Her passionate surrender seemed to ease some demon in him. “Chérie” he murmured raggedly, taking her lips with enervating tenderness.
Mercy kissed Julian back with all the torment and need in her body. She yanked down the straps of her gown and brought his mouth to her breast. She encouraged him with wanton whispers as his teeth hungrily took her nipple. Then she kissed his hair, his rough cheek, his strong jaw, his lips, and moaned inarticulately into his mouth. She gasped her delight when his arms trembled about her, when his loins broke into a frantic tempo. She moved her hips provocatively in return.
Their lovemaking grew fevered and intense. They devoured each other, each one seeking the love that both held tightly imprisoned in their hearts. Emotional release did not come, but soon physical pleasure stampeded them both with an intensity that rocked them to the depths of their beings.
For a moment, they struggled to regain control of their racing hearts, their ragged breathing. Then they fell back onto the mattress together, their bodies still locked.
An unexpected, aching sadness welled up in Mercy’s heart, her throat. The mating had been glorious, yet why did she feel this sudden, wrenching emptiness? Why was she blinking back tears?
Julian gently disengaged his body from hers. He stood at the side of the bed, his expression unreadable as he began to methodically remove his clothing. Minus his shirt, he looked golden, fierce and determined in the soft light, especially with his blue eyes fixed on her so intently.
Staring at his bare, muscular chest, she gulped. “Julian—
“Don’t talk,” he ordered hoarsely. “Sometimes I think we should never talk, you and I.”
Even as she tried to protest, he silenced her with a rough, possessive kiss. As he straightened, he pulled the gown from her shoulders.
“No words, love,” he whispered intensely, pressing her back. “Only this.”
***
The next morning, Mercy somehow faced Julian over the small breakfast table in their room, after a night that had afforded them little rest, but much passion.
Mercy’s fingers trembled as she lifted her demitasse of cafe au lait. Every inch of her still seemed to throb from the imprint of her husband’s fierce lovemaking. Yet why did she feel so strangely unfulfilled? Why was she again on the verge of crying?
She eyed him sitting across from her. He had shaved and dressed for work, and he appeared quite formidably handsome as he scowled over his newspaper. She realized that she felt this appalling emptiness because she was certain now that he would never love her.
Hadn’t he made it clear last night that she was only a convenience to him? Now more than ever, she felt certain that he’d only married her out of some sense of guilt or obligation. Surely he would much prefer being with Justine and Arnaud. The very thought made her choke back a sob. She realized she simply could not go on with so much hurt and dishonesty between them.
Clearing her throat, she said bravely, “Julian, last night, there was something else I meant to tell you . . .”
He laid down the paper and regarded her skeptically. “Indeed?”
She bit her lip, knowing he would not make this easy on her. “We both know the truth now,” she said, raising her chin with bravado. “I am finished blaming you. I think we’ve been hurting each other long enough. You have no need to atone to me. I’m willing to release you from our vows. I know your heart lies elsewhere—”
“As does yours?” he cut in savagely.
Mercy winced at his reference to Philippe Broussard. “Julian, I’ve told you before that I never loved Philippe—”
“And that’s why you were entertaining him in our parlor?”
She sighed heavily, clenching her fists in her lap. “I just think it would be better if . . . we parted company.”
Julian was broodingly silent for a long time. At last he asked softly, “Even after last night?”
“That was . . .” Miserably, Mercy stared at her lap and blinked back tears; her heart felt as if breaking. “That was not love.”
Across from her, Julian reeled at this outright rejection by his wife. The girl had made love with him like a wanton all night, and now she was coldly scoffing at what they’d shared and casting him aside? This cruel denouncement only reinforced her previous, cutting claim that their moments in bed were the only thing about the marriage that pleased her. Certainly their marriage had nothing to do with love—not for her. She had only exploited his feelings—again.
Well, if she was determined to be mercenary, then he could be too.
“Release you from your vows?” He regarded her with scorn. “But that is something I am not willing to do. Have you forgotten so soon the investment I have made in you? It seems I no longer interest you now that I am no longer ‘Julian the Terrible.’ Now that I am worthy of your mercy, you have none for me. Well, neither have I any for you.”
Appalled, Mercy reached for his sleeve. “Julian—”
He wrenched free from her touch and stood. His mouth curled bitterly. “Redefine your opinion of me, dear wife. You were right all along.”
Before she could comment, he turned and strode from the room.
Chapter Twenty-five
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Later that morning, Julian had much on his mind as Henrí drove him toward Justine’s house. His son had seemed somewhat out of sorts when Julian had visited him the other night, and he wanted to check on the boy before going on to the Exchange.
The weather today was overcast and muggy, and seemed a grim reflection of his own dour mood. Aside from his worries regarding Arnaud, his mind was consumed with thoughts of Mercy, after the turbulent, passionate night they’d shared. His wife now knew the truth about her father’s death, although the revelations had not really helped matters. Julian had not admonished Henrí regarding his disclosures, since he realized that the manservant’s motives had been well intentioned.
Still, his marriage remained in a terrible quandary. Julian did not want his wife to stay with him out of guilt or pity. Yet he was not willing to let her go—as evidenced by his vigorous, possessive bedding of her all night. He sighed heavily. He could touch her body so deeply that she cried out in passion—yet he could not melt her cold little heart. And when she tried to reject him—as she had again this morning—fear made him cling to her, and pride forced him to say cruel, unforgivable things. It was an untenable situation. He wondered how much longer they could go on destroying each other this way . . .
Soon, Henrí pulled the coach to a halt before Justine’s cottage. As Julian alighted, he was surprised to see a small black buggy parked ahead of them. Alarm dogged his steps as he hurried up the pathway with Henrí following.
His knock was promptly answered by a white-faced Justine, who stood with handkerchief in hand. “What is it?” Julian demanded.
“It’s Arnaud,” she whispered urgently. “The doctor is with him.”
Julian rushed past her, grabbing her hand and tugging her with him down the narrow hallway toward their son’s small bedroom. In the archway, Julian paused, his eyes fixed with terrible fear on the scene before him.
Arnaud lay thrashing about on his small bed, his cheeks bright with fever. A light rash coated his face and neck. The doctor stood nearby, his expression resigned as he shut his bag.
At last, Julian gathered the presence of mind to stride into the room, pulling Justine with him. “What’s wrong with my son?” he demanded.
The thin, balding man turned to Julian with a sigh. “M’sieur, I’m not certain. Given the rash on your son’s body and the coating on his tongue, I suspect scarlet fever. It’s a bit early in the season for it to strike, but I’ve recently seen a case or two over near the Canal.”
Justine gasped and crossed herself. Julian wrapped an arm about her waist as both of them stared anxiously at their sick child.
Julian turned back to the doctor and spoke in a whisper. “Is he badly taken?”
“I’m afraid so. Your son’s fever is high, and his lungs are congested. The situation is grave.”
Releasing Justine, Julian went over to the bed. He felt Arnaud’s forehead and listened to his shallow breathing. The boy stirred briefly, flashed his father a wan smile, and then drifted back to sleep.
Frantically, Julian turned back to the physician. “Mon Dieu! He’s burning alive! Shouldn’t we take him to a hospital?”
The doctor shook his head. “Actually, m’sieur, I feel Arnaud will do much better here. Taking him to a hospital now would likely expose him to additional contagion. We can try bromides or laudanum, but it’s mainly a matter of keeping him quiet and sponged off, and trying to get some liquids down him. ” He glanced with mild annoyance at Justine. “His mother refused to allow me to bleed him—”
“As will I,” Julian cut in adamantly. “Our son is sick enough as it is without your draining off his lifeblood.”
“As you wish, m’sieur.”
Staring at Arnaud, Julian tried unsuccessfully to swallow the hard lump in his throat. “How long before we—”
“In three to four days, we should know if he will pass the crisis,” the doctor pronounced. “I’ve left some medicines on the dresser, and I’ll come back to check on him whenever I can.”