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Rogue's Mistress(8)

By:Eugenia Riley


Mercy gritted her teeth. “You won’t allow! Don’t you know that for the last nine years, all I have wanted is to be rid of you?”

Julian’s eyes glittered with menace. “I’m well aware of the fact. But obviously you are not old enough to know your own mind, or to behave prudently—as you have just amply demonstrated.”

Mercy’s eyes blazed with contempt. “Then I shall many Philippe, with or without your consent!”

Some madness forced Julian to seize Mercy by the arms and pull her against him. For a wild, out-of control moment, the two glared at each other in a murderous battle of wills, both breathing hard. Julian realized crazily that he was tempted to kiss this impudent young miss, to somehow wipe the look of reckless, defiant scorn from her face. But somehow he managed to rein in his near-savage desire for retribution.

“You won’t, Mercy,” he said, his voice laced with steel. “You will not marry him.”

“Don’t you know that I hate you!” she cried. “That I’ve always hated you?”

He released her so abruptly that she swayed on her feet. “I’m well aware of the fact,” he said cynically. “The suit is denied,” he reiterated, then turned on his heel, leaving Mercy to stamp her foot and tremble in mortification as she watched him stride down the path.

***

“Papa! Papa!”

Half an hour later, Julian was seated in the parlor of Justine Begué’s cottage on Rampart Street when his four-year-old son, Arnaud, burst in. The child, wearing black knee-pants, a matching jacket, and a shirt with a red bow tie, raced across the room and launched himself into his adoring father’s arms.

Julian laughed, cuddling Arnaud and kissing his soft pink cheek. “You have missed me, my son?” he teased.

Arnaud turned his angelic little face, with its blue eyes that so perfectly matched Julian’s, up to his father. “You have been gone too long, Papa,” he said with a scowl. “For three whole days. Mama helped me count them.”

“I apologize, poppet,” Julian said solemnly as he retied the bow on Arnaud’s shirt. “I’ve been very busy lately—but I shall endeavor to improve.”

“You must,” Arnaud said importantly. “Yesterday, I found three squirmy worms in the garden, and you weren’t here to see them.”

“A catastrophe, clearly,” Julian agreed. He chuckled and ruffled the child’s moppish black curls. How he loved the boy. Arnaud and Justine made his benighted existence worthwhile, he mused tenderly.

Hearing the sound of crisp, rustling fabric, Julian glanced up. A lovely woman in her mid-twenties appeared at the archway, carrying a silver tea tray. Justine Begué was regally beautiful with her upswept brown hair, amber eyes, and lovely, honey-hued skin; she was dressed in an ice-blue taffeta frock and wore the sapphire jewelry Julian had given her for New Year’s a couple of years back. Julian mused that no one would ever guess by looking at Justine that she was an octoroon. She was also a free woman of color, since, long before Arnaud’s birth, he had had her manumission paper drawn up. Her devotion to him, and to their arrangement, had remained unchanged.

Justine smiled fondly at the father and son visiting on the settee. “Arnaud,” she said softly, “I’ve laid out milk and rice cakes for you in the kitchen. Henrí will sit with you.”

“But, Mama, I want to stay with Papa,” the boy protested.

“Afterward, darling. Papa will play with you then.”

“Will you, Papa?” Arnaud asked earnestly.

“Of course,” he responded. “Now off with you.”

Smiling, the boy bounded off his father’s lap and danced out of the room.

An uneasy silence descended as Justine sat down in a silk brocade wing chair, set her tray on the tea table, and poured cups of the hot brew for each of them. They exchanged an awkward smile as she handed Julian his filled cup. He took a sip and put his cup down.

“You’re looking well, Justine,” he said at last. “And the boy, as always, is thriving.”

She smiled at him compassionately. “You’re looking troubled.”

He laughed as he leaned back and crossed his long, muscled legs. “You always knew how to read me like a book. Does it show that much?”

“Oui.”

He sighed. “It’s Mercy again. I swear, that wayward little chit could provoke a saint to mayhem. Now she wants to marry, and the young man is totally unsuitable. An innkeeper’s son.”

Justine bit her lip, replying carefully, “I would think an innkeeper’s son might not be totally unsuitable for someone with your ward’s background.”

“I have plans for her,” Julian interjected gruffly.

Justine studied him until a doleful smile pulled at her lovely, full mouth. “You want her for yourself.”

At once Julian bristled. “Why, that is ridiculous.”

“It’s not,” Justine said sadly. “I’ve noticed it more, in the last year, when you speak of her . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head.

Julian leaned forward, his eyes beseeching her. “Justine, no. I tell you, it’s not true.”

She got up and came to sit beside him. “Julian, it’s all right. I know you will never turn your back on me and Arnaud. But let’s face facts—in the last year, you and I have been like sister and brother—”

“It’s the child,” Julian interjected hastily. “I just feel that we shouldn’t—not with him here—”

She pressed her slim fingers against his mouth. “Don’t lie, chéri. You’ll only make matters worse. The way we once were . . . Julian, I know you so well. If you truly wanted me, there would be no stopping you.”

Julian raked a hand through his hair and glanced away guiltily. He knew Justine had spoken the truth. They had gone from being lovers to being the best of friends, and somehow they both knew that there would never be any turning back again. Yet, out of loyalty and respect for Justine, Julian had not sought out another woman to ease his needs for nearly a year now. At times—being the man of strong urges that he was—it was almost more than he could bear.

At last, he turned to her and said gently, “I’m sorry, ma chère. So sorry.”

“It is all right.”

He squeezed her hand. “This changes nothing as far as my obligation to you and Arnaud is concerned—”

“Of course not. I could never doubt that.”

Wearing an abstracted expression, Julian got up and began to pace the fine Kashan rug. He stared idly at the many beautiful gewgaws he’d bought Justine over the years—the Dresden figurines, the Sèvres porcelain pieces, the gold and sterling knick-knacks. All were beautifully arranged on carved cherry and rosewood tables.

So he and Justine had entered a new phase of their lives together. It was not an ending, he told himself vehemently. Not an ending.

Then he heard her voice behind him. “You want the girl, Julian. Why don’t you marry her?”

He turned to her incredulously. “How can you say that after what we’ve shared?”

Justine smiled serenely. “I want your happiness.”

“You always did,” he said, feeling his eyes sting. “God, Justine, you’re too good to be true.”

“You need a wife, Julian.”

“And what do you need?”

Justine glanced away uneasily. “I have Arnaud, and your friendship, and who knows? Perhaps in time . . .” She met his gaze. “But a man is different. A man’s needs are more—immediate. You need a bride. Not just to share your bed, but to help you maintain your place in the community.”

“Justine, you must know that at one time, I would have married you—”

She held up a hand. “Chéri, non, let’s not discuss that again. Your idea was insane. What were you to do—flee the country and turn your back on your mother, who vowed never to speak to you again? We’ve both always known that a match between us would be doomed.”

Julian sighed. “Perhaps so. But Mercy is out of the question for me. She hates me. She always will.”

Justine shrugged. “That will change. Sometimes love is very close to hate. They are both such powerful emotions. Capable of bonding two people.”

Julian could only shake his head. Then he asked awkwardly, “And you, Justine? Do you think perhaps when Arnaud is older, you’ll find someone else?” He smiled. “Of course, he’d have to be an upstanding sort, or answer to me.”

Justine shifted restlessly and avoided his eye. “Julian, you do not need to concern yourself with finding me another . . . protector.”

The uncomfortable moment ended as Henrí entered the room. He glanced with admiration at Justine, nodding to her, then turned to address his master. “Maître, pardon the interruption, but you asked me to remind you that you have an appointment at noon at the Exchange.”

“Damn,” Julian said, glancing at the clock on the fireplace mantel. “You’re right, and we’re late already. Justine, my apologies, but—”

“Please, don’t apologize,” she said.

“Perhaps I’d best say good bye to my son.”

“Of course. Arnaud!” she called.