, there would surely be a grandchild by spring. She smiled at the thought.
At the appropriate moment, Madelaine stepped forward to the conductor’s stand with Julian on one side and Mercy on the other. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “I am most proud to announce my son Julian’s engagement to Mademoiselle Mercy O’Shea.”
As a delighted cheer went up from the crowd, Mercy could manage only the briefest, most frozen of smiles.
Chapter Fourteen
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All too soon, Mercy stood beside Julian Devereux at the altar of St. Mary’s Church, with Father Giovanni intoning the wedding Mass. Behind them, the pews were filled to bursting with stylishly dressed friends of the Devereux family. The nuns sat together near the front, beaming as they observed the service. Soft morning sunshine burnished the lovely sanctuary with a golden glow, and the fragrance of flowers hung heavily in the air.
Mercy looked beautiful in a white satin wedding gown embellished with seed pearls; her veil was of the finest Spanish lace, her bridal bouquet composed of lush camellias. Julian looked dashingly handsome dressed in his formal black velvet tailcoat, matching trousers, and ruffled linen shirt.
The two hardly looked at each other during the service. Both were enmeshed in their own turbulent thoughts.
Mercy thought of the three weeks that had passed since their engagement party. After Julian had taken her to task so fervently out in the courtyard of the St. Louis, an uneasy, unspoken truce had been established between them. She had not dared to embarrass him in public again, fearing he would once more force his advances on her.
Most of all, she feared her own response to those very advances. Unbidden, a provocative image sprang to mind of the two of them embracing out in the courtyard. She remembered Julian’s hot mouth latched passionately on her bare breast, and her own wantonness in boldly touching him. Rivers of flame shot through her. She knew that on the wedding night—mon Dieu, this very night—Julian would expect all that and much more. Given Mother Anise’s previous lecture, and Julian’s passionate overtures during the past weeks, Mercy had a pretty good idea of what would transpire.
On many occasions Julian had made clear that this would never be a mariage de convenance, that he would expect her services in bed upon demand—as well as a child each year. Oh, he was a cad. She dreaded the night to come—and dreaded even more revealing to him again her own traitorous, carnal nature.
As he now repeated a vow in his deep, resonant voice, she dared a glance at him. Her heart fluttered as she drank in his thick, shiny hair, and remembered thrusting her fingers through that heavy silk on the night of the soirée. She studied the brilliance of his deep-set blue eyes, the length of his black lashes, the sculpted perfection of his high cheekbones, the straightness of his nose, the firmness of his strong jaw. As he spoke, she caught a flash of perfect white teeth, and remembered those teeth nipping so deliciously at her nipple.
Holy saints! Shame washed her cheeks at the memory. She tore her gaze away from him. It never ceased to amaze her that she could feel these wanton desires for the very man who had killed her father and made her life hell ever since, by refusing to let her take charge of her own destiny.
As the priest glanced at Mercy expectantly, she turned to him and woodenly repeated her vows, feeling as if fingers of ice had just closed around her heart . . .
Julian, too, was lost in his own troubled thoughts as the marriage service proceeded. Mercy looked so beautiful, her fitted gown emphasizing her willowy slenderness, the sleek lines highlighting her upthrust breasts and tiny waist. Her veil could not mask the thick riot of her shiny red hair. Beneath that veil, her lovely features were clenched in pride, and her green eyes were remote and glittering like ice.
How could the little minx look so ravishing, and yet so cold and unreachable? Each glance he stole at her reminded him of the shattering power that this willful girl held over his heart. Every day over the past weeks, he had bemoaned his own idiocy in proceeding with this marriage. What was wrong with him that he could not let her go? They were enemies, and now he was about to make them lovers, to entwine their tumultuous lives forever. He was like a man obsessed with thrusting his hand into a fire, unable to resist the scorching ravagement of the flames. He knew now that he would never see in Mercy’s eyes the forgiveness or the love he so hungered for. The most she could ever feel for him was some misplaced sense of pity, due to her own waywardness over the years. The most he could ever hope for from this marriage would be a forced trace, and perhaps a few moments of pleasure in bed.
His thoughts drifted back to their engagement party three weeks past, and Mercy’s disgraceful conduct. Clearly, his little fiancée possessed quite a hot, carnal streak beneath her cool façade. Indeed, desire stormed his senses anew as he remembered her brazenly touching him out in the courtyard. What daunted him the most was that she obviously felt those stirrings for any man who chose to flirt with her. He had been little more than a convenient outlet for her lusts that passionate night.
He sighed. Perhaps he would own Mercy’s body, but her heart would never be his. She would never forgive him for his role in her father’s death. And he also felt hellishly guilty that he still hadn’t told Mercy about Arnaud and Justine. He had seen Justine again yesterday, to let her know that he would be gone for some weeks on his wedding trip. Again, she had prevailed upon him to tell Mercy the truth before they were wed.
Indeed, he had hated the thought of beginning this marriage with such a grave omission, but, ultimately, he hadn’t been willing to risk Mercy’s reaction at this critical stage. He could only hope that her attitude toward him might soften on their wedding trip, and then he could tell her . . .
All too soon, the rings were exchanged, and the service ended. Julian turned, drawing back Mercy’s veil. Her face was even more beautiful in the soft light, but her eyes were just as proud and unforgiving as they met his. When he leaned over, briefly brushing his lips with hers, he could detect no softening of her cool lips. With a sigh, he extended his arm. They swept back down the aisle, greeted by scores of smiling guests.
Outside in the lush courtyard, Madelaine and Robert Townsend were the first to congratulate the newlyweds. Julian, Mercy, and Madelaine quickly formed a reception line next to a long, linen-draped table, where the nuns had laid out a repast to honor the nuptials.
The Creole wedding guests congratulated the bride and groom, then drifted on to sample the wedding cake, punch, and hors d’oeuvres served by the smiling nuns. A few guests deposited wedding presents on the table. Mercy recalled that there were dozens of other presents, still unopened, stacked at Julian’s town house, waiting for them. She hated to think of when she would live there with Julian as his wife, when they would open all those presents as a couple.
Mercy was simply trying to suffer through all the effusive greetings and wishes for happiness that seemed such a sham to her. She greeted each of Madelaine’s and Julian’s friends with a frozen smile, and mouthed pleasantries as best she could.
Once the gathering had thinned, the nuns came forward one by one to hug Mercy and wish her a blessed marriage. Mercy felt touched by their devotion. When Sister Clarabelle hugged her tightly and said in a cracking voice, “Godspeed, mon enfant,” Mercy was stunned to feel the sting of tears, and again felt guilty for all the trouble she had caused the nuns over the years. Grim and austere though the convent might be, she realized that St. Mary’s had been home to her—a home now wrenched away from her by Julian Devereux. The nuns had tried their best to be patient and loving guardians, and, imagining life without their serene influence, she felt like a lost, vulnerable child.
Madelaine came forward to give her new daughter-in-law a last hug. The matron looked radiant in her stylish dress of lilac silk with an overdress of ecru lace. Drawing back, she said sincerely, “You’re a beautiful bride, darling, and I wish you and Julian every happiness.”
“Thank you, madame.”
Biting her lip, Madelaine frowned slightly and added, “I can tell, however, that there’s some trouble between you and my son. Try to give Julian a chance, dear. He’s really a fine boy.”