Rogue's Mistress (23 page)

“You looked like a doxy in that
gown.”

Mercy was feeling quite agreeable;
after all, she had gotten her way. And there was something exciting about the
forbidden, titillating game they seemed to be playing. She slanted him a sultry
look through her lashes. “If such is my role tonight, then it would seem that
I’m your doxy, m’sieur.”

She heard his sharp intake of
breath, as if someone had just punched him hard in the stomach. “Such
provocative flirtation is very dangerous, Mercy,” he warned in a voice that
trembled.

Her slippered foot reached out to
toy with his boot. “Is it?”

He groaned. “Indeed.” The tip of
his boot slid up her stockinged ankle, raising her gown a notch higher. “Do you
know what I’d do to you if you were my doxy?”

Perversely fascinated, she propped
her chin in her hands. “What?”

He stretched toward her, his eyes
glittering and intense. “I’d hike your skirts and have you before we even
returned to the hotel.”

She gasped.

“Come to think of it,” he
continued, reaching calmly for the nearest shade, “you did promise me
anything
.”

“Julian, you wouldn’t!”

The other shade zipped down, and
wicked darkness enveloped them. “Wouldn’t I?”

Her startled cry wasn’t even heard
over the pounding of the horse’s hooves, and the rattling of the harnesses. In
a flicker, Julian had dragged his struggling wife into his lap. She slammed her
back against his chest and squirmed like a wildcat in his lap, but it was
useless. Her cheeks burned as he easily subdued her, and her heart pounded at
the dispatch with which he was tossing up her many layers of skirts.

“Julian!
Mon Dieu
—you’re
doing this backward!”

He howled with laughter. “If you
think I’ll miss the mark in this position, think again, my darling innocent.”
She emitted a shocked cry as his bold hands found the tie to her pantalets and
then quickly dispensed with them. She reeled at the feeling of delicious
vulnerability, of wicked sensuality. An instant later, she felt his hard heat
probing against her womanhood.

“Well, madame?” he challenged, his
tongue in her ear.

She shuddered. “Your aim is
excellent.”

He chuckled in unabashed pleasure.
He let her hang there on the brink of wondrous consummation as he nibbled at
her cheek, her jaw. He gloried at the sound of her sharp, out-of-control
breathing, loving the way she quivered against him. His teeth sank gently into
her throat. “Do you wish to proceed, Mercy?” he asked huskily.

“Oh, yes.”

Suddenly, the game was over, and
nothing existed but the two of them and their desire to be as close as two
lovers could be. Julian’s breathing grew ragged, his voice raspier. “Take me
inside you, darling. All the way inside you. Take me
home
.”

His words were stunningly erotic,
and Mercy needed no further encouragement. Shuddering, she sank onto his
magnificent shaft, crying out at the jolting impact of their coupling. He was a
hot, unyielding spear inside her, probing against her very womb. She reveled in
the feeling of oneness, of delicious, searing friction.

His hands reached around her to
free her breasts from the low-cut gown. Stroking her boldly, he murmured, “I
must say that this frock has its advantages, after all.”

She moved her hips greedily then,
and he lost control, taking the rhythm away from her and pumping into her with
such force that she gasped.

His teeth clamped onto her soft shoulder.
“You’re not my doxy, Mercy,” he whispered in a tortured voice. “You could never
be such. You’re my woman, my wife, my love . . .”

Whimpering in ecstasy, she turned
her face toward his, loving the agonized struggle she viewed on his features.
All the while, he was rocking her toward him with unbearable eroticism,
pounding himself into her, settling her so deeply that she—

She would have screamed out her
love for him then, but she couldn’t for he leaned toward her, his lips seizing
hers in a soul-wrenching kiss even as his loins shattered her into utter
completeness.

***

A mood of languid silence slid
over them as they returned to the hotel.

Upstairs, Julian helped his wife
undress; he even hung up her fabulous gown. Afterward, as she reached for her nightgown,
he murmured passionately, “No. Not tonight.”

She turned down the lamp.

They lay naked together in the
velvety darkness beneath the mosquito netting, her back nestled against his
chest. He caressed her breasts, her belly, and kissed her hair.

“Mercy . . . What we did in the
carriage tonight. Did it make you feel—demeaned in any way?”

“
Non
.” She smiled in the
darkness.

“I didn’t do it to demean you. In
fact, if I even thought—”

She turned in his arms, pressing
her fingers against his mouth. “Julian, it was very sweet.”

“Sweet,” he repeated ironically.
“The desires you stir in me are hardly sweet, dear wife. I want to do
scandalous things with you, things I’ve never . . .”

“Done with a woman before?” she
finished.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Julian . . .” She bit her lip.
“Were there many women before me?” The thought made her wildly, unreasoningly
jealous.

Julian was suddenly glad the
darkness hid his guilty eyes. “None of them meant what you do.” Eager to
distract her, he reached down, pressing his fingers to the portal of her
femininity. “Are you sore, darling?”

“Yes.” She laughed.

“Too sore to—”

“Never,” she purred, curling her
arms around his neck.

Back to Contents

On the way back to New Orleans, Mercy learned that she was not carrying Julian’s child.

This time, the couple journeyed
downriver on the
New Orleans Princess
, a much smaller, older river
packet that was not nearly as grand as the
Natchez
. The cramped,
uncomfortable accommodations seemed to set the tone for their entire journey
home. Unfortunately, they had to remain indoors much of the time. While sunny
skies had prevailed on their journey upriver, now it rained almost continually.

Conditions couldn’t have been
worse at a time when Mercy needed increasing privacy. Fortunately, Julian,
noting his wife’s plight, tried his best to be a gentleman and left her alone
as much as possible, spending his time in the steamer’s small, smoky parlor.

Yet the feeling of separation soon
became more than a physical thing. While Julian was invariably courteous, Mercy
noted that her husband was acting increasingly tense and withdrawn. She
remembered him discussing how much he wanted children, and wondered if he was
terribly disappointed that she hadn’t yet conceived. It did seem a bit much to
hope for so early in their marriage, even given his lusty nature.

Yet the closer they drew to New Orleans, the more remote Julian became. During the day, he was terse and avoided her
eye; at night, he tossed and turned in the bunk and didn’t touch her. She
wondered if he was afraid of going back to their troubles at home. The
honeymoon had been so idyllic; was he apprehensive about what a return to
reality might do to their relationship? She had certainly experienced such fears
herself, but she didn’t think that pulling away from each other was the answer.

Another, even more unsettling,
possibility occurred to her. Was Julian simply frustrated because he was
temporarily denied her services in bed? Was that all that had really interested
him? He’d been so charming on their honeymoon—an irresistible rogue she’d
fallen in love with. But each session in charm, she reminded herself grimly,
had ended in seduction. Perhaps he saw no reason to be agreeable right now—and
the thought that he might have been exploiting her feelings all along hurt
deeply.

It wasn’t until they were nearing
the Crescent City that she finally learned the truth regarding her husband’s
perplexing retreat.

The last night they spent on the
steamboat, the weather at last cleared. Following dinner in the grand saloon,
Julian asked Mercy to join him out on the deck. They stood near the railing of
the promenade, sipping glasses of wine.

Mercy felt intensely relieved to
have escaped their stuffy cabin at last. Her indisposition had almost ended,
and she was feeling much better. The night air was deliciously fresh and
slightly cool, laced with the invigorating sweetness that came only after rain.

Since the moon was full, the
steamer was proceeding cautiously downriver, to make up for the many times
they’d been impelled to pull up during the storm. Mercy heard the clanging of
the steamboat bell up in the pilothouse, then the distant voice of a deckhand
at the bow, who responded to the signal by calling up the water level to the
pilot.

The river itself was captivating,
a sleek, wide mirror of silver. A night heron glided gracefully across the
black, diamond-dotted skies. The forest glimmered in spectral beauty, ancient
phantoms dripping with ghostly Spanish moss. Mercy had to admit that the
setting could not have been more dreamy or romantic . . .

Too bad the romance had abruptly
fled from her marriage!

Setting down her wineglass on a
nearby steward’s cart, she turned to study Julian. His expression was tense, abstracted,
as he idly swirled the wine in his glass. Obviously, something was deeply
troubling him, and she might as well take the bull by the horns.

“Julian, did you wish to speak to
me?”

His gaze was impassive. “Yes.”

“What is it, then?” Waiting until
another couple passed them, she added softly, “Are you terribly disappointed
that we won’t be having a child right away?”

At once, his expression became
contrite. “No, darling,” he said, reaching out to stroke her cheek. “I
apologize if I’ve given you that impression.”

“Then what is it?” When he
hesitated, she added, “Do you know that this is practically the first time
you’ve touched me since we’ve started home?”

“I’ve . . . had much on my mind,”
he admitted in a strangled tone.

“Well?”

He sighed and turned away,
finishing his wine, then placing his empty glass on the cart. He cleared his
throat. “Mercy, I took you off on this honeymoon in part because there was
something I needed to tell you.”

Her heart seemed to climb into her
throat. “Yes?”

“I have a son.”

She stared at him, speechless. She
couldn’t have been more stunned if he had just slapped her. “A son? But how?”

He blinked rapidly, avoiding her
eye. “I had a mistress.”

“Had?”

He turned to face her, his eyes
gleaming with guilt and regret. “I met Justine at a quadroon ball five years
ago. She was a young octoroon, just then being presented. I made the
appropriate arrangements with her mother, and we lived together for some time,
until Arnaud was—”

“Arnaud?” she gasped.

“My son was born four years ago.”

“My God!” Mercy had to grip the
railing to keep from collapsing.

With haste, he moved closer,
gripping her shoulders, looking down into her wide, tumultuous eyes. “Mercy, my
relationship with Justine has been platonic for some time now. In fact, she
gave me her blessing for this marriage—”

Mercy threw off his touch. “Her
blessing? How very convenient for you!”

“Still, I have an obligation to
her and Arnaud, and I shall never turn my back on them.”

Mercy blinked at him,
uncomprehending. Then, at last, the complete magnitude of his revelation sank
in on her. To think that all this time he had been closeting away a mistress
and son! He had lied to her, exploited her!

“Merciful heavens!” she cried.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He stared at her sadly. “Because
you wouldn’t have married me.”

“Damned right, I wouldn’t have!”
In a voice raw with anguish, she asked, “Do you love her?”

He thrust his fingers through his
hair. “At one time, I thought I did.”

“Oh, God.” Mercy felt as if she
might sink through the deck of the vessel.

Julian gripped her arm. “Mercy,
again, my relationship with Justine as a mistress is in the past. Otherwise, I
never would have proposed to you.” He forced a sympathetic expression. “Anyway,
my dear, you’re taking this too seriously. Such liaisons are common among
Creole men, and it has no bearing on us.”

“No bearing on us? How can you say
that?” Righteous indignation surged in her. “Does it have no bearing that you
have a son and mistress, both of whom you have hidden from me, both of whom you
intend to continue seeing? Does it have no bearing that you’re a liar, a
fraud?” As another, appalling possibility flitted to mind, she added in a low,
cutting whisper, “Tell me, is she the one who taught you how—how to do all
those shocking things in bed?”

Her words were filled with such
stinging acrimony, Julian actually fell back a step, looking as if she had just
struck him. “Mercy, I’m stunned at you. I’ll not have you speak ill of Justine.
As a matter of fact, she was an innocent when she came to me.”

Mercy turned away, blinded by
tears. Oh, God, it was too much! The fact that Justine had come a virgin to
Julian’s bed only added more appalling legitimacy to their association, and his
passionate defense of the woman further devastated her.

She turned on him like a wounded
animal. “You mean you never tossed up her skirts and took her in a carriage?”

Julian’s outrage was such that
Mercy feared he might strike her. “How can you say such a thing?” he demanded
at last, his eyes brilliant with hurt and anger. “That was special. That was
just for us.”

“It was a sham, like everything
else in this marriage has been!”

He tried to touch her, but she
jerked away, gripping the railing as her entire world seemed to splinter apart.
Julian had a mistress, a son—oh, God, she could not bear it! What a naive fool
she had been ever to trust him! She should have learned from her earlier
experiences with him. The man was a villain, totally incapable of honesty or
integrity. He could only lie to her, hurt her, manipulate her. All the time
he’d been courting her, charming her, he’d been seeing another woman, his
paramour! And she’d been beguiled by it all; she’d gone to the altar like a
lamb to the slaughter. Memories of the uninhibited intimacies they’d shared
tortured her now, mocking her with their obscenity.

At last she turned to face him,
her eyes gleaming with hatred. “You bastard,” she hissed. “You were so wise, so
cunning. You tricked me into this marriage. You didn’t tell me the truth until
you had seduced my body and insinuated yourself into my heart, until I—”

“Yes?”

Until I fell in love with you
.
Mercy drew her hand to her mouth and gasped.
Mon
Dieu
, she had
almost admitted her love to him, and such an admission would have been
disastrous. For Julian could never love her. He could only deceive her and take
advantage of her feelings. If he knew of her love, he would only use it as
another weapon to destroy her.

“You made me bare my feelings to
you,” she went on in a choked voice. “You made me admit that I never loved
Philippe. You insisted that I be honest with you, when all the time you were
hiding this woman, this child—”

“Mercy, it’s different with a
man,” he said helplessly.

“Is a man exempt from honesty,
from fairness, from any human decency?” she cried. “Oh,
mon Dieu
, I
should have known! I was such a sap-headed fool! I should have remembered what
kind of man you are—”

“You mean, the kind of man who
would kill your father?” he cut in with sudden, savage anger.

“Yes!” she cried, abandoning
restraint in her own consuming hurt. “And the kind of man who would sneak
around behind my back and betray me with his mistress.”

“Damn it, Mercy, Justine and I are
no longer lovers.”

“I wish I could believe that,” she
said with a terrible fatalism. “But all I know is that you are a liar and a
cad. When I think of the things I did with you, shameless things—”

He gripped her shoulders. “Mercy,
those things were good. They drew us closer together—”

“Close enough so that you can
shatter me now?” she asked.

The look in her eyes made him recoil.
Indeed, her eyes said it all. Julian turned away in torment, knowing he had
just destroyed their fragile relationship. His wife was a creature of pride and
passion. She had loved fiercely, and now she would hate fiercely. She would
hate
him
. Not that he blamed her. He had fallen hopelessly in love with
her; he had taken a terrible risk. And he had lost.

Her tortured voice drifted over to
him. “Why didn’t you tell me the troth about her before we were married? Why
didn’t you offer me a choice?”

She turned on her heel and fled
for their stateroom.

***

In their cabin, Mercy moved about
mechanically, her features as white as parchment. She quickly dressed for bed
and turned down the lamps. Only when she was safely in the bunk could she
succumb to the torrent of tears she’d held choked in her throat. She sobbed and
beat the pillow, cursing Julian with her every breath . . .

Yet her anger could not hold at
bay the ocean of soul-shattering hurt he had inflicted, nor could it stop the
tidal wave of jealousy following in its wake. She was wounded by his betrayal,
and jealous of every second he had spent with this other family he had
concealed from her.

She knew now that Julian loved
another; he would probably hop right back into this Justine’s bed the minute
they returned to New Orleans. And the scoundrel had even claimed he was no
longer sleeping with the woman—surely the cruelest lie of all!

He had doubtless married her only
to create a façade of legitimacy while he enjoyed his illicit affair. Mercy
knew that Louisiana law, as well as social constraint, would forbid that he
ever marry an octoroon; thus, his marriage to her would appease society while
he continued to pursue his secret passion. And the villain had taken her off on
this honeymoon mainly to tell her about his mistress—what an important
admission this must have been to him!

To think that he had a child, a
son, with this Justine. He had shared her bed, shared his life with her, for so
many years. What a powerful bond that must be. By comparison, she must seem a
poor substitute. Indeed, Julian already seemed disappointed that he wasn’t
having a child with her; perhaps she would never live up to the image of his
paramour.

She wanted out of this marriage.
She could never trust Julian again, and she refused to let him go on hurting
her.

She went on sobbing, agonizing,
until all her tears were gone. Even then, she could not sleep . . .

***

Julian didn’t return to the room
until very late. When he sank into the bunk next to her, he smelled of brandy
and cigars. He touched her shoulder in the darkness, and she recoiled.

“When we arrive in New Orleans, I want to go back to the convent,” she said in a voice thick with tears.

“No.”

“You won’t let me out of this
marriage?”

“Never.”

“I hope you rot in hell.”

A sob escaped her then, and, with
a curse, Julian hauled her roughly into his arms. She lost control, beating
against his chest and calling him every vile name she could think of. He took
no note, letting her flail out at him and sob until she fell asleep against
him.