Authors: Eugenia Riley
The others stared at her in
devastated silence; all three realized that they were powerless over the terrible
determination now gleaming in Mercy Devereux’s eyes. Ultimately, the Dubois
allowed Jerome to drive Mercy to City Hotel, rather than risk having their
granddaughter venture forth on her own. Anton offered to accompany her, but
Mercy soundly refused him. As she prepared to leave the house, she turned to
him and said vehemently, “Anton, I swear, if you proceed with this duel, I’ll
never speak to you again.”
He could only wave his hands.
Downtown at the hotel, Mercy
dismissed Jerome and swept inside the large, elegant lobby. The young desk
clerk gave her Julian’s room number, and she politely declined his offer of an
escort upstairs.
On the second floor, Mercy paused
on the Oriental runner outside Julian’s room. Her hands were clammy, her heart
racing. Warring emotions surged inside her. She realized ruefully that Julian
had managed to box her into the very same corner that he’d maneuvered her into
several months past, when he had insisted that she marry him. Now—if she didn’t
want to be responsible for his death, or Anton’s—she had no choice but to once
again do his bidding. As much as this knowledge galled her, in a way she was
relieved to have the impasse ended.
At last she gathered her courage
and rapped softly on the door. Julian promptly answered her knock, and at the
sight of him her heart went into a crazy spin and she swayed momentarily on her
feet.
He had removed his coat and
cravat, and his appearance was arrestingly male, with his pleated linen shirt
unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the crisp dark curls on his chest. His gold
satin vest hugged his trim torso and waist. He held a snifter of brandy in one
tanned, beautifully shaped hand, and a single, sexy curl dangled across his
forehead. A dark line of whiskers had grown along his jaw in the lateness of
the day. As always, he appeared masterful, dangerous, and wickedly sensual.
Mon Dieu
, why did he have
to be such a captivating devil? she wondered, still reeling. Indeed, she found
his more casual appearance now even more threatening and unnerving than his
earlier rigid formality.
They stared at each other in the
ensuing, tense silence, and for a confusing yet wondrous moment Mercy thought
she spotted a glimmer of joy in his blue eyes. But soon the spark faded,
replaced by his usual cynical veneer.
Actually, Julian had felt glad to
see Mercy at his door, so happy that for a treacherous moment he’d forgotten
all about her betrayal. Then, at last sanity had returned, reminding him that
she’d not come out of love or wifely loyalty. She’d not come to offer a
reconciliation—but only to beg for Anton Gerard’s life. Hurt and anger choked
off all the tenderness in his heart.
“Why, Madame Devereux,” he drawled
at last. “What a heartwarming surprise. I suspected you might appear here.”
“Indeed, after you offered me no
choice,” she returned testily. “May I come in?”
He bowed extravagantly. “By all
means.”
Mercy swept past him into the
room, catching an enervating hint of his masculine scent. As he closed the door
behind her, she swallowed hard and stared at the four-poster bed standing
squarely at the center of one wall. She grasped the back of a nearby armchair
to hold on to her equilibrium. She realized that this cozy retreat was the
worst possible setting for confronting her husband.
Julian swept back to her side. “A
brandy, Mercy?”
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured.
Perhaps the brace of the alcohol might help buck up her courage.
He moved toward the dresser and,
irresistibly, Mercy watched him. She almost winced as she drank in the
broadness of his shoulders and observed the fabric of his trousers pulling
against his tight buttocks. Desire squeezed in her belly, intense, appalling,
and relentless. By the saints, why did she have to lust so shamelessly after
this heartless villain?
Watching him pick up an empty
snifter from the silver tray next to the brandy decanter, she muttered
sarcastically, “I see you were expecting someone this afternoon.”
“Indeed, someone. You.”
“You’re very sure of yourself,
aren’t you?” she snapped.
Ignoring her flash of temper, he
gave her a thorough and insulting perusal that made her heart skitter into an
even crazier rhythm.
He smiled mockingly at her
discomfiture. “While I didn’t mention it earlier, you look beautiful, as
always, my dear. Take off that shawl and bonnet. I wish to see more of you.”
At his insufferable arrogance,
Mercy was sorely tempted to storm out of the room. Unfortunately, though, she
couldn’t afford the luxury of affronted pride right now. With ill-concealed
resentment, she removed her bonnet, shawl, and gloves, and laid them over the
back of the chair.
Julian approached with both
snifters half filled, his eyes once again devouring her. He handed her her
drink, and both tensely, silently took a sip.
Mercy drew a ragged breath and
decided to begin. “Why did you come here after me, Julian?”
He raised a dark brow in feigned
amazement. “You left me. Or had you forgotten?”
She stared at the rug, blinking
rapidly. “I mean, why bother?”
He laughed bitterly. “Suffice it to
say, it wasn’t because I missed your piano playing.”
Her head shot up, her cheeks
flaming at his bald words. She fought back a surge of temper and traitorous
desire. “Julian, you must not duel Anton.”
Cold anger flashed in his eyes.
“Your devotion to your suitor is most touching.”
“He’s not my suitor! And
furthermore, I had no knowledge that he’d sent you divorce papers.”
“No knowledge, hell,” Julian
countered. “Then why have you come to plead his cause?” With stinging acrimony,
he added, “You always beg for others, but never for me.”
She shook her head incredulously.
“How can you claim to be the wounded party here, when your arrogance initiated
this entire fiasco? It’s just like before with Philippe, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” he agreed ruthlessly.
“And, once again, I’m offering you the same choice.”
“
No choice
,” she replied
bitterly. “It’s my life or his, isn’t it?”
He downed his brandy angrily. “Ah,
but there’s a difference. Him I would kill—you I want in my bed.”
As much as she hated him in that
moment, a hot spear of arousal shot through her at his impudent words and
insulting gaze. She paced angrily. “That’s all you’ve ever wanted from me.”
“Hardly,” he drawled.
“But it’s true.” She turned on
him, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “You’ve never felt any sense of
devotion or loyalty toward me, much less . . .”
“Love?” he supplied cynically.
“Love!” she mocked with a furious
wave of her hand. “Now, there’s a fine joke. If you love anyone—besides
yourself—it certainly isn’t me.”
“What do you mean by that comment?”
he demanded.
She couldn’t help herself; tears
were now spilling over. “I mean that you’ve never loved anyone except your
precious Justine.”
That shot scored, and his eyes
glittered ominously. “That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is!” she retorted,
unheeding. “Tell me, Julian, why did it take you so long to come after me?
Because you could not pry yourself away from Justine’s arms?”
She was unprepared for his
response, for the naked rage now blazing in his eyes. He actually trembled as
he stood before her, his expression so violent that she feared he might strike
her. He hurled his empty brandy snifter across the room, and it smashed
explosively against the fireplace. She jumped, wincing at the sound of
shattering glass. Then the awful crash was forgotten as Julian advanced on her
with the vengeance of hell burning in his eyes.
“Because I had to bury my son!” he
roared.
In the next instant, Mercy feared
she might crumple up and die, right then and there on the rug, so great was her
shock and devastation over this stunning announcement.
“
What
?” she somehow managed
to gasp. “Arnaud—Arnaud died?”
“Yes,” Julian blazed back with
eyes gleaming. “He contracted scarlet fever and passed away two nights later.”
“Oh, my God! Oh, no!” Mercy cried,
devastated by the news. “Julian—”
But even as she reached for him,
he held up a hand in warning and continued with killing bitterness. “Even as I
came home to tell my dear, devoted wife the news, even as I yearned for her
comfort, I found that she’d left me—in the company of another man.”
“Oh, Julian!” Mercy’s hands flew
to her face and she stared at her husband in crazed horror. All at once, she
understood everything—Julian’s being away from the house for so long, and
especially the scene she had witnessed at Justine’s house. That had been no
romantic tryst she had spotted—only two grieving parents embracing over the
deathbed of their child! Heaven help her! She had misinterpreted everything.
Mercy stared at Julian through her
tears, knowing she had once again blamed him for something that was not his
fault, that she had once again acted unforgivably. She knew now that he was not
really angry—he was hurt, desperately hurt. Indeed, she was the very one who
had wounded him to the soul.
She started toward him with tears
streaming down her cheeks and arms outstretched in entreaty. “Oh, Julian—that
dear, sweet child—I’m so sorry!”
“Spare me your lies!” he
denounced.
“But it’s true!” she declared,
gesturing distraughtly. “You must understand—back in New Orleans when you
stayed away all night, I was beside myself with worry, and eaten up with
jealousy. I went to Justine’s cottage, and that’s when I spotted the two of you
embraced through the window. I didn’t know what was really happening, and I
assumed—”
“You always assume! You never
trust me!” he cut in angrily.
“But can’t you understand how I
reacted, under the circumstances?” she pleaded. “Can’t you understand why I
felt I had to leave?”
“Damn it, Mercy, you left with
another man!”
She wrung her hands. “I realize
this. But Anton is my cousin, and he was only acting on my grandparents’
behalf. It was all quite proper, I assure you.”
“All quite proper,” he mocked.
“You underestimate your power over men, my dear. You traipse through life
cheerfully and cruelly, leaving behind a trail of challenges—and broken
hearts.”
Whose heart did he mean?
she wondered wildly. Searching his features for an answer, and finding no hint
of softness there, she clenched her fists miserably and repeated, “Julian, I’m
sorry.”
“Sorry?” he echoed incredulously.
“You left without a word—not one single, damned word.”
“All right, I shouldn’t have left
that way. I didn’t trust you, and I apologize. Can you forgive me?”
His back turned on her was ample
answer.
But the emotion welling in Mercy
could not be denied. Undaunted, she went up to him, wrapping her arms about his
waist and pressing her cheek to his stiff back. She expected him to fling her
away, yet, curiously, he did not, though a mighty shudder seized him. She could
feel the emotion coursing through him at that moment—the terrible anger, the
feelings of hurt and betrayal and despair.
“Darling, forgive me,” she begged
hoarsely, kissing his rigid back through his shirt linen, inhaling his
intoxicating scent. “If only I had known . . . I’ve been so terribly wrong. I
wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to thrash me now.”
He shocked her by turning
violently in her arms. He grasped her shoulders, and his eyes burned down into
hers. “I’ve never had any desire to punish you physically.”
“Then what?” she cried. In a small
voice, she added, “Why did you come after me, Julian?”
He caught her close with a groan.
His voice was filled with both irony and raw emotion. “Fool that I am, I still
want you,
chère
.”
“You have me,” she whispered in
anguish.
He tilted her chin with his
fingertips. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Because you want to save Anton
Gerard?” he demanded.
“No, because . . .” She almost
blurted out that she loved him, but the words were somehow strangled in her
throat. Instead, she shuddered and whispered, “Because I still want you, too.”
He stared down into her wide,
anguished eyes, as if trying to gauge her sincerity. Evidently, what he saw
convinced him, for he pulled her roughly against him; he was silent for a long
moment, his arms trembling about her.
“How can I make amends?” she
asked. When he stiffened, she added, “Please, I want to try.”
His embrace tightened. “You may
not want to hear what I have to say,” he said hoarsely.
“Please, I do.”
He groaned, then whispered against
her hair, “Give yourself to me without reservation.”
She drew back, staring up at him
in confusion. “But I do.”
“No,” he said obdurately, “you
don’t. You haven’t ever since we returned from St. Louis. We’ve not been really
close since then.”
Mercy swallowed hard then, knowing
Julian had spoken the truth. She had yielded her body to him, but her heart and
soul had remained cold and unforgiving ever since they’d returned from their
honeymoon. Now, she had to admit that she was half frightened by the prospect
of laying herself open to him, of making herself vulnerable to this violent
stranger.
Yet how else could she convince
him of her utter sincerity and remorse? Perhaps through true physical intimacy,
emotional intimacy could at last be restored in their marriage.
“I will,” she said in a
tear-filled voice, “if only you’ll stop hating me.”
At her tormented words, Julian
emitted a strangled, heartrending cry, and Mercy could actually feel something
breaking in him, as if all the restraint of months past had suddenly crumbled
away. He thrust hot hands into her hair, forcing her head back, compelling her
to meet his anguished gaze.