Authors: Eugenia Riley
Her silence seemed ample answer
for him. “And you’re not willing to give me that, are you, Mercy? Your body may
be warm, but your heart is as cold and unforgiving as ever. Isn’t it so?”
She stared helplessly at the rug.
“I want to try.”
His mocking laughter cut her
short. “Forgive me if I find your efforts too little, too late. I tried to
apologize to you, but you cast me aside anyway. Then you made your contempt for
me—and our marriage—quite clear.” As she stared up at him in anguish, he
reached out to touch her cheek. His eyes were strangely glazed, and his voice
rang with a tremor of emotion. “But do not worry,
chère
. I won’t always
want so much from you. There will be plenty of times when your body will be
enough. Only tonight isn’t one of them.”
With a low cry, Mercy turned and
fled the room. Oh, it was hopeless! How could their marriage ever survive with all
this hatred and bitterness between them?
The next day, Julian sat in his
office at the Exchange. He glanced ruefully at the documents cluttering his
desk—assorted contracts with planters, crop forecasts, freight bills, bids from
cotton mills in Birmingham. He and his partner were approaching their busiest
time of year—harvest, when a constant flood of bales of cotton and hogsheads of
sugar would pass through their warehouses near the levee and on to lucrative
accounts in the East and in England. Now more than ever, he needed to keep his
mind on business.
Instead, his thoughts were
consumed with his troubled marriage. Ever since his argument with Mercy a week
ago, when she’d told him so brutally that only the physical aspect of their
marriage pleased her, he’d held himself apart from her. While he’d never
thought of himself as particularly straitlaced, he’d discovered that even he
had an aversion to being used as a stud. When his wife had come to him last
night and had attempted an apology, he’d felt certain she’d only been
hard-pressed to satisfy her more carnal needs. She was a passionate
creature—he’d learned that much during their honeymoon.
Not that he hadn’t felt tempted to
take what she offered—indeed, right now, a part of him hungered to take her
into his arms again, to kiss her until he drowned in her, to delve into her
until she cried out in pleasure. Yet pride held him back. Even when she gave
her body to him, she withheld the rest of herself. And as he’d told her,
perhaps foolishly, last night, he wanted more—he wanted her heart. She’d set
her own sights much lower.
He sighed, getting up and walking
over to the window, staring out at the teeming alleyway a story below. What was
he to do? A mere week ago, he’d been determined to fight for Mercy, but that
was before he’d discovered how she could kill him with just a few, cruel words.
Perhaps she’d been right—perhaps they should seek an annulment while they still
could.
The very thought made him clench
his fists. “Damn it all!” he exploded, returning to his chair and sitting down
with a fierce sigh. He picked up a pencil and snapped it in two; still, his
entire body seethed with frustration.
Julian Devereux was anything but
self-deceived. And honesty forced him to admit that he would not, could not,
let Mercy go.
***
During the next week, Julian
continued to hold himself apart from Mercy, and she endlessly wondered how much
more of this cold, empty marriage she could endure. She remembered how, a brief
fortnight earlier, Julian had fought for her so passionately; then she had
driven him away with her own mean-spirited, thoughtless words. Their roles had
been reversed, she realized ruefully; it was now she who fought for the
marriage. Only her change of heart had come too late, for Julian was unwilling
to receive the olive branch she had extended.
I want your heart
.
Endlessly, she remembered his cynical words on the night she went to his study.
Surely he’d been lying. For if he had truly wanted her heart, he never would
have given up on their marriage so easily.
Outwardly, of course, they kept up
the trappings of marriage; Julian escorted her to Mass on Sundays and to an
occasional dinner party or other social events. But otherwise, her husband was
little more than a stranger who occasionally appeared in her bed and who never
touched her.
At last, Mercy forced herself to
face the truth. Julian was a man of strong needs, and he had shut his wife out
completely. That meant he must be sleeping with his mistress again. Of course,
both he and Justine had denied that they were continuing the affair, but what
else could she have expected them to say? Surely all along, Julian had only
wanted this marriage as a façade to cover his illicit liaison. This reality
began to drive Mercy insane with jealousy.
And unfortunately, she had no one
to turn to with her troubles. She knew that if she went to Madelaine Devereux,
her mother-in-law would only reiterate her stance that Mercy should accept the
status quo and bear Julian an heir as quickly as possible—and she had no idea
how to bear a child for a man who refused to touch her. She also thought of
visiting the convent again, to ask the nuns’ advice, but soon realized that the
sisters, with their cloistered existence, could hardly shed light on her
troubled marriage—nor were they likely to support her over Julian.
Thus Mercy bore her troubles in
silence and isolation. She actually felt relieved, if surprised, one afternoon
in early August, when Henrí announced that Philippe Broussard had come calling.
In the bedroom, she touched up her coiffure and smoothed down the lines of her
green and white printed dress. Then she hurried downstairs.
Philippe sprang to his feet the
instant Mercy entered the parlor, and stood staring at her expectantly. Smiling
as she swept toward him, she noted that he looked elegant in his black velvet
frock coat and matching trousers; yet he appeared to have grown thinner. Deep
lines etched his mouth and pale circles curved beneath his eyes. She regretted
the possibility that she might have caused him such physical distress.
She extended her hand. “Philippe,
what a pleasant surprise.”
He took her hand and briefly
kissed it. His smile was stiff. “Mercy. I must say you’re looking well.”
“As are you. Well—won’t you have a
seat?”
Politely waiting until Mercy
seated herself on the settee, Philippe settled his lanky frame into the
armchair flanking her. She offered him an encouraging smile. “What brings you
here today?”
He cleared his throat. “Mercy, I
realize I’m taking a risk by coming to see you. I have no desire to interfere
in your marriage, but I did feel compelled to check on you. ”
“That’s generous of
you—considering the terms under which we parted.” She sighed, gazing at him
contritely. “I’m really sorry about that, Philippe.”
He nodded soberly. “You are happy,
then?”
“I . . .” Mercy lowered her lashes
and clenched her fingers tightly together. She found herself fighting a bizarre
yet powerful urge to burst into tears.
Philippe snorted derisively. “Then
things are just as I feared.”
“What do you mean?”
He surged to his feet. “Don’t play
coy with me, Mercy. I know what’s really going on here.”
“You do?” she asked in
bewilderment.
He began to pace, regarding her
darkly. “I was a fool not to see it before. The cad forced you to marry him,
didn’t he? I realized as much as soon as I managed to cool down. He gave you a
choice, didn’t he, Mercy? Your life for mine.”
She bit her lip, stunned and
disarmed by his perceptions. Lamely, she said, “Philippe, please, you don’t
know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? You married Devereux to
stop the duel, didn’t you?”
She stared at him helplessly. “It
was what I wanted.”
“Indeed?” he pressed, drawing
closer. “What did you want? To marry him or to stop the duel?”
“To marry him,” she murmured
without conviction.
He laughed mirthlessly. “Pray,
don’t insult my intelligence.”
“Philippe, why bring up all this
now?”
He strode to her side, seated
himself, and took her hands. “Because I have to know the truth. You see—I’m
betrothed again.”
“You are?”
He nodded soberly. “To Annette
Hamilton.”
She smiled, finding she felt quite
happy for him. “Congratulations.”
He grimaced. “It is a
mariage
de convenance
. Our families have been friends for years. ” He squeezed her
hands, a melancholy light shining in his eyes. “But you must know, Mercy, that
you are still my first love. Therefore, I must know if your marriage is
successful.”
She gently disengaged her fingers
from his. “What difference does it make now? It’s too late.”
“But that’s not true,” Philippe
countered passionately. “At times, marriages do fail, and if this reality is
recognized early enough, sometimes the Church can be persuaded to provide an
annulment.” He swallowed hard and stared her straight in the eye. “I have to
know, Mercy.”
She sadly shook her head. “Marry
Annette, Philippe. Forget about me.”
“Is that all you can say?” he
cried.
Mercy was poised to reply when a
deep, mocking masculine voice answered for her. “Yes, m’sieur, marry your Annette
and forget about my wife. For, you see, Madame Devereux is definitely not
available.”
Both of them gasped and whirled to
see Julian standing in the archway, scowling at them darkly. Mercy’s heart
pounded frantically as Philippe surged to his feet and glowered back at Julian.
Oh,
mon Dieu
, how much had her husband overheard?
Enough evidently, for Julian’s
eyes blazed with contempt and suspicion as he strode aggressively into the
room. Mercy fought back a shudder. As angry as she was at Julian, as much as
his presence unnerved her, her ravenous senses still thrilled at the sight of
him. Even full of anger and lethal purpose, he was still the most handsome, the
most masterful man she had ever laid eyes on—so dark, so vibrant with seething
masculinity. The distance between them only magnified her traitorous yearning.
He paused before Philippe.
“M’sieur Broussard, may I ask what you are doing here with my wife?”
Mercy had to give Philippe credit
for facing Julian unflinchingly. “M’sieur Devereux, I came to check on Mercy’s
welfare. At one time, she and I were betrothed, so I felt that was the least I
should do.”
Julian laughed scornfully. “Your
solicitude is most touching, but I am perfectly capable of looking out after my
own wife’s welfare. And I must make it clear that your presence in our home is
unwelcome.”
“Julian!” Rising to her feet,
Mercy felt compelled to speak. “Philippe came by to tell me he’s engaged.”
“Is he, indeed?” Julian drawled.
His blue gaze fixed on her in a chilling way that made her stomach jump.
“Doubtless he’ll marry his second choice now that he has determined that you
won’t abandon your vows and desert your husband.”
With a low, furious cry, Mercy bit
back her savage desire to retaliate. She knew that the things she must say to Julian
could not be spoken in front of Philippe. She turned to her guest with a
frozen, apologetic smile. “Philippe, I think it would be best if—”
“I understand,” he cut in. “Good
day, Mercy.” He inclined his head stiffly toward Julian. “M’sieur.” Drawing himself
up with dignity, he turned and left the room.
An explosive silence fell in the
wake of Philippe’s departure. Mercy and Julian glared at each other. With a
curse, he drew out a cheroot and lit it. Blowing out smoke, he asked cynically,
“So, did you enjoy your little tête-à-tête with your former fiancé?”
“Very much,” she replied with icy
hauteur.
His dangerous gaze flashed to
hers. “Is there anything you care to say before I throttle you?”
She laughed bitterly, not at all
daunted by his threat. “I think you’ll find that it’s most difficult to
throttle a wife you’re determined not to touch.” Feeling perversely pleased by
the flash of anger in his eyes, she tilted her chin. “And why should you care,
anyway? You’re a stranger in your own home. Furthermore, you’ve made it clear
that you’re totally indifferent to what I do or whom I see.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true, damn you! The
scullery maid knows more about your own wife’s activities than you do.” She
took a moment to gather her calm. “What are you doing home at this hour,
anyway?”
He shrugged. “Actually, at the
last minute André asked us to join him and his wife for dinner tonight. I came
by to see if you wanted to go.”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” she
mocked with an extravagantly derisive gesture. “We must keep up appearances,
n’est-ce
pas
? Another evening of empty pretense.”
“It also appears that I arrived in
the nick of time,” he added with contempt. “In fact, a few more minutes and I’m
sure you would have been packed and out the door with your darling M’sieur
Broussard.”
His baiting succeeded in bringing
ire to her eyes. “Julian, that’s not true. Philippe only came by to see if I’m
happy.”
“And are you happy,
chère
?”
he asked ironically.
“We both damned well know that I’m
not!”
“Then why didn’t you choose to
escape with your chivalrous knight while you had the chance?”
“Perhaps because I choose not to
run from the commitments of our marriage.”
“What do you mean by that
comment?” he demanded.
Her words spilled out with cutting
acrimony. “I mean that you’re one to chide me for receiving Philippe, when I
know you’re spending your every free moment in Justine Begué’s bed.”
“Mercy, that’s a lie,” he ground
out, taking a menacing step toward her.
“It’s true!” she cried, appalled
to feel a rush of tears. “I know you’re sleeping with her! You’re never home!
Why don’t you just admit it?”
“What kind of man do you think I
am, anyway?” he shouted back.
She bit back a sob. “I have no
idea what kind of man you are.”
They glared at each other in the
charged silence. Each privately knew Mercy had just cruelly referred to their
tormented past. She thought of trying to retract her hateful words, but soon
realized that there was nothing she could say that could possibly improve
things between them right now.
With a curse, Julian ground out
his cheroot in an ashtray. A vein jumped in his temple. “Perhaps if your
opinion of me is so low, then I should live up to your expectations.”
He stormed out of the room,
slamming the door explosively behind him.
***
Mercy stared after him, trembling.
Then she burst into a torrent of angry tears and collapsed onto the settee. She
was so caught up in her own wounded feelings that she didn’t see Henrí steal up
to the archway, where he stood watching her with a solemn frown . . .