My Immortal (15 page)

“Let me get you a towel.”

“Thank you. I’m starting to shrivel.” Marley was contemplating how courageous she actually was. That orgasm had bolstered her, made her feel less self-conscious, but she wasn’t sure she could just stand up naked and climb out of the deep tub. That required lifting her leg a good bit higher than could possibly be attractive.

Damien opened one of the walnut built-in cabinets and removed a thick, fluffy towel and a terry cloth robe.

“This is a beautiful bathroom. It’s like a spa in here.”

“Complete with towel boy.” He gave her a little bow and held the oversized buff-colored towel out to her.

Marley stood up and quickly grabbed the towel and wrapped herself in it so he couldn’t see any personal parts. “You do that well, the bowing. I had no idea you could look so deferential. Or maybe it’s more…lordly.”

He bowed again, with a huge arm flourish. “If I can be of further assistance, I am yours to command, Mademoiselle. Otherwise, I will bid you
bonne nuit
.”

That knocked the grin off her face as she struggled to slip the robe on over the towel. “You’re leaving? You’re not…”
Going to put it in?
was what she was thinking, but there was no way to say that without sounding tacky.

Damien shook his head. “No. Not tonight. That was all you needed.”

She finally got the robe belted and yanked the towel out from the bottom, dragging it through the water before dropping it on the floor. “Oh.” His frankness embarrassed her, but she also knew immediately he was right. She couldn’t have handled any more at the moment. Sex would have been too intimate, too reaching, too emotional.

“Thank you.”

“Pas de quoi.”
Damien took her hand and kissed the back of it.

“You’re feeling very French tonight.”

“Oui.”

She laughed. “Do you really speak fluent French or are you just trying to impress me?”

“I learned French before English.”

Marley stepped out of the tub, taking the hand that Damien offered to assist her. “You’ll have to speak French sometime and make me swoon.”

“Voulez-vous couchez avec moi?”

“Very funny.” She rolled her eyes for effect, but his playfulness pleased her. It made her feel more comfortable with what he had just seen, what he had just done to her.

Damien laughed. “You seem to be the only person who ever finds me amusing.”

Marley was touched by that and not sure why. But something about him spoke to her, went to places inside her soul he shouldn’t, and she knew she was already slipping, already forgetting that she had to stay disconnected, that this was about freedom, not emotional entanglement.

“Maybe they don’t see what I see.” She lightly touched his chest, knowing she was too late. Just looking at him made her feel all gooey inside, an emotional hot fudge sundae.

His smile disappeared. He looked alarmed, and he grabbed her hand, pulled it down and away from him. “Or maybe you see what isn’t there. Don’t do it, Marley. Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Feel sorry for me. Develop feelings for me. I can’t return them.”

She hadn’t meant to go there, didn’t want to ruin the evening by getting deep, but she couldn’t resist asking, “Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Can’t.”

It wasn’t a surprise, but it still pricked. “Okay. Duly noted. Now you can rest easy that I know the score. Whatever I do from here on out is with my eyes wide open.”

Her assurances sounded defensive and she knew it.

Damien sighed. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

The words sliced and burned, humiliated her. She was not some grasping, needy woman. She wasn’t an obsessive stalker type imagining elaborate relationships that weren’t there. Just because she liked him, and wanted to sleep with him, did not make her a risk to his perfectly structured world of superficial hedonism.

“Just leave, Damien. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Marley turned, scooping up the towel, staring hard at the tile floor as she tried to collect herself.

“I’ve upset you.”

Um, hello? Give the man a gold star. “No, you’ve annoyed me, so go before I say something I’ll truly regret.”

He opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it, which was a smart move on his part. If he said something stupid, she would be tempted to stuff the towel in his trap.

Instead, he just turned and left, closing the door softly behind him.

Marley sat on the edge of the tub and sighed.

Why did it feel like in trying to find her sister, she was slowly losing herself?

Rosa was sitting on his couch when Damien got back to the
pigeonnier
, angry with himself, frustrated with his body for wanting Marley, for throbbing and pulsing with the need to take her. And he was frightened, scared at the look he had seen in Marley’s eyes, and even more terrified by the way he had wanted it there, how he had felt a strange tremor of an echoing feeling in his own chest.

That was an absolute catastrophe.

He glared at Rosa, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, watching a DVD on his portable player. “Go away. I need you here tonight like a fucking hole in my head.”

“Nice hard-on.” She glanced at his jeans. “Why do you torture yourself like this? I could hear her moaning from fifty feet away but you don’t allow yourself to participate? You need counseling. You’re going to burst or something.”

He did feel like with one false move his entire body might explode, but so far he had a lid on it. The body he could handle, the heart he wasn’t so damn sure about. “Then you’d better leave. You don’t want to get hit when I go off.”

Tossing the DVD player aside, Rosa stood up. She was wearing shorts and a blazer and she actually looked worried about him. If Damien didn’t hate her for the lying, conniving demon she was, he’d be touched by her concern.

“Stop this, Damien. You’re going to make yourself insane. Just let me help you.” Her hand skimmed over his thigh.

“Help me how?” He knew what she meant and he was too exasperated to dance around it. “You think we should have sex? I think you say that about once a month.”

“And you always say no, which is stupid. Come on, we know each other inside and out, and I can just take the edge off for you.”

“What you want is to control me.”

“So what’s wrong with that?” She smirked at him.

Damien suddenly wanted to yank that smugness off her face. “Fine. You want to help me out, you can go down on me. That would be a huge help and I really appreciate the offer.”

Her jaw dropped. “You want me to give you head?”

“Yes.” He moved to undo his jeans, taking a sick delight in the confusion and alarm on her face. “You’re better than nothing, and like you said, we do know each other well.”

She pulled away and made a face at him. “Oh, gee, thanks, that’s real flattering. Forget it. I’m not going to do it if you have that kind of an attitude.”

He’d thought so. Damien felt a certain smugness of his own. If Rosa wanted to play games, he could play them right back.

“Go ask Marley to do it, I’m sure she’d jump at the chance. She’s totally hot for you.”

That ruined his triumph at besting Rosa. “Leave Marley alone,” he said through gritted teeth.

Rosa stared at him, then burst out laughing. “Oh, this is too precious. You’ve fallen for her, haven’t you?”

It was hard to shrug casually when his heart was pounding and he had broken out in a sweat. He refused to fall for Marley. He absolutely would not allow it. “Don’t be ridiculous. We both know I’m immune to selfless feelings.”

“That’s true,” she said cheerfully. “You are pretty much a gigantic bastard. I like that side of you better than this weird self-flagellating Damien you’ve turned into. I admit, when I met you, I thought you could use a good smack of humility, but I never wanted you to become a boring exercise in self-restraint. You’re like a poster child for suffering. The father doesn’t like it.”

Damien clenched his fists. “I’m doing what I was told to do. I create an environment of sin for others. Women take their clothes off for me. That’s all I agreed to do, and that’s all he’s getting from me.”

Rosa crossed her arms and stared at the wall, at his painting of
The Punishment of Lust
. “And every time you thumb your nose at the Grigori, every time you stand up in defiance and refuse to accept what you are, I get a stripe on my back for the mistake I made.”

Damien felt the blood drain from his face. She couldn’t be saying what he thought she was. “What do you mean?” He was hoping he was wrong, very wrong in how he was interpreting her statement.

But Rosa turned to him, her chin lifted defiantly. “I mean I get beaten when you disobey. I am the one who made you, you are my mistake, and I’m not allowed to forget that.”

The guilt dropped onto his already heavy burden and Damien felt sick, his hand shaking, his gut twisted and gnarled as he realized how truly vile he was and how much pain he had caused in his lifetime.

“Rosa…I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

She bristled. “I don’t need your pity, any more than you want mine. It’s the way it is, and it’s the way it always will be until you accept who and what you are.”

That was what he was afraid of, his biggest fear. That someday he wouldn’t be able to fight, to resist, to bear the burden any longer, and he would give in to what he was, what he had become. “Why don’t I get punished? I’ve never even met your father, and he’s definitely never punished me.”

“How do you know?” she asked, grabbing her beaded purse off the sofa and sticking her hand through the circular handle. “You don’t know anything.”

“Explain it to me. Let me understand so I can help you.” He’d never liked Rosa, but sometimes he suspected that was because they were so very alike. And he didn’t want Rosa to take any more punishment on his behalf. Hiding behind a woman’s skirts was cowardly, and while he was a bastard, he wasn’t a coward.

“Oh, fuck off, Damien. I don’t need your help.” She whirled around and stomped toward the door. As she blew past his desk, the wastebasket erupted into flames. The white ceramic bowl he dropped his keys into went spiraling off the end table and crashed on the wood floor. And as she passed through the front door, a crack of lightning illuminated the yard as punctuation to her anger.

Damien poured water on his wastebasket and marveled at how quickly his evening had gone downhill.

He’d offended Marley and pissed off Rosa. Two for two. He wasn’t just a bastard, he was an accomplished bastard.

Raucous laughter filled the room. Damien glanced over at the movie Rosa had been watching on his DVD player.
Dangerous Liaisons
. That was ironic.

Rosa flew across the yard, angry tears blurring her vision. She had always had a fondness for Damien, had always been bothered by the fact that he didn’t take what she offered so freely. But she had shrugged that off.

Pity could not be disregarded. She didn’t want him to feel sorry for her, ever. That look he’d given her had changed her mind. She had been about to tell him the truth, that her father’s plan to punish Damien was already in play. That it involved Marley and her sister, the very stupid and slutty blonde Rosa had met back at the beginning of the summer.

Rosa had been planning to warn Damien, risk herself yet again for him, but now she hoped he’d choke on his pity. He had never appreciated her enough, and now he was going to pay for that serious error in judgment.

Within a matter of a few short weeks, I was with child again. We celebrated that fact with an excess of wine, food, and conduct inappropriate for the dining room. But as we were alone, and the walnut table was so very large, Damien didn’t see that it mattered ever so much.

I was inclined to agree, as I would have agreed with nearly any suggestion of his during that time. I was drunk on his attention, giddy with anticipation, heady with the freedom of loosening all my moral and personal constraints and embracing my lust. I reveled in pleasure, morning, noon, and night. I could not get enough of Damien, and could be coaxed by him into all manner of misconduct. He could tug me out onto the balcony of his bedchamber sans clothing, tease up my skirt in the drawing room midday, bend me over the bed for a hearty good-morning, disrupt my bath with soapy, helpful hands. I allowed it, liked it all.

It is astonishing to me how quickly I was altered, how attention from my husband and exploration of our mutual physical fulfillment could arouse such pride, such vanity, such haughty self-assurance. I was a different woman than I had been when I married Damien—now I was triumphant,
quite pleased with myself, with my husband, with my place in the world.

We were entertaining again as well, and I gloried in it, smiling and reveling in all the comments on how my looks were much improved, and the felicitations for my renewed health. For the first time since my arrival in New Orleans, I sensed jealousy from some of the women, and it thrilled me. I was proud, pleased, feverish, my sensual joy bounding up and spilling out of me in laughter and dancing, my conversations with the ladies verbal sparring matches that I often won. For the first time I partook of the gossip, delivered my own barbs and sallies, and enjoyed the admiration I received for my cruel wit.

It seems now almost as if I took on my husband’s personality as my own, that his attentions overtook me, consumed me, infected me with his moral flaws. Or perhaps he merely drew out whatever defects a quiet life in the convent school had hidden. It certainly did not take much for me to embrace passion and to become infected with the petty feelings of envy, jealousy, and loathing.

At one of our dinner parties during this period in our marriage, I slipped into the hall to confer with the cook and stumbled across Damien and Mademoiselle Delerue, her hand on his chest, her mouth close to his as she giggled. Damien looked over at me, a smile on his face, his eyebrow rising. His expression looked bemused, as if he had found himself cornered by the enterprising miss and hadn’t yet managed to extract himself.

He didn’t look guilty of an indiscretion and he was not embracing her in return. All anger and disgust I felt was directed at her, and yes, at myself. Had I been a better wife, I would have dissuaded this type of behavior long ago. But my inattention had practically invited other women to try their hand at dalliance with Damien.

“Oh,” she said with a giggle. “Madame du Bourg. Your
husband was just kind enough to show me the ancestral portraits.”

“Those are upstairs,” I said flatly, overcome by the sudden urge to yank every last one of her golden curls from her youthful and stupid head. “A part of this house you shall never see.”

“Well.” She sniffed a little, her white silk gown rustling as she drew back. “How ungenerous of you.”

“Perhaps. But I don’t share well with others, so if you would kindly keep your interest fixed on what’s occurring in my drawing room, I would be much obliged.”

She did not even pretend to misunderstand. “Oh, what do you care? The servants talk and we all know you don’t even have a relationship with your husband.”

Clearly, her information was old, dating back from the time after I had lost my first child. How dare she imply Damien didn’t desire me? Anger made me indiscreet. “Apparently your servants should not serve as spies, as their information is simply inaccurate. If you disbelieve me, my husband and I would be happy to give you a demonstration of our relationship right here.”

She gasped, and Damien let out a loud laugh. Mademoiselle Delerue lifted her chin. “You are vulgar and I refuse to listen to this anymore.”

“Then keep your designs and flirtations away from my husband, and I will not have to offend you with my vulgarity any longer.”

She made a miffed sound through her nose and returned to the drawing room.

Damien grinned at me, putting his arm around my waist. “You are quite commanding when you wish to be. I find it highly arousing.”

I pretended to show disdain. “Really, you find everything arousing, so this is hardly a compliment.”

He nuzzled my ear, starting a slow burn that burst into
flames inside my body. “I find everything about you arousing, wife, and if you want compliments, steal away to the music room with me for a few minutes and I shall compliment you profusely from your head to your toes.”

“They’ll notice we’re gone!” I protested, while secretly thinking it was rather a marvelous idea. It was always pleasant to know that Damien desired me, that he could not resist me even during a dinner party, that he no longer had to seek out women such as Rosa of the red dress for his gratification. I, his wife, could be everything he required.

“Not for five minutes. They’ll never miss us. Come now, you can be commanding, ordering me about, and I shall shower you with pretty words of devotion.”

“You are shameful,” I said, with so little censure that I was already smiling, and kissing him in return.

“Absolutely. Never doubt that.”

He pulled me to the music room and I confess I followed most eagerly, assisting him most obligingly by lifting my skirts before bracing my hands on the pianoforte.

Mademoiselle Delerue is a conniving young thing, no better than she should be, and I was certain she had cornered Damien largely against his will. Yet the same could not be said for our scullery maid.

I was walking along the path that cut between the kitchen and the house, inhaling the thick, heavy scents of baking bread and jasmine. The air was humid and I felt warm, but not unpleasantly so. The cruel heat of August had given way to September, and I was inclined to forgive the climate its vagaries for once.

When I turned the corner and came into the back garden, my contentment fled. Damien and the fleshy maid were in an embrace, her cap askew, her dress down around her waist, showing plump, heavy breasts. Damien’s mouth was on one, suckling, his hand grinding into her bottom.

Anger such as I’d never experienced before exploded in
me, shattering like a champagne flute tossed on a stone floor. “Forgive the intrusion,” I said in a shrill voice.

The maid jerked back, cheeks flushing. “Oh, Madame…oh.”

I stepped forward, and without thought, without hesitation, I struck my hand across her cheek, slapping her soundly for her insolence. She let out a startled cry and stumbled backward, hand on her cheek, eyes pooling with tears, bosom bouncing in her tawdry half-dressed state. I felt no sympathy, no remorse.

“Get back to the kitchen. If I ever see you with my husband again, I’ll turn you out and you’ll be forced to hawk yourself on the streets of New Orleans.”

With increased sobbing, she turned and ran up the path, fussing to fix her dress as she went.

Damien wiped his bottom lip. “That was rather harsh, my love.”

“Do not speak to me.” I whirled, intent on going back to the house, my fury forcing tears into my own eyes. I had foolishly thought that since Damien and I had entered this new period in our marriage, he had been content with me. That he enjoyed my attentions and needed no other. I thought, perhaps, even that he and I were starting to care for one another. That we laughed together and chatted together and shared great pleasure together and that it meant something. That we were husband and wife, together.

Now he had taken that notion and spat on it.

Damien caught me by the elbow. “Do not tell me you are jealous. That was nothing, Marie, it meant nothing. She is such an ugly plump thing, I felt sorry for her.”

I drew up short. “There are other ways to show compassion for one you pity!”

To my mortification, the tears were escaping and rushing down my cheeks. Damien wiped my face and tried to kiss
me. I raised my hand to slap him away, irrational and volatile. He of course simply grabbed my hand and held it.

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Yes, I do.” I yanked my hand hard, struggling to free it, my slippers sliding on the bricks, unbalancing me.

Damien grabbed me to prevent a fall. “Don’t be angry. She is nothing, but you, you are my wife.”

I struggled, but he merely held me tighter, his embrace strong, his will unbendable. “Listen to me. You have my name, my heir, and I believe, a piece of my heart. She is nothing, while you are everything.”

Then he was kissing me and I let him. Do you understand? I let him. I heard his words, reveled in their meaning, embraced them and their implications with greedy, defiant selfishness. Desperately I wanted to believe him, to feel secure in my position, his affection. I felt his touch, welcomed it, and my anger blended with passion as he kissed me. But my haughty pride, so very much increased of late, still stinging from the sight of the unattractive maid, compelled me to fan the flames of our argument by attempting to jerk back once more.

I believe I knew what I was doing. I believe a certain small part of me knew he would not let me go, and I wanted that confirmation. I wanted him to fight for me, to feel the anger that I did.

He didn’t disappoint. Damien held on, tighter, and walked me backward, almost shoving, until my back hit the wall of the house. His hand went in my hair and he kissed me harshly, fervently, hotly, and his fingers curled around the careful arrangement Gigi had created. With rough yanks and tugs, he disassembled the coiffure while his mouth raced over my neck. I leaned against the wall, assaulted with my own desire, my own eagerness.

“My wife,” he said, looking into my eyes as he tore down the front of my gown. “My Marie.”

My head was smacking into the house, my breasts
pinched from the gown, my leg twisted awkwardly on the bricks, and Damien’s touches were rough, demanding, his kisses deep and smothering. But it excited me, aroused me, heightened my awareness of each touch, left no time to recover before the next kiss or suckle or pinch assaulted my senses.

When he lifted my skirt, shifted aside my pantaloons, and surged into me, I welcomed his roughness, enjoyed his possessive pounding.

“I own you,” he said, thrusting me against the wall, my shoulders scraping and my head colliding with the solid structure. I cared not. I was tight and tense with pleasure, consumed by him, of him, for him.

“And you own me, Marie. Never forget that. I am yours.”

I reached my peak as his hot seed exploded inside of me, our bodies, our lives, sinfully and passionately entwined.

That night I awoke with the moon high and my linens soaked with blood.

Marley spent the day wandering around the French Quarter, taking a walking tour of St. Louis Cemetery #1, browsing antiques, and snapping pictures in Jackson Square after grabbing a trio of beignets at Café du Monde. She hadn’t planned the day out, but when she’d woken up, she knew she had to get away from Damien, or more accurately, away from her own feelings about him.

He had warned her not to fall for him, but the ugly reality was that Marley was sure she already had. If he could only see his face when he talked about his wife, about his home, his parents, the way he hid the pain in his eyes with a careless smile, he would understand how it had happened. She looked at him and she wanted to soothe him, to hold him, fix him, make him see that the rewards of love were worth the risk of being hurt.

She was the hopeless optimist, he was the jaded cynic.

Not a good combination, but an obvious one.

Staring through a window at a display of elaborate Mardi Gras masks, Marley marveled at the intricacy of the feathers, the beading, the rich and vibrant colors. They were beautiful, extravagant, expensive. All designed to hide your face, to allow the wearer to become someone else for a few hours, to say and do anything without regard for the consequences.

Her cell phone rang in her purse, and Marley reached for it, hoping it was her cousin Rachel. The number on the phone was a local number, so she flipped it open, steeling herself for an uncomfortable conversation with Damien. “Hello?”

“Hey, Mar! What’s up?”

“Lizzie?” Marley gripped the phone tighter, her heart dropping into her stomach. “Are you alright?”

“Of course I’m alright, why wouldn’t I be?”

Her sister sounded puzzled, and Marley’s overwhelming relief quickly gave way to frustration. All this time, all this fear made ridiculous with one careless sentence from her thoughtless sister. “No one knew where you were. Have you called Rachel? We were worried about you.”