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Rogue's Mistress(7)

By:Eugenia Riley


At Mercy’s words, Philippe stepped forward awkwardly, extending his hand to Julian. “M’sieur Devereux, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Mercy has spoken of . . . your many good deeds on her behalf.”

“Has she, now?” Julian interjected cynically, pointedly ignoring Philippe’s hand. As Philippe miserably dropped his hand to his side, Julian added, “Your pardon, M’sieur Broussard, but it is unthinkable that I should allow my ward to tarry here with you, without a proper duenna in attendance. Therefore, if you’ll excuse us . . . ?”

Philippe gulped. “Yes, m’sieur. I’ll . . . We’ll talk later, then.”

And without another word, Philippe turned and fled out the gate.

Julian’s expression was wryly amused as he glanced back at Mercy. “A rather skittish young pup—easy enough to scare off.”

With great restraint, Mercy managed not to attack her guardian with fists flying. Instead, she cried, “How dare you, m’sieur! Treating Philippe in such a rude, contemptible manner!”

“And your conduct, I presume, has been beyond reproach?” Julian countered nastily. “Meeting with your . . . lover . . . in this clandestine way?”

“He is not my lover, m’sieur.”

“Indeed?” Julian drew an aggressive step closer to her. “Then what, pray tell, is M’sieur Broussard’s relationship to you?”

Mercy stared up at Julian defiantly, at first too angered and unsettled to reply. As arrogant and maddening as he was, he still oozed an intense animal magnetism to which she was far from immune. The air throbbed with the disquieting, enervating electricity that always seemed present between them lately. “It is not what you think,” she managed at last.

He harrumphed. “Is young Broussard the reason I have been summoned so suddenly to Mother Anise’s office?”

“Oui,” Mercy said miserably.

“Then let’s be about it, by all means,” Julian said grimly, taking her arm and leading her up the path.

Mercy almost had to run to keep up with his brisk, long-legged strides. His grip on her arm was firm but not hurtful, yet she felt strangely light-headed being so close to him. His features were still clenched in a fierce resolve that only added to his formidable handsomeness. She caught a sharp breath and was inundated by his scent—bay rum, shaving soap, and tobacco—which only added to her agitation.

Mercy bit her lip, realizing that things had gone horribly awry. She had known full well that an unchaperoned visit with Philippe was forbidden, yet she had forged recklessly ahead. Now her guardian had caught her breaking the rules, and her sense of fairness made her concede that she could understand his outrage. She almost wanted to say, Please, Julian, may we start over?

Julian. Funny, she mused, during the entire nine years she had known Julian Devereux, she had never, not even once, called him by his Christian name.

Then her righteous anger sprang up again, reminding her that this was the man who had killed her father. He was surely black-hearted and cruel, and now he would doubtless deny Philippe’s suit out of spite alone.

They had arrived at the balustraded portico and stood before the heavily carved door with its exquisite cut-glass fanlight. Julian spoke in a clipped voice. “You will go to your room, Mercy. I shall speak with Mother Anise on this matter—and the shocking lack of supervision that I have witnessed. Afterward, I shall deal with you.”

At his peremptory words, Mercy’s anger at Julian was near-blinding. Deal with her, would he? But she somehow knew better than to cross him at this critical moment. “Oui, m’sieur,” she gritted out, turning and fleeing for the safety of the parish house.





Chapter Four


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“How was this allowed to happen?”

Julian Devereux paced the mother superior’s office, while Mother Anise and Sister Clarabelle watched him, wide-eyed.

“Please, M’sieur Devereux, won’t you take a seat so that we may discuss this rationally?” Mother Anise beseeched him.

“Rationally?” Julian repeated, waving a hand. “Do you realize that I just witnessed my ward in the midst of an . . . assignation . . . with a young man of dubious background, and with no chaperone in evidence?”

“Yes, m’sieur, we realize it, and Sister Clarabelle and I do apologize,” Mother Anise replied. “You have our vow that this . . . unfortunate incident . . . will not be repeated. But as you’re well aware, Mercy has always been of a rather fractious disposition—”

“An understatement, indeed,” Julian interjected, seating himself in a French armchair before the mother superior’s desk. He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled, causing both nuns to muse simultaneously that he appeared no less intimidating when seated.

“How did this happen?” he again demanded.

“Happen, m’sieur?” Sister Clarabelle asked.

He glanced sharply at the pale-faced, elderly sister, who stared back at him bravely from behind her steel-rimmed spectacles. “How did my ward become acquainted with young Broussard?”

The two nuns exchanged a brief, lost look, then Sister Clarabelle explained earnestly, “Why, I believe they met at Mass, m’sieur. It has all been perfectly innocent, I assure you—”

“Not from what I just witnessed.”

“The fact remains, m’sieur,” the headmistress put in calmly, “that young Broussard has proposed marriage to Mercy. I would think that he would make a rather suitable match—”

“Suitable match?” Julian cut in incredulously. “Do you actually think I’d marry off my ward to an innkeeper’s son?”

“M’sieur Devereux,” Sister Clarabelle interjected nervously, “the Hotel Broussard is quite well-respected in the Quarter—”

“It’s little more than a hostelry,” Julian said dismissively.

Mother Anise leaned forward over her desk, clasping her hands together. “But, m’sieur, young Broussard still seems very sincere and upstanding. And I must ask—what other future awaits your ward? Mercy has now concluded her studies with us, and while she’s certainly welcome to stay here for as long as you may please, the girl has shown no interest in teaching or taking the veil.”

Julian was forced to restrain a chuckle at the very thought of his rebellious ward becoming a nun. To the sisters, he stated, “I have plans for her. I shall launch her in Creole society, and when the time is right, I shall choose a proper husband for her.”

Both nuns appeared stunned; Mother Anise lifted an eyebrow and Sister Clarabelle coughed nervously into her handkerchief. “Well, if such are your plans . . .” the mother superior said.

“Furthermore, I am shocked that the two of you evidently thought I would abandon Mercy upon completion of her education,” Julian added coldly.

“Oh, no!” Sister Clarabelle assured him. “We never for a moment thought that.”

“All we are doing,” Mother Anise added, “is relaying Mercy’s request to you, and asking if you would be willing to hear young Broussard’s suit—”

“Relaying a request,” Julian repeated cynically. “Very well, then, the request is relayed—and it is denied.” He stood, clapping on his hat. “Good day, sisters.”

As Julian departed the room with a resounding slam of the door, the sisters stared at each other, aghast. “Pour l’amour de Dieu!” Mother Anise gasped, crossing herself. “I have never seen a man in such a temper! One would think he wants the girl for himself!”

***

Julian was striding down the walkway toward the gate, scowling darkly, when Mercy emerged from some nearby crepe myrtle bushes. “M’sieur. Please, wait!”

He turned to see Mercy standing close by—a fair-skinned, passionately beautiful creature. At the moment, he was well aware that the desperate hope gleaming in her green eyes was not meant for him, and somehow this knowledge angered him. He knew that, shortly, the expectation in her beautiful expression would be dashed—for her own good, he reminded himself.

“What is it, Mercy?” he asked with some impatience. “I thought I told you to wait in your room.”

“But I heard you leaving—slamming the door to Mother Anise’s office—and realized you were not planning to meet with me as you said you would.”

Julian glanced away, feeling suddenly at a loss. “Perhaps it is best that you speak with Mother Anise.”

“No!” Mercy surged forward, her fingers nervously twisting the lace trim on her pinafore. “I want to hear what happened from you—now.”

He turned to her with blue eyes gleaming and jaw tight. “The suit of your . . . friend . . . is denied.”

“What?” she cried. “Why?”

He straightened his cuffs in a self-assured gesture that maddened her. “He is not suitable for you. I have plans for you, Mercy.”

“Plans?”

Julian drew himself up to every inch of his formidable height. “Plans,” he ground out. “As your guardian, it is my responsibility to choose a proper husband for you. However, in this—as in everything—you have acted in a headstrong, intractable, and irresponsible manner. Nevertheless, I will not allow you to ruin your chances with an innkeeper’s son.”