Authors: Eugenia Riley
“You have both been well?” he
asked kindly.
Justine nodded. “Arnaud and I have
been fine, although the epidemics have been horrible this year. There was a
death from yellow fever over on Canal just last week, and I’ve heard of cases
of scarlet fever, as well.”
“How awful. You must take care to
keep Arnaud inside.”
“Julian, he’s a child. He needs
sunshine.”
“I suppose you have a point,” he
conceded uneasily.
They fell into an unaccustomed
silence; she carefully studied his abstracted expression. “How was your
honeymoon?”
He leaned back and sighed. “Fine.
Except that Mercy and I are now at something of a stalemate.”
“Oh?”
His troubled eyes met hers. “Last
night as we neared New Orleans, I told her about you and Arnaud. Now she wants
an annulment.”
“I’m not surprised.” Justine
touched his hand. “You know, Julian, it’s not necessary for you to go on seeing
me.”
His expression was crestfallen.
“How can you say that? There’s Arnaud—”
“Henrí could fetch him, and the
two of you could meet in some neutral location. Perhaps this would soothe Mercy
somewhat. She’s bound to feel hurt and jealous right now.”
He frowned. “That’s what Mama
said.”
“Apologize to her, Julian. Tell
her you love her.”
He stared at her starkly. “Are my feelings
that transparent?”
“Yes.”
He groaned. “I can’t tell her.
She’d use my feelings as a weapon. She’ll never care for me.”
Justine touched his rigid
shoulder. “Julian, I’m sure she does care for you. And you will tell her of
your feelings, when the time is right.”
He glanced up at her, braving a
smile. “I won’t stop seeing you, Justine—as a friend. You’re the mother of my
son and I will always be responsible for your welfare—and Arnaud’s.”
Justine sighed. “Very well. But
mention me to Mercy as little as possible.”
He squeezed her hand briefly.
“You’re a saint, Justine. All you think about is my own happiness.”
Justine glanced away and bit her
lip . . .
They visited for a few more
minutes, then Julian left the room to go kiss his son goodbye. Justine glanced
up to see Henrí standing in the doorway to the dining room, studying her
solemnly. Her heart leaped with joy at the sight of him; he looked so tall, so
handsome, his dark brown eyes feasting on her. She presumed he had overheard
much.
Their thirsty, guilty gazes held
for a long moment, then she got up and tiptoed to his side. She clutched his
hand. “Oh,
mon amour
, if only Julian knew what we’ve done! I feel so
guilty about the nights we spent together while he and Mercy were gone.”
Henrí frowned. “You fear
maître
would disapprove of our love?”
She nodded, her expression torn.
“When Julian first became my protector, I always assumed that I would devote
myself to one man for life. After all, that’s what my mother did, even though
Papa was not always faithful to her. And now—”
“Now Julian is no longer your
lover,” Henrí pointed out. “Now he has taken a wife.”
“I realize these things. Still,
I’m the mother of his child, and Arnaud is so small.” She bit her lip. “Julian
said something recently . . .”
“Yes?”
She met his troubled gaze. “He
mentioned that when Arnaud is older, perhaps I’ll find someone else. But he
added that the man would have to be an upstanding sort, or he would never
approve.”
Henrí scowled. “You think, then,
that he would want to see you with someone like himself?”
“I fear so.”
“Perhaps you’re wrong,
ma
petite
.” He stared at her adoringly. “At any rate, our love simply could
not be contained any longer. And remember that
maître
long ago released
you from your obligation as his mistress.” He drew a heavy breath. “We will
have to tell him, you know. We both owe him that much.”
“When?” she asked.
Henrí hauled her close with a
groan. “When the time is right.
Maître
is deeply troubled right now. He
has his own problems to contend with. We must wait for the right moment.”
***
That afternoon, once she had
calmed down a bit, Mercy grew restless. While Risa quietly unpacked her
clothes, Mercy paced the bedroom, wondering morosely what she should do. She
considered leaving Julian and fleeing to the convent. Yet she quickly realized
that such a move would be folly. Julian would simply come after her and drag
her back home. No, she had no choice but to remain here; she could only hope
that in time, she might persuade him to release her from her vows.
She spent the afternoon exploring
the town house, taking a leisurely bath, and trying to read. Toward evening, a
marchand delivered a dozen red roses to her. Risa arranged the flowers in a
vase and set them on the bedroom dresser. After the maid left, Mercy sat on the
daybed, staring numbly at the luscious, velvety blooms and clutching Julian’s
card in her hand. It read simply:
I’m sorry. Julian
.
She was tempted to rip his card
into a thousand pieces. She was tempted to smash the vase of flowers on the floor.
Yet she knew that throwing a childish tantrum wouldn’t solve anything.
Did the cad actually believe he
could soothe her with flowers and a halfhearted
I’m sorry
? Did he think
she’d instantly absolve him of all guilt and wait for him in his bed like a
besotted fool?
If he did think these things, he
was crazy! He was a man with a mistress and an illegitimate child, both of whom
he had concealed from her. She would never share him with these others!
Then a small, traitorous voice reminded
her that he had said he was sorry. He was a proud man, and surely the apology
had chafed his pride a bit.
Good
, she thought with
sudden, fierce acrimony. If he felt one iota of the pain he’d inflicted on her,
she was glad!
Still, an anguished cry escaped
her. As much as Julian had wounded her, she still yearned for the happier days
they’d known.
In a moment of appalling weakness,
she went over and smelled the roses.
***
When he came to her very late that
night, the room still smelled of roses.
Mercy had waited in the
darkness—tossing, turning, sleepless—growing angrier and angrier as the hour
grew later and Julian failed to appear. She had considered leaving to sleep
elsewhere, but had realized that such a move would surely only provoke him.
Well past midnight, she heard the
door creak open and his boots crossing the room. Her heart pounding, she
clutched the sheet and watched him undress in the shadows. He removed all his
clothes, and, as she studied his magnificent nakedness outlined in the silvery
light, she felt desire, hot and unbidden, flooding her veins. Suddenly, she
hated herself.
He sank into the bed beside her
and grasped her shoulder.
“Don’t touch me!” she hissed.
He sighed. “Mercy, I came home
late to give you a chance to recover from your anger.”
“You’ve been with Justine
tonight,” she flung at him.
“No,” he denied. “I’ve been with
André Beaufort. He or his wife will confirm that for you.”
Her eyes stung. “I don’t care
where you’ve been.”
“Really?” he challenged. “Is that
why you’re still awake, unable to sleep?”
“I can’t sleep because I hate
you!”
She heard the breath suddenly
leave his body, as if she had just savagely struck him. She wondered why she
felt no joy.
“Do you despise me so much?” he
asked at last.
“Yes!”
“Damn it, Mercy!” Roughly, Julian
hauled her into his arms. When she tried to fight him, he pinned both her hands
above her head and stared down into her eyes. As much as she hated him, she
reeled with traitorous desire as his hard, naked body pressed into her
softness. Memories of the intimacies they’d shared bombarded her, only
intensifying the painful ache between her thighs.
He spoke fiercely, his breath hot
on her cheek. “There’s nothing I can do about the past, Mercy, but I refuse to
let you sabotage our future together. We had something good together, and we’re
not throwing it away. This estrangement is going to end, and it’s going to end
now.”
“Only if you force me!”
“We’ll see.” And to her confusion,
Julian released her hands.
Mercy flailed out at him, beating
against his chest and cursing him with every breath. Curiously, he made no
effort to restrain her, absorbing her blows stoically.
“That’s it,
chère
,” he
murmured sympathetically. “Take out all your anger on me. Then you will love
me.”
His words proved devastatingly
prophetic. Indeed, as soon as he uttered them, all the fight in Mercy abruptly
died away. Suddenly, she felt like a monster for attacking him while he held
himself defenseless. With a sob, she fell back against the pillows, biting her
clenched fist, uncertain what to do next. All that seemed to exist were his
beautiful, tormented eyes staring down into hers and the sound of her own heart
crashing in her ears.
At last she blinked away tears and
said, “I’m sorry I hit you.”
“I know,” he whispered. He raised
her clenched fist to his mouth, lovingly kissing the bite marks she’d
inflicted, rubbing his lips sensuously over her tight fingers until they
uncoiled.
His tenderness desolated her pride.
With a heartbroken sob, she lost control. She threw her arms around his neck,
brought his lips down to hers, and kissed him fiercely. He moaned, his hands
drawing her nightgown up and around her waist. She gloried in the intimacy,
moving her bare hips eagerly against his hard arousal. His fingers dug into her
buttocks, raising her to meet him.
To her surprise, he entered her
with exquisite gentleness, studying her eyes in the darkness, watching her melt
and soften. He was a hard, hot shaft of delight, burrowing into her tightness
ever so slowly. She soon lost patience and arched to take him deeply. She
didn’t want his tenderness tonight. She wanted to love him until it hurt, until
passion obliterated all memory of his betrayal. She rolled her hips like a
wanton creature, deliberately provoking the wildness in him. He plunged home
powerfully, and she cried out at the blinding intensity of it, digging her
fingernails into his shoulders and whispering shameless encouragements in his
ear.
A violent groan escaped him. His
mouth devoured hers as he pounded into her with all the love and torment in his
body.
Then the dance began in earnest,
and they grappled deep into the night . . .
***
The next morning, Mercy awakened
to see her husband dressing. His beautiful blue eyes were focused on her with
tension and uncertainty. He looked so sexy with the bright sunlight gleaming in
his disheveled hair, with his shirt still unbuttoned and his trousers hugging
his trim waist and narrow hips.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice
tight.
Mercy hungered to reach out to
him, but pride brought her up short, reminding her that he had gotten his way
last night. How could she have been such a weakling, giving in to him so soon
after he’d told her about his mistress?
“Good morning,” she said at last,
her voice cold.
He frowned as he tucked in his
shirt. He reached for his belt and buckled it. Then he came to sit beside her
on the bed, brushing a wisp of hair from her eyes. She recoiled, and his eyes
glittered with anger.
“I trust last night settled the
issue of separate bedrooms once and for all?” he challenged.
Her gaze flashed mutinously to
his. “Meaning you’ll force me to continue sharing your bed?”
He surged to his feet, his
features white. “I didn’t force you last night and we both damned well know
it.”
She glanced away and bit her lip.
He had spoken the truth, much as it rankled.
Julian studied his wife, noting
her hot cheeks and defiantly gleaming eyes, her trembling underlip. She was so
beautiful and so proud, yet last night she had swallowed that pride and had
loved him insatiably. His heart welled with sudden, fierce sympathy toward her.
With a sigh, he sat down beside
her again and touched her hand. “Mercy, I’m sorry. Can’t we start anew?”
Even though Mercy’s feelings were
torn, her wounds were still far too fresh, too deep. “Start anew? After what
you did? You must surely enjoy being miserable.”
“But we haven’t been miserable—not
for most of our marriage,” he pointed out patiently. “I want what we had in St. Louis.”
“Had,” she echoed bitterly. “We’ll
never have it again.”
“Why are you so determined to be
cold and unforgiving?” he demanded.
“Because you’re a liar and a
cad—and a seducer,” she railed. “Why don’t you just go to the Exchange and
leave me alone? I wish I’d never married you. I wish you’d never even come home
last night!”
Now he, too, was furious, standing
and shaking a finger at her. “When are you going to stop lying, damn it? You
know you wanted me last night as much as I wanted you. Shall I remind you of
how you awakened me long before the cock crowed? This act of outraged virtue
comes a bit late, woman.”
Her face burned at his ruthlessly
accurate words, and she lashed out at him like a wounded animal. “Perhaps I do
take some pleasure from our moments in bed—but nothing else about this marriage
pleases me!”
“Damn you!” he hissed. Anger and
terrible hurt shone in his eyes. “You’re just using all of this as an excuse, a
pretext. You’ve always hated me. You never wanted to marry me. You’ve just been
searching for an excuse to shove me away.”
“That’s not true!” she cried. “I
tried on our honeymoon—I really tried. But then you betrayed me!”
“Yes, I betrayed you,” he said
with a terrible fatalism. “I killed your father.”