The very thought made him clench his fists. “Damn it all!” he exploded, returning to his chair and sitting down with a fierce sigh. He picked up a pencil and snapped it in two; still, his entire body seethed with frustration.
Julian Devereux was anything but self-deceived. And honesty forced him to admit that he would not, could not, let Mercy go.
***
During the next week, Julian continued to hold himself apart from Mercy, and she endlessly wondered how much more of this cold, empty marriage she could endure. She remembered how, a brief fortnight earlier, Julian had fought for her so passionately; then she had driven him away with her own mean-spirited, thoughtless words. Their roles had been reversed, she realized ruefully; it was now she who fought for the marriage. Only her change of heart had come too late, for Julian was unwilling to receive the olive branch she had extended.
I want your heart. Endlessly, she remembered his cynical words on the night she went to his study. Surely he’d been lying. For if he had truly wanted her heart, he never would have given up on their marriage so easily.
Outwardly, of course, they kept up the trappings of marriage; Julian escorted her to Mass on Sundays and to an occasional dinner party or other social events. But otherwise, her husband was little more than a stranger who occasionally appeared in her bed and who never touched her.
At last, Mercy forced herself to face the truth. Julian was a man of strong needs, and he had shut his wife out completely. That meant he must be sleeping with his mistress again. Of course, both he and Justine had denied that they were continuing the affair, but what else could she have expected them to say? Surely all along, Julian had only wanted this marriage as a façade to cover his illicit liaison. This reality began to drive Mercy insane with jealousy.
And unfortunately, she had no one to turn to with her troubles. She knew that if she went to Madelaine Devereux, her mother-in-law would only reiterate her stance that Mercy should accept the status quo and bear Julian an heir as quickly as possible—and she had no idea how to bear a child for a man who refused to touch her. She also thought of visiting the convent again, to ask the nuns’ advice, but soon realized that the sisters, with their cloistered existence, could hardly shed light on her troubled marriage—nor were they likely to support her over Julian.
Thus Mercy bore her troubles in silence and isolation. She actually felt relieved, if surprised, one afternoon in early August, when Henrí announced that Philippe Broussard had come calling. In the bedroom, she touched up her coiffure and smoothed down the lines of her green and white printed dress. Then she hurried downstairs.
Philippe sprang to his feet the instant Mercy entered the parlor, and stood staring at her expectantly. Smiling as she swept toward him, she noted that he looked elegant in his black velvet frock coat and matching trousers; yet he appeared to have grown thinner. Deep lines etched his mouth and pale circles curved beneath his eyes. She regretted the possibility that she might have caused him such physical distress.
She extended her hand. “Philippe, what a pleasant surprise.”
He took her hand and briefly kissed it. His smile was stiff. “Mercy. I must say you’re looking well.”
“As are you. Well—won’t you have a seat?”
Politely waiting until Mercy seated herself on the settee, Philippe settled his lanky frame into the armchair flanking her. She offered him an encouraging smile. “What brings you here today?”
He cleared his throat. “Mercy, I realize I’m taking a risk by coming to see you. I have no desire to interfere in your marriage, but I did feel compelled to check on you. ”
“That’s generous of you—considering the terms under which we parted.” She sighed, gazing at him contritely. “I’m really sorry about that, Philippe.”
He nodded soberly. “You are happy, then?”
“I . . .” Mercy lowered her lashes and clenched her fingers tightly together. She found herself fighting a bizarre yet powerful urge to burst into tears.
Philippe snorted derisively. “Then things are just as I feared.”
“What do you mean?”
He surged to his feet. “Don’t play coy with me, Mercy. I know what’s really going on here.”
“You do?” she asked in bewilderment.
He began to pace, regarding her darkly. “I was a fool not to see it before. The cad forced you to marry him, didn’t he? I realized as much as soon as I managed to cool down. He gave you a choice, didn’t he, Mercy? Your life for mine.”
She bit her lip, stunned and disarmed by his perceptions. Lamely, she said, “Philippe, please, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? You married Devereux to stop the duel, didn’t you?”
She stared at him helplessly. “It was what I wanted.”
“Indeed?” he pressed, drawing closer. “What did you want? To marry him or to stop the duel?”
“To marry him,” she murmured without conviction.
He laughed mirthlessly. “Pray, don’t insult my intelligence.”
“Philippe, why bring up all this now?”
He strode to her side, seated himself, and took her hands. “Because I have to know the truth. You see—I’m betrothed again.”
“You are?”
He nodded soberly. “To Annette Hamilton.”
She smiled, finding she felt quite happy for him. “Congratulations.”
He grimaced. “It is a mariage de convenance. Our families have been friends for years. ” He squeezed her hands, a melancholy light shining in his eyes. “But you must know, Mercy, that you are still my first love. Therefore, I must know if your marriage is successful.”
She gently disengaged her fingers from his. “What difference does it make now? It’s too late.”
“But that’s not true,” Philippe countered passionately. “At times, marriages do fail, and if this reality is recognized early enough, sometimes the Church can be persuaded to provide an annulment.” He swallowed hard and stared her straight in the eye. “I have to know, Mercy.”
She sadly shook her head. “Marry Annette, Philippe. Forget about me.”
“Is that all you can say?” he cried.
Mercy was poised to reply when a deep, mocking masculine voice answered for her. “Yes, m’sieur, marry your Annette and forget about my wife. For, you see, Madame Devereux is definitely not available.”
Both of them gasped and whirled to see Julian standing in the archway, scowling at them darkly. Mercy’s heart pounded frantically as Philippe surged to his feet and glowered back at Julian. Oh, mon Dieu, how much had her husband overheard?
Enough evidently, for Julian’s eyes blazed with contempt and suspicion as he strode aggressively into the room. Mercy fought back a shudder. As angry as she was at Julian, as much as his presence unnerved her, her ravenous senses still thrilled at the sight of him. Even full of anger and lethal purpose, he was still the most handsome, the most masterful man she had ever laid eyes on—so dark, so vibrant with seething masculinity. The distance between them only magnified her traitorous yearning.
He paused before Philippe. “M’sieur Broussard, may I ask what you are doing here with my wife?”
Mercy had to give Philippe credit for facing Julian unflinchingly. “M’sieur Devereux, I came to check on Mercy’s welfare. At one time, she and I were betrothed, so I felt that was the least I should do.”
Julian laughed scornfully. “Your solicitude is most touching, but I am perfectly capable of looking out after my own wife’s welfare. And I must make it clear that your presence in our home is unwelcome.”
“Julian!” Rising to her feet, Mercy felt compelled to speak. “Philippe came by to tell me he’s engaged.”
“Is he, indeed?” Julian drawled. His blue gaze fixed on her in a chilling way that made her stomach jump. “Doubtless he’ll marry his second choice now that he has determined that you won’t abandon your vows and desert your husband.”
With a low, furious cry, Mercy bit back her savage desire to retaliate. She knew that the things she must say to Julian could not be spoken in front of Philippe. She turned to her guest with a frozen, apologetic smile. “Philippe, I think it would be best if—”
“I understand,” he cut in. “Good day, Mercy.” He inclined his head stiffly toward Julian. “M’sieur.” Drawing himself up with dignity, he turned and left the room.
An explosive silence fell in the wake of Philippe’s departure. Mercy and Julian glared at each other. With a curse, he drew out a cheroot and lit it. Blowing out smoke, he asked cynically, “So, did you enjoy your little tête-à-tête with your former fiancé?”
“Very much,” she replied with icy hauteur.
His dangerous gaze flashed to hers. “Is there anything you care to say before I throttle you?”
She laughed bitterly, not at all daunted by his threat. “I think you’ll find that it’s most difficult to throttle a wife you’re determined not to touch.” Feeling perversely pleased by the flash of anger in his eyes, she tilted her chin. “And why should you care, anyway? You’re a stranger in your own home. Furthermore, you’ve made it clear that you’re totally indifferent to what I do or whom I see.”