“Non!" She clutched her treasure possessively.
“Then you’re taking a nap. You haven’t gotten enough sleep lately.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Mine entirely. And since I intend to thoroughly disrupt your slumber again tonight, you’re napping this afternoon. If I don’t take better care of you, the next thing I know, you’ll be ill.”
“If you don’t . . . !” Her eyes seethed with indignation. “Julian, as I’ve pointed out before, I’m no longer a child and you’re no longer my guardian. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I’m your wife now, and furthermore—”
“A wife who promised to obey me,” he cut in, thoroughly enjoying the exchange.
“And if I choose to defy you?” she flung back at him.
He shrugged, then slowly lit a cheroot. “Then plan to wear an ‘oppressive shroud’ to the theater tonight.”
“Ooooh!” she sputtered.
He laughed. “Now come here and kiss me.”
“Go kiss a spittoon.”
A split second later, she was unceremoniously hauled across the carriage into his lap, and thoroughly kissed. “You were saying?” he asked, his eyes full of laughter.
“I’m not going to take a nap,” she said, pouting.
He took a slow draw on his cheroot. “Shall I call up to the coachman to turn us around?”
Glowering, Mercy feigned an elaborate yawn.
***
Back at the hotel, she did take a nap—that is, after Julian helped her undress and took vigorous steps to exhaust her. Afterward, she dozed languidly beneath the sheet while he sat at the writing table, composing a letter to his partner in New Orleans and watching her sleep.
He soon lost interest in the letter and simply stared at her—drinking in her beautiful, slightly flushed face, her gorgeous, tumbled hair. He remembered tangling his hands in that lush mane as they made love, and bringing her fevered gaze up to meet his. He remembered her long, silky legs clenching about his waist, her hips arching to take him deeper. He remembered her gasping and tossing her head as he climaxed into her sweet body. Mon Dieu, he loved her so!
As for this business about the clothing . . . He sighed. Truth to tell, Julian knew he was being a stubborn ass in trying to force his vibrant young wife to dress like a matron. Yet he was intensely jealous of the attentions other men paid her, probably because half of him was afraid she still wished she’d married someone else.
Best to get her pregnant as soon as possible, he mused, and then she would naturally have to wear more modest clothing. His heart welled with joy and love at the thought of having his baby growing inside her. A child would also bind her to him, and he would need a strong bond established between them before he was compelled to tell her the truth about Justine and Arnaud . . . He groaned at the thought.
Later, he ordered dinner brought up to their room, so Mercy could sleep as long as possible. He was already dressed in his evening clothes when he awakened his wife with a kiss. Afterward, he paced and smoked, watching Mercy curl her hair into elaborate ringlets and don the fabulous gown. As she stood before the pier mirror, he mused that she looked like an angel straight from Satan’s lair, with the gown hugging her seductive curves and displaying her breasts so enticingly. By some miracle of engineering, her lush breasts stayed within the skimpy confines of the gown, though they looked as if they’d surely escape at any moment. He tightened his jaw and somehow managed not to comment.
Of course, Mercy noticed her husband’s agitation as she prepared for the evening. Julian looked as tense and dangerous as a bomb about to explode. He did not speak to her, not even when the bellboy brought their dinner. However, when he seated her at the small table, and her cleavage dipped even lower, she heard a strangled sound in his throat and she raised her napkin to cover a giggle.
When they prepared to leave, he at last shot her a heated look and said, “If those breasts pop out of that gown tonight, I’m going to thrash you.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Very well, I wouldn’t dare,” he retorted. “But by the time I finish with you, you’ll wish I had.” He extended his aim and smiled menacingly. “Shall we go?”
***
From the moment they swept past the pillared portico, Mercy was fascinated by the large downtown theater. The lobby oozed luxury, with its deep velvety rugs and glittering chandeliers. She was equally enthralled by the stylish clothing and fabulous jewelry of the lively, chattering patrons.
Julian was still in a foul humor, especially as Mercy caught the stare of practically every male in the place. Indeed, he almost took a swing at one young dandy who boldly eyed Mercy’s bosom as he strode past. Only her quick action in tugging her husband out of harm’s way saved the young fop from being knocked on his heels. When Mercy implored Julian to behave himself, his reply was a smoldering frown which promised later retribution.
The play was Dumas’s Pauline, which had only last year made its debut in London. While Mercy enjoyed the delightful melodrama, Julian’s expression remained dark and abstracted, and his index finger drew slow, concentric circles on her sensitive palm. The motion seemed unspeakably erotic, and more than once, when she dared to meet his burning gaze, she shuddered.
On the way back to the hotel, seated across from him in the dark coach, she couldn’t read his shuttered expression. His boot reached out to nudge the hem of her skirt, raising it slightly in a gesture that seemed shockingly intimate and flirtatious.
“Did you enjoy the play, Mercy?” he asked.
“Very much,” she replied. Deliberately teasing him, she added, “Actually, I feel a little like Pauline myself, caught in the web of . . .”
“Yes?”
“A charming villain.”
He chuckled. Then his voice grew more serious. “Every man in the theater was staring at you tonight.”
“Did you find that threatening?” she taunted.
“You looked like a doxy in that gown.”
Mercy was feeling quite agreeable; after all, she had gotten her way. And there was something exciting about the forbidden, titillating game they seemed to be playing. She slanted him a sultry look through her lashes. “If such is my role tonight, then it would seem that I’m your doxy, m’sieur.”
She heard his sharp intake of breath, as if someone had just punched him hard in the stomach. “Such provocative flirtation is very dangerous, Mercy,” he warned in a voice that trembled.
Her slippered foot reached out to toy with his boot. “Is it?”
He groaned. “Indeed.” The tip of his boot slid up her stockinged ankle, raising her gown a notch higher. “Do you know what I’d do to you if you were my doxy?”
Perversely fascinated, she propped her chin in her hands. “What?”
He stretched toward her, his eyes glittering and intense. “I’d hike your skirts and have you before we even returned to the hotel.”
She gasped.
“Come to think of it,” he continued, reaching calmly for the nearest shade, “you did promise me anything.”
“Julian, you wouldn’t!”
The other shade zipped down, and wicked darkness enveloped them. “Wouldn’t I?”
Her startled cry wasn’t even heard over the pounding of the horse’s hooves, and the rattling of the harnesses. In a flicker, Julian had dragged his struggling wife into his lap. She slammed her back against his chest and squirmed like a wildcat in his lap, but it was useless. Her cheeks burned as he easily subdued her, and her heart pounded at the dispatch with which he was tossing up her many layers of skirts.
“Julian! Mon Dieu—you’re doing this backward!”
He howled with laughter. “If you think I’ll miss the mark in this position, think again, my darling innocent.” She emitted a shocked cry as his bold hands found the tie to her pantalets and then quickly dispensed with them. She reeled at the feeling of delicious vulnerability, of wicked sensuality. An instant later, she felt his hard heat probing against her womanhood.
“Well, madame?” he challenged, his tongue in her ear.
She shuddered. “Your aim is excellent.”
He chuckled in unabashed pleasure. He let her hang there on the brink of wondrous consummation as he nibbled at her cheek, her jaw. He gloried at the sound of her sharp, out-of-control breathing, loving the way she quivered against him. His teeth sank gently into her throat. “Do you wish to proceed, Mercy?” he asked huskily.
“Oh, yes.”
Suddenly, the game was over, and nothing existed but the two of them and their desire to be as close as two lovers could be. Julian’s breathing grew ragged, his voice raspier. “Take me inside you, darling. All the way inside you. Take me home.”
His words were stunningly erotic, and Mercy needed no further encouragement. Shuddering, she sank onto his magnificent shaft, crying out at the jolting impact of their coupling. He was a hot, unyielding spear inside her, probing against her very womb. She reveled in the feeling of oneness, of delicious, searing friction.
His hands reached around her to free her breasts from the low-cut gown. Stroking her boldly, he murmured, “I must say that this frock has its advantages, after all.”
She moved her hips greedily then, and he lost control, taking the rhythm away from her and pumping into her with such force that she gasped.