The child bounded back into the room, clutching a half eaten rice cake. Seeing his father standing near the door with hat in hand, he cried, “Papa, no! You cannot leave already!”
Julian set his hat down and swept the child into his arms. Taking out his handkerchief, he brushed several crumbs from Arnaud’s chin. “I’m afraid an appointment draws me away, poppet. But don’t worry—tomorrow I’ll come get you and we’ll spend the entire afternoon together at the park. We’ll take an excursion ride on Smoky Mary—”
Arnaud whooped with joy. “The train to the lake, Papa?”
“Indeed. Afterward, you may do your worst at the Cafe du Monde.”
“Promise?” Arnaud asked with eyes gleaming.
“Promise.”
Arnaud beamed and hugged Julian's neck. He knew that his father never broke a promise.
Holding Arnaud close and kissing his mop of soft curls, Julian glanced poignantly at Justine, with a look that said, I’m sorry . . . so sorry that what we have can’t mean more. Her answering look told him she understood.
Then Arnaud asked his father another question, and Julian returned his attention to his son. In his preoccupation, he didn’t see Justine turn to gaze at Henrí, or the look of tentative curiosity they exchanged.
***
“He refused! This can’t be!”
Back in the courtyard of St. Mary’s Parish House, Philippe and Mercy were again meeting near the same crabapple tree. Mercy had just relayed the news that Julian Devereux had denied his suit. Philippe was pacing in a murderous temper, his boots wearing a groove in the soft earth.
Mercy watched him with distress. While Philippe was generally mild-mannered, she was well aware that he possessed a Creole temper and more than an average dose of manly pride—both of which had just been affronted to the hilt. “Philippe, I’m sorry,” she said. “We’ll find a way to get around Julian.”
Philippe shot her a heated glance as his boots continued to pummel the earth. “What reason did the blackguard give for denying my suit?”
Mercy wrung her hands. “Philippe, please. It made no sense and perhaps it’s better left—”
“What reason?” he demanded.
Mercy sighed, lowering her eyes. “He said you were—unsuitable.”
“Unsuitable!”
“Shhhh!” Mercy admonished, her eyes wild with fear as she motioned toward the parish house. “The sisters.”
Philippe continued to pace. “Unsuitable! Why, the cad!”
“The devil with Julian then,” Mercy said passionately. “He only denied your suit to be cruel. He’s always hated me.”
Philippe pivoted to face her, his features tight. “Can the sisters do nothing on your behalf?”
Mercy’s green eyes grew stormy and she shook her head. “I’ve already spoken with them, and they’ve taken Julian’s side, as always. He’s the one who pads their palms with silver, after all. I guess we’ll just have to elope, Philippe.”
He rolled his eyes. “We can’t. You’d be ruined.”
“Then what?”
Philippe drew himself up stiffly. “Your guardian has besmirched my honor and that of my family. I have no choice but to challenge him.”
“Challenge him?” Mercy repeated in disbelief. Her eyes grew huge. “Oh, Blessed Mother! You can’t mean a duel.”
“Of course.”
“Philippe, no,” Mercy pleaded, feeling genuinely frightened. “Why he’s—” She shuddered involuntarily. “Julian is formidable.”
Philippe bristled, blinking rapidly in an expression of chafed pride. “And I’m not?”
“Well—well, of course you are. It’s just that—he’s so much older and more experienced than you. I’ve heard the sisters gossiping—frightful stories—something about previous duels he’s fought. They say he’s a crack shot.”
“I’m well aware of Devereux’s nefarious reputation—which makes his affront to me all the more intolerable.”
She extended both arms to him in entreaty. “But, Philippe, you mustn’t. Why, he could kill you.”
But Philippe was already hopelessly puffed up with righteous indignation. “It is a matter of honor, Mercy. A gentleman has no choice under these circumstances, and I’m shocked that you would even consider otherwise.”
“Philippe, please—”
“Good day, Mercy.”
As she watched, her jaw dropping, Philippe turned and strode out the gate. Mercy reeled, leaning against the tree for support. Oh, mon Dieu, what had she done? Through her own reckless behavior, she had unleashed a monster that would soon be her own undoing.
Philippe would be killed. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind. He would challenge Julian, and Julian would shoot him through the heart without a flicker of remorse. And it was all her fault!
Oh, sweet heavens, this was too much. Why did she have to be so headstrong, so utterly defiant in choosing her own husband? Of course, Julian was a black-hearted cad, but she should have taken more care, rather than thumb her nose at him and at every custom and rule of her upbringing. Perhaps during all those long years when the sisters had harangued and rapped her knuckles, she should have listened. Now, remorse came too late to stop the rising panic smothering her throat as she realized the catastrophic consequences of her own rebellion.
Yet what made Mercy feel even more unstrung was the memory of her final encounter with Julian Devereux earlier that morning—his rage, his ruthlessness when he had hauled her up against him. Even now, her arms still felt flushed from the heat of his fingers, and her cheek still seemed to burn from the warmth of his breath. Never would she forget the sensation of being pressed against his implacable strength, or the utter lack of pity in his eyes, or even the way his musky scent, his pulsing nearness, had strangely stirred her senses. For a crazy, exhilarating moment she had been sure that Julian had wanted to kiss her, and for an equally demented moment she had yearned for him to do precisely that.
Holy saints! She was depraved! How could she feel this way about a man who might shortly murder her fiancé?
***
As Henrí drove him home from the Exchange, Julian sat smoking a cheroot and mulling over his earlier conversation with Justine. The lavish beauty of the Vieux Carré—with its iron-lace balconies, lush patios, and pink, yellow, and green stucco façades—was largely lost on him.
He had to acknowledge it—he did want Mercy for himself. There was no other explanation for his arbitrary, arrogant behavior at the convent earlier today. When he had learned that Broussard intended to wed Mercy, he had reacted as savagely as an ill-tempered tomcat whose territory had been invaded.
He wondered idly when his feelings toward her had changed. Was it when she had been sixteen, and had stormed out of the room during one of their interviews? Was it the day of her seventeenth birthday, when she had defiantly refused his gift of a stylish new bonnet?
Did it matter? Now he only knew that he wanted the girl, and probably had for some time. He wanted her spirit, her pride, her beauty, her passion. He wanted her love—which she would never feel for him—and her forgiveness, which she would never extend. He wanted the healing that they could only find together, the healing they would never find together.
He groaned. This was insane, totally unworkable. A marriage based on hate. A strong emotion, Justine had said. But hatred could never bond Mercy O’Shea to him—it would only tear the two of them asunder. If she ever learned of his true feelings, she would take his heart in her uncaring little hands and cheerfully rip it to pieces.
For, from the moment when Brendan O’Shea had burst into Genevieve Dupree’s room nine years ago, he and Mercy O’Shea had been doomed. His role in her father’s death would always stand between them. He might as well give his consent for the girl to marry Broussard. Indeed, he supposed there was no other recourse open to him.
As the coach stopped before Julian’s Royal Street town house, he saw Philippe Broussard standing next to the patio gate, almost as if Julian’s thoughts had caused him to materialize there. He had to smile ruefully. That was it, then. He would give his consent to Broussard, and sweet Mercy could plod happily through life as an innkeeper’s wife.
Not waiting for Henrí to open the door, Julian alighted from the coach, ground out his cheroot beneath his boot, and approached the other man. But before he could open his mouth to utter a greeting, Philippe Broussard lifted his hand and quickly flicked a leather glove across Julian’s cheek. “My second will call on you, sir,” he said coldly, turning and striding off down the banquette.
Julian rubbed his cheek and gaped after the lad in disbelief. Then, at last, he realized that he had just been challenged.
“Sacre bleu!" he hissed, turning and flinging open the iron gate.
Chapter Five
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At midnight, Mercy O’Shea was tossing and turning in her bed like one delirious. The May night was thick and cloying, the merest of breezes drifting in the upstairs window of her room at the parish house. An eerie silence had descended, interrupted only by the sound of Sister Clarabelle’s snoring, which drifted through the thin wall from the next room.