Mercy’s dry comment prompted a titter of nervous laughter from the Morgans and a chilling glare from Julian.
“Well, dear, tell us how you and M’sieur Devereux became betrothed,” Lavinia continued mischievously.
Mercy blushed. As always, Lavinia was being appallingly forthright.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Morgan stepped in to rescue Mercy. “Lavinia, really!” she exclaimed in scandalized tones. “You mustn’t pry into other people’s private affairs.” She beamed at the newlyweds. “Why, it’s obvious that the two of them are deeply in love.”
Only Julian’s daunting glower kept Mercy from rolling her eyes.
“I’m hoping to have the pleasure of joining men and women in holy wedlock myself before long,” Dempsey put in in his high, proud voice.
Mercy turned to smile at the young man with his pale features and white lashes. “Oh, are you, Mr. Morgan?”
At the beautiful young woman’s attentiveness, Dempsey became so flustered that he could only gulp at Mercy stupidly. His mother filled the gap. “Our darling Dempsey is studying at Cumberland Bible Seminary in Kentucky. He’s going to become a Presbyterian minister.”
“Indeed, Mr. Morgan?” Mercy asked. “Why, what a noble profession.”
Dempsey at last managed to find his voice, although his features were still florid. “I feel it is my Christian duty to help rid this planet of its vice and corruption,” he explained to Mercy. Straightening his velvet lapels, he glanced with distaste at the card game in the corner. “Gambling, tobacco . . .” His pious gaze came to rest on Julian, and he wrinkled his delicate nostrils. “And, of course, the evils of strong spirits.”
At the young man’s words, Julian grinned at Dempsey, lifted his snifter in a mock salute, and took a hearty gulp. Mercy shot her husband an outraged look, and with great restraint, she managed not to crawl under the table.
“Stuff and nonsense, if you ask me,” Grant Morgan was putting in disgustedly as he chewed on his whiskers. “With the price of cotton rising as it is, I swear the boy is much better off staying on the plantation. But, no—he has to go off with his holier-than-thou attitudes and embrace a life of poverty and misery.”
“Why, Grant!” Myrtle Morgan was clearly appalled, while Dempsey puffed up like a washed-out toad and stared at his father in scorn.
For once, Julian looked interested in the exchange as he deliberately drew out a cheroot and lit it, despite his wife’s pleading glance. “You’re a cotton planter, sir?” he asked Morgan.
“Indeed I am, sir. And what might be your profession, Mr. Devereux?”
“I run a commission exchange house in New Orleans.”
“Why, isn’t that fascinating! As it happens, I haven’t been too pleased with my factor there of late . . .”
In no time, Julian and Mr. Morgan were ordering fresh brandies and intently discussing such boring trivia as the price of cotton and hogsheads of sugar. Outraged by her husband’s arrogant conduct—especially his deliberately insulting Dempsey’s sensibilities by indulging in liquor and cigars—Mercy turned to Lavinia’s brother and placed her hand on his sleeve. With a sympathetic smile, she murmured, “Do tell me all about your studies, Mr. Morgan.”
Dempsey blinked rapidly and practically choked on his lemonade, then launched into a lengthy, overblown lecture on his studies at the seminary.
The couple at the next table, overhearing the young zealot, soon pulled up chairs to join them, listening in fascination to Dempsey’s sermon on the evils of games of chance and questioning him at length on how they could save their son from his own debauchery. Dempsey quickly recited a step-by-step guide for their offspring’s salvation. Even the two dowagers soon became part of the circle, the elder asking Dempsey if her nephew’s death from fever could have been due to his negligent attendance at Mass. Dempsey assured the wide-eyed matron that divine retribution was exactly the cause of her nephew’s demise.
Delighted at his captive audience, Dempsey went on to inform everyone that all plague and pestilence visited upon the Creole people was due to their sinful, irreverent attitudes and profligate lifestyles, including wanton extravagances on expensive clothing, rich food, strong drink, the theater, and the racetrack. When the steward stopped by to inform everyone that the evening buffet was ready, Dempsey’s impromptu congregation fled to gorge themselves on the rich cuisine, the collective mindset being that if they were all doomed to perdition anyway, they may as well eat, drink, and be merry.
The evening repast consisted of crawfish bisque, hot bread, and assorted soups and side dishes. Mercy ate sparingly, her appetite gone as she realized that soon she would be alone with Julian. Indeed, she could feel the heat of his gaze boring into her. She dared a glance at him, almost wincing at the fervent look in his eyes.
“Not hungry?” he asked mildly.
“Non.” She could hardly speak over the pounding of her heart.
Julian deliberately, lightly stroked his wife’s cheek with his fingertip. “Perhaps it’s time for us to go, then.”
Mercy’s face burned and her eyes widened in panic. “I’d really like to visit with Lavinia—and listen to Dempsey—for a while longer.”
“I’ll just bet you would.”
Overhearing them, Dempsey leaned forward, delicately blotting his mouth with his napkin. “Mr. Devereux, I’ve yet to discuss with your wife my ideas on the institution of marriage.”
At Dempsey’s presumptuous words, Julian’s eyes glittered ominously. “Do not worry, m’sieur. Madame Devereux’s husband is perfectly capable of instructing her all about the institution of marriage.” Julian stood, drawing his mortified wife to her feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us . . . ?”
The others stared at them in mild shock. Then Lavinia waved her napkin and said gaily, “Mercy, we must have a long chat before we arrive at Memphis!”
“Of course,” Mercy murmured woodenly, before she was yanked off by her scowling husband, to a chorus of hasty farewells.
***
“Did we have to leave so abruptly?” she demanded the instant they were outside on the walkway. She noted with dismay that the sun was sinking against the western horizon. Mon Dieu—where had the time gone?
“Abruptly?” Julian repeated with a furious wave of his hand. “We’ve spent the whole afternoon with those silly people.”
“Silly people? You didn’t seem to mind talking with M’sieur Morgan for hours, or giving him your business card.”
“I did not marry M’sieur Morgan,” Julian ground out, helping Mercy onto the hurricane deck. “At any rate, you’re just angry because I dragged you away from your fascinating, foppish little Dempsey.”
“Well, he certainly has better manners than you! Heaven knows what they must think—”
Julian paused, gripping her shoulders. The setting sun gleamed in his brilliant eyes. “And just what do you suppose they think newlyweds do when they go off alone? Knit afghans?”
She blushed miserably. “Oh, you’re hateful!”
He caught her hand and dragged her away again. “So you’ve informed me on numerous occasions. But unfortunately, you’ve married me, not some strutting peacock like Dempsey or your beloved Philippe—”
“You gave me no choice.”
He flung open the door to their stateroom and propelled her inside. “Right. And now, in this, I’ll give you no choice either.” Slamming the door, he dragged her into his arms and kissed her.
His kiss exploded with anger and pent-up passion, and Mercy was seized anew by panic and traitorous desire. Somehow, she managed to shove him away. “No!”
“If you think I’m going to allow you to flirt shamelessly with that pompous ass all afternoon, and then ignore me, your lawful husband—”
“Lawful husband! You forced me into this marriage!”
Julian raked a hand through his hair and caught a ragged breath. “Mercy, many young Creole women are contracted into marriage by their parents, with no thought given to their own wishes. Indeed, most are. As your legal guardian, it was my duty to choose your husband—”
Her hand slashed the air. “So you conveniently chose yourself?”
“Oui. And none of that in any way changes your obligations as my wife.”
“You would have killed Philippe.”
“That again,” he snapped, rolling his eyes. “M’sieur Broussard put himself in that dilemma by challenging me. I merely offered a solution.”
“Some solution,” she said bitterly, crossing her arms over her bosom.
He cursed vividly in French and tore at his cravat.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, her eyes huge.
He had dispensed with his coat and his cravat and was unbuckling his belt. “What I should have done weeks ago.”
Staring horrified at the heavy leather belt in his hand, she warned, “If you try to thrash me, I shall scream!”
He laughed as he dropped the belt to the floor and unbuttoned his waistcoat. “The punishment I have in mind will be much slower, much more thorough—and much more enjoyable.”
“Enjoyable for you!”