Authors: Eugenia Riley
His seductive endearment and
tender plea were hardly lost on her. Indeed, by now, her senses were in such a
shambles that she felt light-headed. His gaze held hers in an electrifying
moment of questioning, of intimacy, of anguish and uncertainty. Then he reached
out and gently clasped the necklace around her neck.
The cold weight of the stones
brought reality crashing in on her. Suddenly, it all seemed so ironic—Julian
fastening a sapphire noose around her neck, just as he was shackling her very
life to his own. As for going forward from here—how could he ever expect her to
forgive or forget what he’d done to her own father? Was she supposed to betray
the memory of her own flesh and blood?
“You’re deluding yourself,
Julian,” she said with agonized bitterness, no longer ashamed to let him see
the tears shining in her eyes. “You can’t just steal another human being for
your own selfish purposes—you have to ask. Nor can you buy me with your
baubles. The past can never be put to rest between us—never!”
Her stinging diatribe scored.
Anger flared in his eyes and he gripped her arm with steely fingers. “I suppose
you’re still pining after that fop Broussard?”
“Yes!” she cried, flinging off his
touch.
Mercy fled for the safety of the
salon.
The past can never be put to
rest between us—never!
Mercy’s bitter words haunted
Julian. As the guests began to arrive, he stood in the shadows of an archway
near the back veranda, sipping brandy and morosely reliving his argument with
his fiancée.
What an utter idiot he had been to
try to effect a reconciliation between them tonight. What a fool he had been to
presume that her attitude toward him had changed. Obviously, there could never
be any feeling between them besides acrimony. Mercy had only agreed to the
marriage because he’d blackmailed her, and because she’d felt some misplaced
sense of guilt toward him due to her past recalcitrance and continuing hatred.
Pity. Mistrust. Hatred. A fine
basis for a marriage!
What was he to do then?
Obviously, they would have to
muddle through this evening—and even suffer through Mama’s planned announcement
of their betrothal. Later, he’d speak with Mercy in private and do what he’d
known he must do for weeks now—call off this disastrous marriage.
***
Mercy, too, was enmeshed in
turmoil as she stood with Madelaine and M’sieur Townsend, greeting the arriving
guests at the entrance to the salon.
“Where’s Julian?” Madelaine
whispered to Mercy worriedly.
Feeling guilty, Mercy shrugged. “I
don’t know, madame.”
Madelaine’s lips were pursed to
pursue the subject when another guest swept up. “Why, Madame Pontalba,”
Madelaine said, graciously extending her hand. “How lovely you look tonight.
You remember Mercy O’Shea, of course? And may I introduce a business associate
of my son’s, M’sieur Robert Townsend from New York? As for Julian, he is here
somewhere and will be joining us shortly, I’m sure . . .”
Mercy mouthed platitudes and shook
hands. All the while, her thoughts remained consumed with Julian and their
heated exchange. Already she regretted her cruel words to him. Indeed, each
time she touched the necklace at her throat, she was reminded of his kindness.
Earlier, Madelaine and M’sieur Townsend had gone into ecstasies over Julian’s
dazzling engagement gift, and Madelaine had informed Mercy that the sapphires
were surely worth more than her son’s town house in the Quarter. Knowing that
he had spent a small fortune on her did little to assuage her guilt.
But nothing could change the fact
that Julian had forced her into this betrothal. And how could he expect her to
lay the past to rest as casually as she might brash a fly from her sleeve? No
necklace was worth the cost of her loyalty to her parents.
Still, her feelings were so torn,
and she again wavered in her determination to disgrace Julian tonight . . .
Soon, the salon filled up with
happy, laughing Creoles. The guests milled near the serving tables, sipping
champagne and sampling the fabulous buffet—snails bourguignon and oysters
Bienville, bouillabaisse à la Creole, baked redfish and pickled herring,
tempting fruit and rice dishes, and delicate desserts ranging from cherries jubilee
and crepes suzette to petit fours.
Mercy hung back, away from the
festivities, while Madelaine circulated with Robert. A few guests paused to
chat with her, but she answered their inquiries mostly in monosyllables.
At last she spotted Julian sipping
brandy in the shadows of an archway across the room. Their gazes met
briefly—his cold and contemptuous, hers proud and equally unflinching.
Then Mercy became distracted as
Mignon Beaufort swept up to offer congratulations. Mercy spoke briefly with
André’s wife, and when she was able to look for Julian again, she found he had
vanished.
Abruptly the strains of a Chopin
waltz swelled within the room. Mercy turned distractedly toward the orchestra,
watching the conductor wave his baton as the musicians sawed away. A hush fell
over the crowd as the guests moved toward the walls to allow room for the
dancing to begin. Yet no couples took the floor.
Mercy realized with horror that
the attendees were politely waiting for Julian to come forward and ask her for
the first dance. They were the guests of honor, after all.
In the devastating silence, he did
not appear at her side.
Mercy’s cheeks were burning with
shame when Nicholas Bienville glided up. “May I have the honor, mademoiselle?” he
asked, his rakish dark eyes glittering as he extended his arm.
“Of course, m’sieur,” she replied
proudly, gripping his sleeve.
As Bienville swept her onto the
floor, she glanced around for Julian. He was nowhere to be seen.
***
Nicholas Bienville proved to be a
marvelous dancer. Tall, dark, and lithe, he led Mercy about with studied grace
and perfect rhythm on the dance floor. Soon, other couples joined them.
Nicholas was also a consummate
flirt—but then, Mercy was quite aware of his roguish nature after she and
Julian had supped with him and his fiancée at the Napoleon House recently.
Soon after they began dancing, he
murmured gallantly, “You look divine tonight, mademoiselle. I’m surprised my
good friend Julian did not rush forward to claim you for this first waltz. Such
is the Creole tradition at engagement parties.”
“It seems my fiancé is not a
traditional man,” Mercy murmured. Her words were casual, but her eyes gleamed
with hurt and bitterness at Julian’s deliberate affront. Perhaps her words to
him on the veranda had been cruel, but she hadn’t slighted him in public.
She would now!
Julian would
pay. And Bienville’s presence gave Mercy the perfect opportunity to begin
implementing her more nefarious scheme for the evening—a vengeful goal she
eagerly embraced once more.
Staring boldly up at Nicholas, she
batted her long eyelashes and preened. “At any rate, m’sieur, I am most happy
to be sharing the first waltz with you.”
Her words brought a delighted grin
to Bienville’s face, and a feral narrowing of his dark eyes. “Devereux’s loss
is most assuredly my gain. When I came here tonight, I hardly dreamed I would
share the first dance with such a delightful creature.”
Mercy frowned in confusion as well
as some guilt as his words reminded her that he was engaged. “And where is
Honoree tonight?”
He sighed. “Alas, we had a spat.
Truth to tell, she may be calling off our betrothal.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mercy
murmured sincerely. “She’s really very sweet.”
“Quite true.” He shrugged, then
grinned. “But I fear I’m not settled down enough for her as yet.” Drawing Mercy
scandalously closer, he wiggled his dark brows devilishly. “I’m far too
susceptible to the charms of fair belles such as yourself.”
Mercy laughed gaily and flashed
her most dazzling smile. “Actually, I’ve been looking forward to this
evening—and to meeting all of Julian’s friends.”
“All?” Bienville repeated
meaningfully.
“
All
.”
***
Word that Mercy intended to dance
with
all
Julian’s friends spread like wildfire through the ballroom.
Soon, eager young Creoles were lining up for a chance to twirl the captivating
beauty around the salon. Julian’s friends were not only dancing with Mercy;
they were laughing at him behind their hands. Obviously, Devereux had lost
charge of his own fiancée. Perhaps
le bon Dieu
would take pity on the
poor fool, for his fiancée clearly had none in her heart for him. It was a
scandal, of course, but then Creoles loved
le scandale
.
None of this was lost on Madelaine
Devereux. Outraged, she left Robert’s side and went to find her son.
As host, Julian had been called
away to the back veranda by André, to soothe tempers in a political discussion
that was rapidly becoming a full-fledged drunken brawl. He and André had just
managed to calm the two elderly gentlemen when Madelaine swept up and grabbed
her son’s sleeve. Tugging him away from the others, she informed him in a tense
whisper, “You must do something, Julian—your fiancée is disgracing you with all
your friends!”
Wearing a scowl, Julian followed
Madelaine back into the ballroom. For a few moments, he stood watching Mercy
dance and flirt with all his friends.
“Look at her, Julian!” Madelaine
exclaimed in disgust. “How can we even make our announcement, the way she is
behaving? You must take her in hand, or you’ll never be able to hold your head
up in the Vieux Carré again.”
Still glowering, Julian continued
to observe Mercy. She was laughing giddily and waltzing with Nicholas
Bienville. Curiously, he felt no inclination to act—
Until he watched Bienville tug
Mercy out onto the veranda with lust clearly in his eyes.
Julian’s hands curled into fists
and blood pounded in his ears. Well, then. If the little tart was determined to
grant her favors to anything in pants, it might as well be to him.
***
“One kiss. Please,
ma belle
.”
Out on the veranda, Mercy was
struggling in earnest with a very amorous Nicholas Bienville. She had never
expected a second dance with him to end this way—with him dragging her outside
and trying to force his favors on her.
“No!” she cried, trying to disentangle
herself from the strong arms gripping her, ducking her head to avoid the lips
determined to claim her own.
“Don’t play coy, little miss,” he
snapped. “You know this is what you want—indeed, what you were begging for
inside.”
“No!” Mercy cried, feeling the
rising bile of panic as Bienville dragged her closer. “I only wanted to dance—”
“As my tongue will now, between
those lush lips—”
Abruptly, Bienville was yanked
away from her. Mercy blinked in horror to see Julian gripping Nicholas by the
cravat and glaring at him murderously.
“Touch her again, Bienville, and
you’re dead,” he drawled in a blood-chilling voice.
Wild-eyed, Nicholas stammered,
“Julian, I was only—”
“Spare me the nauseating details
of what you were doing, and get the hell out of my sight!” Julian roared.
The instant Julian released him,
the much-sobered Bienville tottered on his feet, then made a mad dash for the
ballroom.
Mercy wrung her hands. Never had
she seen Julian so white-faced, so stiff with outrage. “Julian—thank you,” she
stammered. “I had no idea that he would—”
“Nonsense,” he gritted, his eyes
blazing with fury. “The only reason Bienville is alive at this moment is that
he was right. You did beg for it, Mercy. And now, by damn, you’re going to get
it.”
Mortified, she raised her hand to
slap him. “Why you—”
But Julian caught her hand and
dragged her into the shadows of the courtyard. She struggled, yet she was no
match for his steely strength. He tugged her into a corner, then crushed her
against a pillar with his unyielding, aroused body.
Mercy was horrified and
treacherously stirred as Julian’s muscled chest abraded her breasts and the
hard length of his manhood pressed blatantly into her pelvis. His hot
breath—heavily laced with brandy—wafted over her. “Let me go!” she cried.
He ignored her protest. “What you
did to me in there was perhaps to some degree understandable, Mercy. What you
did to my mother was unforgivable.”
He was right, and her eyes
suddenly swam with tears. “Julian, I—”
“Shut up,” he hissed, and ground
his mouth into hers.
Julian’s kiss was the most
punishing, the most ravenous, the most bold assault Mercy’s lips had ever
known. And it was heaven. Love, hate, and desire warred within her, and desire
immediately won. The thrust of his brandied tongue inside her mouth was filled
with out-of-control passion and searing hunger. She trembled and shivered
against him. She realized that it was not him she had fought tonight, but her
own traitorous response to him—to
this
. She clung to him, illogically
both sobbing and moaning with ecstasy. Tears slid down her cheeks as she opened
her lips to his plundering invasion. Irresistibly, her tongue vied with his,
hers moving with searching delicacy while his plunged and ravaged with raw
eroticism.
At last he tore his mouth from her
bruised lips. “Is this what you wanted, Mercy? Is it?”
Reeling, she whimpered, “I wanted
you to let me go.”
“You wanted to hike your skirts
for every man in the ballroom,” he countered crudely. “If you are feeling so
generous, mademoiselle, then you cannot possibly object to me.”
Even as she tossed her head,
struggling to escape him, he caught her chin firmly with his hand. This time,
he moved with slow deliberation, drowning her with his mouth. She could not
protest, for his lips were smothering hers—drinking, seducing, ravishing. She
could not escape, pinned against the pillar this way. With brazen impudence, he
thrust one hand inside the bodice of her gown, impatiently thrusting aside her
stays, roughly caressing a tautened nipple. At his scandalous touch, she was
electrified. She would have writhed out of his embrace had he not held her in
such a passionate vise.
“You arouse very easily, Mercy,”
he murmured. “But you will hunger for me, not for the others.”
Despite his insufferable
arrogance, Mercy yearned to tell him that only he could stir her this way. But
she couldn’t, for he was kissing her again, even as his fingertips continued to
torture the puckered bud. Mercy was engulfed with pleasure, unable to breathe
as his mouth mastered hers, unable to think as showers of light seemed to
explode inside her head. Julian’s loins ground into her with a provocative
rhythm that sent hot desire piercing deep to her very core. Reality faded in
and out with the thundering of her heart and the throbbing of the sensuous
night around them. She feared that she would swoon.
At last, she managed to catch a
stinging breath as Julian’s lips left hers. Yet her reprieve was brief as he
leaned over and took her tautened nipple gently but firmly between his teeth.