Authors: Eugenia Riley
***
A short time later, Julian sat in
the parlor of Justine Begué’s cottage. Arnaud was still napping, and Julian was
grateful to have this opportunity to speak with Justine alone. So far, though,
they had shared their tea in an uncharacteristically strained silence.
At last, Julian set down his cup
and turned to Justine, seated next to him on the settee. “It is done,” he said
simply.
A look of mild surprise flashed
across Justine’s amber eyes. “You’ve made plans to marry your ward?”
“Yes—I settled the details today,
as a matter of fact.” He paused, deciding that there was no need to burden
Justine with the appalling specifics of how and when he and Mercy had actually
become betrothed. “I just informed Mama, as well.”
Both of them sobered at the
mention of the woman who had done her best to drive them apart so long ago.
“Does Madame Devereux approve?” Justine asked quietly.
“She wants to meet Mercy first.”
Julian’s jaw tightened into a hard line. “But you can be sure she’ll approve—this
time.”
Biting her lip, Justine glanced
away.
Realizing his blunder, Julian
caught her hand. “My dear, I apologize. I spoke without thinking.”
Justine shook her head. “You
forget that I, too, fought your outrageous marriage proposal. I agreed with
your mother in that. You simply could not defeat us both, Julian.”
“Perhaps not,” he conceded
ironically. He squeezed her hand. “You’re sure you’re at peace with my
betrothal?”
She nodded. “It is what I want for
you, Julian.”
Nonetheless, he continued to study
her tensely. “As I explained to you the last time we were together, this will
change nothing as far as my obligation to you and Arnaud is concerned.”
“Julian, that goes without saying.
There is no one in this world that I trust more than you. However—have you told
Mercy about me and Arnaud?”
With an abstracted expression,
Julian got up and began to pace. “To tell you the truth, Mercy’s so resistant
to the idea of marriage that I’m afraid if I tell her now, she’ll have the
perfect excuse to defy me utterly. After we’re wed . . . At that point, there
will be little she can do.”
“Julian!” Justine was clearly
appalled. “You’re taking a terrible risk, my dear. You must love her
hopelessly.” When Julian did not reply, Justine added softly, “Is Mercy so very
resistant to the idea of wedding you?”
He nodded grimly. “She’s vowed to
hate me for the rest of her life.”
Compassion filled her gaze. “You
haven’t told her the truth about her father’s death?”
He shrugged. “What purpose would
it serve? She’d still regard me with contempt.”
“Oh, I think that will change once
you begin living together as man and wife.” Justine smiled wisely.
Abruptly, Julian grinned, and an
expression of tender amusement flashed between the two former lovers. “You
think it will?”
“Don’t let her shut you out,
Julian.” Justine’s lovely amber eyes darkened with turbulent emotion. “That’s
how it began with Mama and Papa. Mama was never content to be the mistress of a
white man. She wanted Papa to give up his society wife for her. Of course, he
never did. But from the time I was little, all I can remember is the fights,
the screaming, the recriminations.” She shuddered. “How much better it would
have been had Mama accepted things as they really were instead of wishing for
the impossible.”
Julian shook his head. “You grew
up living with all that bitterness, and you’re still willing to be friends with
me now?”
Justine glanced away. “Of course,
Julian. I’ve told you all along that it is your happiness that I want the
most.”
“You’re truly incredible,” he
breathed.
The charged moment ended as a
young voice cried out, “Papa! Papa!”
Julian turned in delight as Henrí
entered the room carrying Arnaud. Grinning, the manservant explained, “I heard
him stirring so I decided to bring him in,
maître
.” He gently set the
boy on his feet.
Julian hunkered down and grinned.
“Come here, my son!”
Arnaud danced over to his father,
and Julian quickly scooped the child up into his arms. As father and son
laughed and chatted, Justine glanced at Henrí near the portal. The two
exchanged a secret smile.
On Tuesday afternoon, Mercy sat on
her bed at the parish house and reread for the tenth time the terse missive she
had received from Julian yesterday, written in his bold, masculine script:
Mercy,
Tomorrow afternoon, I shall be taking you to meet my mother.
Kindly be ready and meet me in Mother Anise’s office promptly at three.
Julian
Mercy crumpled Julian’s note and
tossed it across the small room. How dare the big brute issue her orders, as if
she were already his possession.
Yet Mercy knew that there was no
way she could avoid going with him. Julian had also been devious enough to send
Mother Anise a similar note outlining his plans, and the mother superior had
promptly informed Mercy that, since this was to be a brief outing during the
day, and since she and Julian were now formally betrothed, they could go
without a chaperone. The idea that Mercy might not want to take part in a jaunt
with Julian Devereux had never even been considered.
To make matters worse, the nuns
were already proceeding full tilt with the wedding plans. Indeed, they had
turned Mercy into a veritable pincushion, constantly measuring and fitting her
for her wedding gown. And this morning, Mother Anise had announced that she and
Sister Clarabelle would be taking a thorough inventory of all Mercy’s
possessions while she was gone, to determine what else she needed for her
trousseau. M’sieur Devereux was paying for everything.
Mercy clenched her fists in
outrage. Thanks to M’sieur Devereux, her privacy was destroyed and she was
being treated like a kept woman. How she longed to stand before the altar
wearing nothing but rags, to show everyone the contempt she felt for Julian.
Then she glanced down at the clothing she had chosen for today’s outing and
giggled; Julian would be in for a shock when he came to fetch her. And, of
course she cared nothing about the impression she might make on his hoity-toity
mother.
A sharp rap at the door cut short
Mercy’s musings. She crossed to the portal and threw back the panel. Sister
Clarabelle stood in the corridor with a ridiculous smile on her face.
“
Mon enfant
, your intended
has arrived to fetch you,” she trilled gaily. Then she frowned as she took in
Mercy’s patched, faded muslin gown and ragged gray bonnet. “Mercy! You may not
go to meet Madame Devereux in such disgraceful attire.”
“Why not?” Mercy asked recklessly.
“I think I look quite fetching.”
“You look as if you’re fetching in
the cows,” Sister Clarabelle quipped grimly. The nun gasped. “Why, I recognize
that dress and bonnet now. You stole them from the basket we prepared for the
poor. What a shameful stunt, Mercy.”
Mercy tossed her head to hide a
guilty blush. “I see nothing at all shameful about my modest clothing. Didn’t
the ancients don sackcloth and ashes to show their humility?”
Sister Clarabelle rolled her eyes
and strode over to the armoire, taking out Mercy’s fine yellow muslin dress and
matching taffeta bonnet. Laying the items across the bed, she said in a tone
that brooked no challenge, “You’ll remove those unsuitable garments at once and
don these. I shall wait in the hallway until you hand me the items
you—er—requisitioned. Now hurry, child. M’sieur will not be pleased that you’ve
kept him waiting.”
M’sieur can rot in hell
,
Mercy thought spitefully. But she did little more than grind her jaw in defeat
as Sister Clarabelle glided from the room in a rustle of her wool skirts. A
moment later, she thrust her arm into the hallway, her imperious fingers
clutching the dress and bonnet in question.
***
Fifteen minutes later, Mercy was
ensconced with Julian inside his coach. They were headed out of the Quarter,
toward the area known as the American District.
The afternoon was hot and humid,
the air oppressive inside the coach. Yet Mercy’s heat seemed to be coming from
another source. Her fiancé sat quite properly across from her on the matching,
richly grained leather seat. As always, Julian looked frightfully handsome—and
equally formidable. He was garbed all in intimidating black, from the shine on
his boots to the crown of his silk top hat. Only the white of his shirt linen
and the gold of his silk brocade vest offered relief from the cheerless formal
tones. Still, he radiated raw virility—one look into his bright, probing eyes,
one glance at his long, muscled legs, was enough to make her mind teem with
shameful thoughts.
She knew he was furious at her for
keeping him waiting at the convent. He’d made no comment regarding her tardiness,
but his state of mind was apparent now as he drew out his ornate pocket watch
and flipped it open, scowled at the dial, then snapped the lid shut and
replaced the watch in his vest pocket.
She wondered if he felt at all
daunted by the prospect of introducing her to his mother. Mercy knew little
about Julian’s parents, other than the basic facts that his father had died a
few years past and his mother lived in a society mansion. She wondered idly
what his mother would think of his desire to wed a penniless orphan. Indeed,
perhaps
she
should feel daunted at the prospect of meeting Madame
Devereux, but she didn’t. She still felt entirely too resentful toward Julian
regarding the forced marriage.
At last he broke the strained
silence. “You have been well, Mercy?”
The hint of solicitude in his tone
prompted a treacherous softening in Mercy’s heart. Fighting the unwelcome
weakness, she stared into his bright blue eyes. “
Oui
.”
He cleared his throat. “Mercy, I
have . . . a favor to request.”
“A favor? Do you mean to say that
the mighty Julian Devereux is actually going to
ask
for once, instead of
merely dictating to me?”
Julian groaned and slanted her a
reproachful look. “Can we not set aside our antagonism for one afternoon, for
the sake of my mother?”
Mercy crossed her arms over her
chest. “I certainly bear the woman no ill feeling.”
Julian sighed, even as he inwardly
winced as the motion of Mercy’s arms unwittingly tugged down the low bodice of
her gown and revealed an enticing glimpse of cleavage. He hastily drew his gaze
away from dangerous territory. “Well, at least that’s a beginning.”
She stared at him through narrowed
eyes. “What is this favor you seek?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve
never told my mother—well, how you actually became my ward. She thinks I have
sponsored you at the request of the Catholic Charities.” In a strained voice,
he added, “Truth to tell, I’d prefer that she never know the true circumstances
of our meeting.”
“Are you ashamed of those . . .
true circumstances, m’sieur?”
Anger darkened Julian’s face. “I
thought I warned you not to call me m’sieur.”
Mercy smirked at him. “Ah—but this
time, it seems it is you who has come to beg for mercy,
n’est-ce pas
?”
To her surprise, Julian grinned,
flashing perfect white teeth. “So it seems. Perhaps at this moment, you do have
me at
your
mercy, mademoiselle.”
The words rolled off his tongue
with a silky sarcasm that was downright amusing; Mercy quickly glanced out the
window to hide her treacherous smile. By the saints, she refused to think of
Julian Devereux as charming, nor would she ever be seduced by his glib tongue!
She reminded herself firmly of his past and present perfidies, and pride forced
a layer of ice over her heart.
“Do not worry, m’sieur,” she
replied coolly, brushing wrinkles from her skirt. “I have no intention of
telling your mother what you did in the past.” She dared to meet his gaze and
added bitterly, “For you see, it is
my
shame, as well.”
***
It is my shame, as well
.
These words haunted Julian Devereux as he escorted Mercy up the sultry,
fragrant path to his mother’s house. He stared at her walking beside
him—looking so lovely, and so untouchable, with her strong chin thrust high and
her delicate features etched in pride.
He wondered why he was proceeding
with this sham of a marriage. The girl would never forgive him . . .
At his side, Mercy stared ahead at
the white, two-story Greek Revival mansion, with its looming Doric columns,
black shutters, gray-blue verandas, and striking oak front door with cut-glass panels.
Hanging baskets spilled their perfumed greenery from the eaves, and delicate
lace curtains fluttered at the windows. Inside, Mercy caught glimpses of
fabulous European furnishings and ornate lamps dripping with crystal prisms
that rang melodically in the breeze. She began to wonder if she hadn’t taken
the meeting with Julian’s mother entirely too lightly.
In a gentlemanly gesture, Julian
gripped her elbow as they ascended the steps together. Yet he released her as
soon as they were safely on the veranda, and turned to rap sharply at the door.
Staring at him standing next to her, so cool and remote, Mercy stifled a sigh.
She was not particularly proud of herself for her stinging words to him in the
carriage. Why was it that with Julian, her pride always got the better of her?
But then, what could the man
expect after he had forced her hand this way? He was marrying her only to
punish her, to degrade her by taking her to bed.
The very thought of being in bed
with
him
seared Mercy’s senses like the heat of a blast furnace. She turned away
to hide her guilty blush. By the saints, she must stop succumbing to this
giddy, weak-kneed feeling every time she imagined Julian touching her!
Soon a gray-haired butler admitted
them, showing them into a lavish parlor. Julian and Mercy sat as far apart as
possible on the silk damask settee as they waited in strained silence for
Madelaine Devereux to appear. Mercy was awed by the luxurious interior; the
huge double parlor seemed even larger than the chapel at St. Mary’s.
“Why, Julian!” came a lyrical
voice moments later. “And you must be dear little Mercy.”
Mercy glanced up to see a tall,
slim, queenly woman wearing a lavender voile dress and fabulous jewelry. She
was staring at Mercy with an expression of shocked pleasure.
As Julian rose, Mercy followed
suit, cautiously watching the woman approach.
“Good afternoon, Mama.” Julian
stepped forward and kissed his mother’s cheek. He inclined his head toward
Mercy. “May I present my fiancée, Mademoiselle Mercy O’Shea. Mercy, this is my
mother, Madelaine Devereux.”
“Why, Mercy. You’re just lovely.”
Madelaine extended a bejeweled hand to the girl.
Mercy hastened forward and shook
Madelaine’s slim, cool fingers. “Thank you, madame. I am most pleased to meet
you.”
“Likewise.” Madelaine turned to
her son. “Julian, Raoul will be bringing in our tea shortly. But in the
meantime, wouldn’t you like to have a constitutional about the grounds while
your fiancée and I become better acquainted? I think you’ll find the rose
garden spectacular right now.”
Julian frowned uncertainly. “Mama,
I’m not sure . . .”
Madelaine touched her son’s arm.
“Oh, Julian, you know how we females are. Constantly putting our heads together
and gossiping. Don’t let us bore you with our prattle.”
At his mother’s alarming words,
Julian glanced sharply at Mercy, but saw no hint of softening or entreaty in
her eyes. Obviously, the girl had no desire to be rescued. Let her be left to
his mother’s tender mercies, then, he decided grimly. “As you wish, Mama,” he
said in clipped tones, and strode from the room.
“Do let’s sit down and have a nice
long chat,” Madelaine said brightly to Mercy, as if oblivious of the tension
Julian had left trailing behind him like smoke in the air.
Mercy respectfully waited for the
older woman to seat herself on the settee, then she settled into the opposite
corner and smoothed her skirts.
“Mercy, I must tell you again how
delighted I am with you,” Madelaine began eagerly, looking her over carefully.
“Thank you, madame.”
“However, my son’s news has been
something of a surprise.” With a scintillating laugh, Madelaine added, “Now, of
course, you must supply all the juicy details.”
Heat suffused Mercy’s cheeks at
Madelaine’s forthright request. “I—I don’t know what you mean, madame.”
“Don’t you?” Madelaine playfully
tapped Mercy’s sleeve with her folded fan. “Here I thought you were a mere
orphan my son was sponsoring. Yet it seems there was much going on behind the
scenes that I was unaware of.”
Now
that
was an
understatement, Mercy mused cynically. For a mean-spirited moment, she was
tempted to spill out everything to Madelaine regarding Julian’s treachery. But
then she remembered her promise to him, however grudging, and she realized with
awe and some alarm that she would gain no satisfaction from assassinating his
character before his mother.
Thus, she said primly, “I do not
feel that your son’s decision to marry me is that unusual. After all, he is my
guardian and has visited me for years at the parish house, to inquire after my
welfare. His desire to wed me came as a natural consequence of that interest, I
presume.”
Madelaine’s lips twitched as she
regarded Mercy skeptically. “Of course, dear,” she said in the wry tone one
might use to humor a dissembling child. “Still, to think that all this time, my
son has been closeting away a convent bride, and the sly devil didn’t even
mention this. Tell me, was it terribly romantic when he proposed?”
Mercy could not help but laugh.
She realized that she really liked this outrageous, forthright lady. She remembered
the awful, wonderful night when Julian had proposed—how he had ravished her
lips, how he had insisted that she marry him. Recalling the wild light in his
eyes, she murmured ironically, “Ah, yes. Terribly romantic.”