His teeth clamped onto her soft shoulder. “You’re not my doxy, Mercy,” he whispered in a tortured voice. “You could never be such. You’re my woman, my wife, my love . . .”
Whimpering in ecstasy, she turned her face toward his, loving the agonized struggle she viewed on his features. All the while, he was rocking her toward him with unbearable eroticism, pounding himself into her, settling her so deeply that she—
She would have screamed out her love for him then, but she couldn’t for he leaned toward her, his lips seizing hers in a soul-wrenching kiss even as his loins shattered her into utter completeness.
***
A mood of languid silence slid over them as they returned to the hotel.
Upstairs, Julian helped his wife undress; he even hung up her fabulous gown. Afterward, as she reached for her nightgown, he murmured passionately, “No. Not tonight.”
She turned down the lamp.
They lay naked together in the velvety darkness beneath the mosquito netting, her back nestled against his chest. He caressed her breasts, her belly, and kissed her hair.
“Mercy . . . What we did in the carriage tonight. Did it make you feel—demeaned in any way?”
“Non.” She smiled in the darkness.
“I didn’t do it to demean you. In fact, if I even thought—”
She turned in his arms, pressing her fingers against his mouth. “Julian, it was very sweet.”
“Sweet,” he repeated ironically. “The desires you stir in me are hardly sweet, dear wife. I want to do scandalous things with you, things I’ve never . . .”
“Done with a woman before?” she finished.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Julian . . .” She bit her lip. “Were there many women before me?” The thought made her wildly, unreasoningly jealous.
Julian was suddenly glad the darkness hid his guilty eyes. “None of them meant what you do.” Eager to distract her, he reached down, pressing his fingers to the portal of her femininity. “Are you sore, darling?”
“Yes.” She laughed.
“Too sore to—”
“Never,” she purred, curling her arms around his neck.
Chapter Nineteen
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On the way back to New Orleans, Mercy learned that she was not carrying Julian’s child.
This time, the couple journeyed downriver on the New Orleans Princess, a much smaller, older river packet that was not nearly as grand as the Natchez. The cramped, uncomfortable accommodations seemed to set the tone for their entire journey home. Unfortunately, they had to remain indoors much of the time. While sunny skies had prevailed on their journey upriver, now it rained almost continually.
Conditions couldn’t have been worse at a time when Mercy needed increasing privacy. Fortunately, Julian, noting his wife’s plight, tried his best to be a gentleman and left her alone as much as possible, spending his time in the steamer’s small, smoky parlor.
Yet the feeling of separation soon became more than a physical thing. While Julian was invariably courteous, Mercy noted that her husband was acting increasingly tense and withdrawn. She remembered him discussing how much he wanted children, and wondered if he was terribly disappointed that she hadn’t yet conceived. It did seem a bit much to hope for so early in their marriage, even given his lusty nature.
Yet the closer they drew to New Orleans, the more remote Julian became. During the day, he was terse and avoided her eye; at night, he tossed and turned in the bunk and didn’t touch her. She wondered if he was afraid of going back to their troubles at home. The honeymoon had been so idyllic; was he apprehensive about what a return to reality might do to their relationship? She had certainly experienced such fears herself, but she didn’t think that pulling away from each other was the answer.
Another, even more unsettling, possibility occurred to her. Was Julian simply frustrated because he was temporarily denied her services in bed? Was that all that had really interested him? He’d been so charming on their honeymoon—an irresistible rogue she’d fallen in love with. But each session in charm, she reminded herself grimly, had ended in seduction. Perhaps he saw no reason to be agreeable right now—and the thought that he might have been exploiting her feelings all along hurt deeply.
It wasn’t until they were nearing the Crescent City that she finally learned the truth regarding her husband’s perplexing retreat.
The last night they spent on the steamboat, the weather at last cleared. Following dinner in the grand saloon, Julian asked Mercy to join him out on the deck. They stood near the railing of the promenade, sipping glasses of wine.
Mercy felt intensely relieved to have escaped their stuffy cabin at last. Her indisposition had almost ended, and she was feeling much better. The night air was deliciously fresh and slightly cool, laced with the invigorating sweetness that came only after rain.
Since the moon was full, the steamer was proceeding cautiously downriver, to make up for the many times they’d been impelled to pull up during the storm. Mercy heard the clanging of the steamboat bell up in the pilothouse, then the distant voice of a deckhand at the bow, who responded to the signal by calling up the water level to the pilot.
The river itself was captivating, a sleek, wide mirror of silver. A night heron glided gracefully across the black, diamond-dotted skies. The forest glimmered in spectral beauty, ancient phantoms dripping with ghostly Spanish moss. Mercy had to admit that the setting could not have been more dreamy or romantic . . .
Too bad the romance had abruptly fled from her marriage!
Setting down her wineglass on a nearby steward’s cart, she turned to study Julian. His expression was tense, abstracted, as he idly swirled the wine in his glass. Obviously, something was deeply troubling him, and she might as well take the bull by the horns.
“Julian, did you wish to speak to me?”
His gaze was impassive. “Yes.”
“What is it, then?” Waiting until another couple passed them, she added softly, “Are you terribly disappointed that we won’t be having a child right away?”
At once, his expression became contrite. “No, darling,” he said, reaching out to stroke her cheek. “I apologize if I’ve given you that impression.”
“Then what is it?” When he hesitated, she added, “Do you know that this is practically the first time you’ve touched me since we’ve started home?”
“I’ve . . . had much on my mind,” he admitted in a strangled tone.
“Well?”
He sighed and turned away, finishing his wine, then placing his empty glass on the cart. He cleared his throat. “Mercy, I took you off on this honeymoon in part because there was something I needed to tell you.”
Her heart seemed to climb into her throat. “Yes?”
“I have a son.”
She stared at him, speechless. She couldn’t have been more stunned if he had just slapped her. “A son? But how?”
He blinked rapidly, avoiding her eye. “I had a mistress.”
“Had?”
He turned to face her, his eyes gleaming with guilt and regret. “I met Justine at a quadroon ball five years ago. She was a young octoroon, just then being presented. I made the appropriate arrangements with her mother, and we lived together for some time, until Arnaud was—”
“Arnaud?” she gasped.
“My son was born four years ago.”
“My God!” Mercy had to grip the railing to keep from collapsing.
With haste, he moved closer, gripping her shoulders, looking down into her wide, tumultuous eyes. “Mercy, my relationship with Justine has been platonic for some time now. In fact, she gave me her blessing for this marriage—”
Mercy threw off his touch. “Her blessing? How very convenient for you!”
“Still, I have an obligation to her and Arnaud, and I shall never turn my back on them.”
Mercy blinked at him, uncomprehending. Then, at last, the complete magnitude of his revelation sank in on her. To think that all this time he had been closeting away a mistress and son! He had lied to her, exploited her!
“Merciful heavens!” she cried. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He stared at her sadly. “Because you wouldn’t have married me.”
“Damned right, I wouldn’t have!” In a voice raw with anguish, she asked, “Do you love her?”
He thrust his fingers through his hair. “At one time, I thought I did.”
“Oh, God.” Mercy felt as if she might sink through the deck of the vessel.
Julian gripped her arm. “Mercy, again, my relationship with Justine as a mistress is in the past. Otherwise, I never would have proposed to you.” He forced a sympathetic expression. “Anyway, my dear, you’re taking this too seriously. Such liaisons are common among Creole men, and it has no bearing on us.”
“No bearing on us? How can you say that?” Righteous indignation surged in her. “Does it have no bearing that you have a son and mistress, both of whom you have hidden from me, both of whom you intend to continue seeing? Does it have no bearing that you’re a liar, a fraud?” As another, appalling possibility flitted to mind, she added in a low, cutting whisper, “Tell me, is she the one who taught you how—how to do all those shocking things in bed?”