“Julian, no! You promised!” she cried.
For a moment, he blinked like a man stunned. Then he rolled off her, sitting up at the side of the bunk, thrusting a hand through his hair and breathing hard.
“You’re right,” he said tightly. “A quick tumble is no way to begin this marriage.” His gaze devoured her lush body. “I’m going to savor you—slowly and thoroughly.”
Fighting her own feelings, she sat up and cried, “That’s all you want, isn’t it? To—to punish me.”
His eyes snapped with anger, yet his touch was gentle as he reached out to stroke her flushed cheek. “Will it be a punishment, Mercy?”
She glanced away to cover her own guilt and shame. Her silence was answer enough for him. Standing, he gripped her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Since you find my touch such a trial, shall we adjourn to the saloon?”
***
“Where are you taking me?” Mercy asked moments later.
The couple was now walking stiffly down the deck. Beneath them, the Mississippi was a wide expanse of silver in the afternoon heat. A forest of shimmering green loomed on the bank beyond. The air was thick with the scent of wet vegetation and the dank odor of the river itself.
Julian shot his wife a perplexed glance. “I’m taking you to the saloon for refreshments. Have I lost my mind or did you not request it?”
She bit her lip. “I mean, where are you taking me on this wedding trip?”
He laughed, pausing to plant his palms on the railing and stare out at the churning gray waters. “I find it fascinating that you and I are such strangers that you never saw fit to ask me before.” Watching her features blanch, he added, “I’m taking you to St. Louis.”
“What will we do there?” she asked evenly.
He shrugged. “Oh, the usual. Go to plays, restaurants.” Reaching out to finger one of her red curls, he added with deliberate impudence, “Loll about our hotel room.”
She glanced away to hide her hot blush. “I see.”
“St. Louis is also famous for its shops, so we’ll want to complete your wardrobe there.”
“Ah, yes,” she murmured bitterly. “You’ll want to continue to make good your investment, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oui,” he answered tightly, offering his arm again.
In tense silence, they descended the stairway to the main deck, then Julian escorted Mercy through the double portal and into the grand saloon. The long, wide main cabin was fabulously ornate, with glittering chandeliers and a lush Oriental rug. White-uniformed stewards circulated with trays, while fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen sat at linen-draped tables sipping lemonade or mint juleps. A silver-haired lady plied the cabinet grand piano, spilling out the sweet strains of Foster’s “Open the Lattice, Love. ”
A steward showed them to a vacant table toward the center of the saloon. Mercy’s heart skidded as Julian held out her chair. He took his own seat and ordered them both a lemonade; afterward, they waited for their drinks in grim silence.
Julian stared at his proud little wife, who sat with her gloved fingers primly laced together. He was not proud of himself for practically ravishing her the moment they had arrived in their quarters upstairs. But, damn it, the little chit had maddened him with her studied indifference.
He’d been without a woman far too long, he realized ruefully. He felt a stab of sympathy for Mercy, knowing how deeply, how thoroughly, how often, he intended to bed her, starting before the day was over. Even now, the memory of her delicate tongue stealing into his mouth sent a stunning heat streaming through his loins. He could certainly count on her passionate nature. Afterward, she might still hate him, but at least they would share that pleasure.
The steward deposited their lemonades. Picking up the cool glass with fingers that trembled, Mercy sipped the bittersweet drink and thought of the appalling scene that had just occurred between her and her husband upstairs. Perhaps she had been thoughtless to suggest that they leave their stateroom so soon. But what did the cad expect her to do—toss up her skirts the instant they arrived in their cabin?
Trying to distract herself from the mortifying images that thought evoked, Mercy glanced about the saloon. To her right were two dowagers with feathered hats and silk fans; both were bemoaning the bilious fever that had just claimed the life of a nephew. To her left was a middle-aged couple bickering over their son’s recent losses at the racetrack.
In the far corner, gathered around a small table, four men were playing cards. Three were nondescript businessmen or planters. But the fourth—mon Dieu—this black-eyed stranger oozed depravity. He was dressed in a silk top hat and a black velvet suit, complemented garishly by a crimson vest and white ruffled shirt. His features were sharp, hawklike; a large mustache slashed across his clever face and a smoking cigar dangled from his thin lips.
Mercy realized that she was staring straight at a genuine riverboat gambler. Perversely fascinated, she continued to study him, and at that same moment, the stranger caught her eye. He grinned, winking lecherously at her before he leaned over to scoop up his winnings. Mercy gasped at his boldness, high color blooming in her cheeks.
A sharp tug on her sleeve brought her back to reality. Her eyes widened with guilt as she faced her glowering husband.
“Am I going to have to call out a man on our wedding day?” he asked with dangerous mildness.
“I was just looking around,” she said defensively.
“You were staring quite boldly, quite improperly, at a stranger, a river rat. Did the nuns not instruct you that it’s dangerous to encourage such a man?”
“Non,” she replied flippantly. “But then, neither did they warn me about not encouraging you.”
Julian’s eyes snapped with fury. “Mercy, a man such as that would think nothing of dragging you off to his room and having his wicked way with you.”
She tossed her curls and stared defiantly at the gambler again. “Ah, yes.” Her gaze slammed into Julian’s. “He strikes me as the kind of man who might want to tumble his woman the minute they arrived in their stateroom.”
“Enough, by damn.”
Julian was shooting to his feet, reaching for his wife’s hand, when a feminine voiced trilled out from the doorway. “Mercy! Mercy O’Shea! Why, what a wonderful surprise!”
Mercy turned toward the entrance, at first unable to believe her good fortune. Deliverance had arrived! In the portal stood Mercy’s ex-schoolmate, Lavinia Morgan, and her entire family!
Chapter Fifteen
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“Lavinia!” Mercy rushed forward to embrace her stouthearted friend. Julian followed, wearing a dark scowl.
“Mercy, imagine seeing you here!” Lavinia prattled gaily as the two women moved apart. Lavinia was a brown-haired young woman with a sparkle in her eye. Unfortunately, though, she possessed a long, squarish face and blunt features that were almost horselike. Now, she glanced confusedly from Mercy to Julian. “And this must be—”
“I’m married now, Lavinia,” Mercy explained uncomfortably. “You remember my guardian, M’sieur Devereux?”
“Why, M’sieur Devereux!” Lavinia exclaimed, her eyes alight with curiosity. “You mean to say you’ve—”
“Lavinia!” The sound of Mr. Morgan’s booming voice cut short his daughter’s chatter. Mercy quickly ascertained where her friend had obtained her lamentable features. Morgan’s countenance was equally unsightly. “Kindly introduce us to your friends,” he ordered stoutly.
Lavinia blushed. “Oh, yes, Papa. Forgive my rudeness. May I present my former schoolmate, Mercy O—Well, I suppose it’s Devereux now, isn’t it? May I present Madame and M’sieur Devereux . . .”
A round of introductions and handshakes followed. Julian and Mercy met Grant and Myrtle Morgan, as well as Lavinia’s older brother, Dempsey. The Morgan son more resembled his mother, Mercy noted—Dempsey was blond, frail, and rather effeminate. She wondered what perverse god had allowed the brother and sister to have such outlandishly mismatched features.
When the Morgans learned that Julian and Mercy had married just that morning, congratulations spilled forth. Julian, meanwhile, was enduring all the fond wishes with as much forbearance as possible. After the small talk had been exhausted, he invited the Morgans to join him and Mercy at their table. The men drew up additional chairs, and the six crowded about the small table, with Mercy wedged between Julian and Dempsey.
Everyone ordered coffee or lemonade, with the exception of Julian, who ordered a double brandy. Mercy shot her husband a perturbed glance that he would imbibe so early in the day, but her only reply was a stony, obdurate stare.
“Well,” Myrtle Morgan was saying, clapping her small hands together, “I can’t believe you two got married this very day! As it happens, the four of us are on our way to Memphis for a wedding. My second cousin twice removed, Media Hope Seymour, is marrying a prominent doctor there. A fine match, I must say!”
Lavinia leaned forward and winked at Mercy. “I see you’ve finally managed to escape the nuns, my friend.”
“Oui,” she replied lightly. “It seems I’ve gone straight from the proverbial frying pan to the fire.”