Julian looked so handsome and intimidating in his elegantly cut black suit; the lamplight shone in his thick black hair and glittered in his penetrating blue eyes. He appeared somehow taller, more masculine than ever, especially with the deep lines of fatigue etched across his face and the hard set of his mouth. There was a stiffness to his shoulders, a wariness about his countenance, a cynical and world-weary air.
Could she truly break through his barriers and communicate with him?
She stepped forward tentatively and braved a smile. “Good evening, Julian.”
“Good evening,” he replied in deep, guarded tones.
He removed his coat and cravat, and laid them on a chair. Staring at his wife, he wondered what she was about tonight. After wrestling with his conscience for much of the day, he had come home early to apologize to her, to try to mend the rift in their marriage. But when he had swung open the door, he’d been stunned by what he saw. The last thing he had expected was this touching, domestic scene—his wife eagerly awaiting him, dressed in a sexy negligee.
Not that he wasn’t stirred by her ploy. While his countenance remained impassive, Julian’s heart was beating out a fierce, hungry rhythm. He’d almost forgotten what a ravishing beauty Mercy was, especially with her sumptuous red hair catching fiery highlights from the lamp, with her lush lips sweetly parted and her wide green eyes fixed on him with such melting softness. Memories of their previous intimacies slammed into him, shooting agonized arousal through his loins. He was sorely tempted to haul her into his arms and take the sexual relief his body so desperately craved.
Yet pride and caution held him back. What was the reason for this sudden, remarkable transformation? Why had his wife—who had only yesterday been shouting at him—waited up for him tonight in a seductive nightgown? Why was there the scent of rosewater in the air, and a bottle of wine laid out on the dressing table?
Was it just sexual gratification that she once again sought? Or was some other crafty purpose spurring her actions? Julian knew that Mercy’s sweetness had a price, and he wondered cynically just what payment she intended to exact from him tonight.
An awkward silence stretched between them. At last, Mercy cleared her throat and asked, “Would you care for a glass of wine?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She went over to the dressing table, picking up the bottle of wine Henrí had uncorked. She poured a glassful for herself and one for Julian. Returning to his side, she handed him his glass, taking a sharp breath as her hand brushed his. Both of them warily took a sip.
He studied her through narrowed eyes. “So, Mercy, what’s the occasion?”
She took a hearty gulp and set her glass down on a nearby table. “I needed to talk with you.”
He laughed dryly, taking a deep draft of the wine. “It’s apparent that you want something from me tonight. So talk.”
She hesitated, her heart pounding. At last, in a small voice, she whispered. “Henrí came to see me this morning. He told me everything—how my father really died, and how your—er—friend, Genevieve Dupree, died.”
Julian swung away, thrusting his fingers through his hair. “He had no right.”
“But he did,” Mercy said plaintively. “He was right to tell me. You should have told me yourself, long ago.”
He whirled on her, his eyes bright with bitterness. “Would you have believed me? And would you really have wanted to know what your father did?”
She nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes, I would have believed you. It would have helped me to understand . . .”
“Understand what?” he demanded cynically.
“You,” she whispered intensely. “How much you’ve endured and sacrificed, how good you’ve really been to me.”
He laughed ruefully. “I don’t want your damned gratitude.”
“But you’ve gotten my scorn—just as Henrí said!” she cried in anguish. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“You were a child,” he muttered. “A child who had already lost both parents.”
“You wanted to protect me?”
“Yes,” he admitted hoarsely.
“But you didn’t protect yourself! You lost so much because of my father. And to think of how I blamed you . . . I’ve been wrong—unforgivably wrong, for so long.” She dared to touch his rigid shoulder. “Did you love her?”
The muscle jumped beneath her fingers. “Love whom?”
“The girl who died—Genevieve Dupree.”
He stared at her, his eyes expressing a world of emotion. But he did not speak.
“Henrí told me how you suffered,” she went on, twisting her fingers together. “How you were shattered by it all. Oh, Julian. I’m so sorry.”
He clenched his fingers over the stem of his wineglass, as if that gesture alone could hold at bay all the emotion teeming inside him. He stared at Mercy’s stark, anguished face. So the girl finally knew the truth. Indeed, he appeared to be witnessing a transformation in his bride; the cold hatred of years seemed to be slipping away. Truth to tell, he hungered to drag her into his arms and kiss her until nothing existed but the two of them—
But then he saw the pity in her eyes, and something died inside him.
She did not care for him! She was only motivated by guilt! She was only offering pity, misguided sympathy—something he’d never wanted! He’d much rather deal with her malice.
“Sorry?” he repeated ironically. “It must be quite a burden, ma chère, not knowing what to do with all your hatred. You’ve been carrying it around for ages, directing it at me.”
“Wrongly so!” she cried.
“Ah, yes, wrongly so,” he agreed with heavy irony. “But you couldn’t have trusted me, could you? You had to believe the worst, always. Now, what do you do when the object of your loathing becomes—what?—the object of your pity?”
“Julian, please, I don’t—”
He strode away from her and slammed his empty wineglass down on the dressing table. The silence that followed was awful, screaming out at them both.
Mercy drew near and touched his arm. “Julian—”
She gasped as he turned and hauled her violently into his embrace. She staggered on her feet as she stared up into his blazing eyes.
“No matter, my love,” he said with a mocking softness that slayed her. “Do not worry your sweet head. There’s no need for pity, or apologies, or empty declarations of your devotion. Haven’t you told me before precisely what I mean to you? What this marriage means to you? Let’s be done with pretense for once and admit it. What we have is this . . .”
And he dragged her off to bed.
Amid her smothered protests, they fell across the counterpane together, his hard body pinning hers to the mattress. Mercy reeled with desire and fear as Julian’s mouth caught hers with savage hunger. His hand moved brazenly to raise her gown, and she trembled at his intention, desire twisting painfully in her belly.
While Mercy’s body craved her husband’s possession, all her instincts told her that this was wrong. He had scoffed at her apology and her feelings. He was trying to demonstrate that what they had was just physical, and this debased them both. She pushed against his chest.
“Julian, no,” she implored, blinking back tears. “Not this way.”
“Then how?” he cried in an agonized voice, searing her lips once more.
His tongue was deep in her mouth now, plundering rapaciously. Her gown was hiked high above her waist. As he paused to free his manhood from his trousers, her hands relaxed against his shoulders. Let him take her this way, she thought fiercely, if only it would ease this terrible dark hurt in him.
At this sign of softness in her, he drew back and glanced down suspiciously. “What—no more protests, Mercy? Are you ready to accept this marriage for what it really is?”
“Please—just don’t hate me,” she whispered back brokenly.
At her unexpected words, all the violence in him died. They stared at each other, breathing hard.
Julian’s expression was stark, his words the barest whisper. “You think I hate you?”
“Yes!”
His expression grew shuttered again, and his voice was filled with hoarse fatalism. “If this is hate, chère, then God forbid that we should ever love each other.”
Ironic though his words were, they soothed something in Mercy. When Julian kissed her again, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back hungrily, trying to communicate with her body the truth that he would never believe coming from her lips. When he pressed his hand between her thighs, she opened to him willingly. Desire consumed her in a throbbing wave as his rough thumb found her aching nub. She stared up into his burning eyes, ripping open his shirt and perching her hands lightly on his bare, muscled chest. When his hot manhood moved boldly between her thighs, her fingernails clawed his smooth flesh. His hands seized hers then, his fingers digging into her wrists with fierce possessiveness as his fervid gaze held hers.
Mercy was unprepared for the shock of his sudden, deep penetration. Her mindless cry brought out the wildness in him; he locked his arms about her waist and held her to him fiercely. Even as he pressed hard to possess her, his lips settled over hers in a trembling kiss that was sweetest torture. Mercy whimpered and tossed her head in abandon, writhing in ecstasy beneath him. Julian gripped her chin and stared into her passion-flushed face. He drove her mad with slow, deliberate thrusts and watched the shock waves of pleasure drift outward to dilate the very pupils of her eyes. He listened to her sharp, out-of-control breathing.