Once her son was gone, Madelaine Devereux paced her parlor, feeling deeply troubled. She hadn’t admitted to Julian something she had done recently, and now she felt hellishly guilty.
Weeks past, when Madelaine had first taken Mercy around to meet her prominent friends, there had been a few snide whisperings concerning the girl’s humble background. Privately, Madelaine had felt outraged, and she had been determined to put the gossips in their place. Thus, right before Julian and Mercy had married, she had written to a dowager friend of hers in Natchez, Mississippi, asking Beatrice to look up the Dubois family there and tell them about Mercy. She had thought of inviting the Dubois down at some point, so she might flaunt her daughter-in-law’s society background to her friends.
Now, she feared she might have made a fatal error. If Mercy’s grandparents were still living, they might come forward to claim her. And, given the current impasse in her son’s marriage, it would not do for Mercy to have anything to fall back on right now.
***
Justine’s advice to Julian was similar to Madelaine’s.
Julian presented Arnaud with the cast-iron train set he’d bought him in St. Louis. The boy went into ecstasies over his treat, and father and son played happily with the train for over an hour. Afterward, while Arnaud napped, Julian and Justine sat together on the settee and chatted.
“You have both been well?” he asked kindly.
Justine nodded. “Arnaud and I have been fine, although the epidemics have been horrible this year. There was a death from yellow fever over on Canal just last week, and I’ve heard of cases of scarlet fever, as well.”
“How awful. You must take care to keep Arnaud inside.”
“Julian, he’s a child. He needs sunshine.”
“I suppose you have a point,” he conceded uneasily.
They fell into an unaccustomed silence; she carefully studied his abstracted expression. “How was your honeymoon?”
He leaned back and sighed. “Fine. Except that Mercy and I are now at something of a stalemate.”
“Oh?”
His troubled eyes met hers. “Last night as we neared New Orleans, I told her about you and Arnaud. Now she wants an annulment.”
“I’m not surprised.” Justine touched his hand. “You know, Julian, it’s not necessary for you to go on seeing me.”
His expression was crestfallen. “How can you say that? There’s Arnaud—”
“Henrí could fetch him, and the two of you could meet in some neutral location. Perhaps this would soothe Mercy somewhat. She’s bound to feel hurt and jealous right now.”
He frowned. “That’s what Mama said.”
“Apologize to her, Julian. Tell her you love her.”
He stared at her starkly. “Are my feelings that transparent?”
“Yes.”
He groaned. “I can’t tell her. She’d use my feelings as a weapon. She’ll never care for me.”
Justine touched his rigid shoulder. “Julian, I’m sure she does care for you. And you will tell her of your feelings, when the time is right.”
He glanced up at her, braving a smile. “I won’t stop seeing you, Justine—as a friend. You’re the mother of my son and I will always be responsible for your welfare—and Arnaud’s.”
Justine sighed. “Very well. But mention me to Mercy as little as possible.”
He squeezed her hand briefly. “You’re a saint, Justine. All you think about is my own happiness.”
Justine glanced away and bit her lip . . .
They visited for a few more minutes, then Julian left the room to go kiss his son goodbye. Justine glanced up to see Henrí standing in the doorway to the dining room, studying her solemnly. Her heart leaped with joy at the sight of him; he looked so tall, so handsome, his dark brown eyes feasting on her. She presumed he had overheard much.
Their thirsty, guilty gazes held for a long moment, then she got up and tiptoed to his side. She clutched his hand. “Oh, mon amour, if only Julian knew what we’ve done! I feel so guilty about the nights we spent together while he and Mercy were gone.”
Henrí frowned. “You fear maître would disapprove of our love?”
She nodded, her expression torn. “When Julian first became my protector, I always assumed that I would devote myself to one man for life. After all, that’s what my mother did, even though Papa was not always faithful to her. And now—”
“Now Julian is no longer your lover,” Henrí pointed out. “Now he has taken a wife.”
“I realize these things. Still, I’m the mother of his child, and Arnaud is so small.” She bit her lip. “Julian said something recently . . .”
“Yes?”
She met his troubled gaze. “He mentioned that when Arnaud is older, perhaps I’ll find someone else. But he added that the man would have to be an upstanding sort, or he would never approve.”
Henrí scowled. “You think, then, that he would want to see you with someone like himself?”
“I fear so.”
“Perhaps you’re wrong, ma petite.” He stared at her adoringly. “At any rate, our love simply could not be contained any longer. And remember that maître long ago released you from your obligation as his mistress.” He drew a heavy breath. “We will have to tell him, you know. We both owe him that much.”
“When?” she asked.
Henrí hauled her close with a groan. “When the time is right. Maître is deeply troubled right now. He has his own problems to contend with. We must wait for the right moment.”
***
That afternoon, once she had calmed down a bit, Mercy grew restless. While Risa quietly unpacked her clothes, Mercy paced the bedroom, wondering morosely what she should do. She considered leaving Julian and fleeing to the convent. Yet she quickly realized that such a move would be folly. Julian would simply come after her and drag her back home. No, she had no choice but to remain here; she could only hope that in time, she might persuade him to release her from her vows.
She spent the afternoon exploring the town house, taking a leisurely bath, and trying to read. Toward evening, a marchand delivered a dozen red roses to her. Risa arranged the flowers in a vase and set them on the bedroom dresser. After the maid left, Mercy sat on the daybed, staring numbly at the luscious, velvety blooms and clutching Julian’s card in her hand. It read simply: I’m sorry. Julian.
She was tempted to rip his card into a thousand pieces. She was tempted to smash the vase of flowers on the floor. Yet she knew that throwing a childish tantrum wouldn’t solve anything.
Did the cad actually believe he could soothe her with flowers and a halfhearted I’m sorry? Did he think she’d instantly absolve him of all guilt and wait for him in his bed like a besotted fool?
If he did think these things, he was crazy! He was a man with a mistress and an illegitimate child, both of whom he had concealed from her. She would never share him with these others!
Then a small, traitorous voice reminded her that he had said he was sorry. He was a proud man, and surely the apology had chafed his pride a bit.
Good, she thought with sudden, fierce acrimony. If he felt one iota of the pain he’d inflicted on her, she was glad!
Still, an anguished cry escaped her. As much as Julian had wounded her, she still yearned for the happier days they’d known.
In a moment of appalling weakness, she went over and smelled the roses.
***
When he came to her very late that night, the room still smelled of roses.
Mercy had waited in the darkness—tossing, turning, sleepless—growing angrier and angrier as the hour grew later and Julian failed to appear. She had considered leaving to sleep elsewhere, but had realized that such a move would surely only provoke him.
Well past midnight, she heard the door creak open and his boots crossing the room. Her heart pounding, she clutched the sheet and watched him undress in the shadows. He removed all his clothes, and, as she studied his magnificent nakedness outlined in the silvery light, she felt desire, hot and unbidden, flooding her veins. Suddenly, she hated herself.
He sank into the bed beside her and grasped her shoulder.
“Don’t touch me!” she hissed.
He sighed. “Mercy, I came home late to give you a chance to recover from your anger.”
“You’ve been with Justine tonight,” she flung at him.
“No,” he denied. “I’ve been with André Beaufort. He or his wife will confirm that for you.”
Her eyes stung. “I don’t care where you’ve been.”
“Really?” he challenged. “Is that why you’re still awake, unable to sleep?”
“I can’t sleep because I hate you!”
She heard the breath suddenly leave his body, as if she had just savagely struck him. She wondered why she felt no joy.
“Do you despise me so much?” he asked at last.
“Yes!”
“Damn it, Mercy!” Roughly, Julian hauled her into his arms. When she tried to fight him, he pinned both her hands above her head and stared down into her eyes. As much as she hated him, she reeled with traitorous desire as his hard, naked body pressed into her softness. Memories of the intimacies they’d shared bombarded her, only intensifying the painful ache between her thighs.