Rogue's Mistress (14 page)

The conversation was brisk but
dull, as far as Mercy was concerned. Mention was made of a rather mediocre
opera now playing at the Theater d’New Orleans. The small yellow fever epidemic
now breaking out in the Quarter was discussed in hushed tones.

M’sieur Townsend, who was in town
to buy cotton for his northern factory, discussed the political climate back
East. He had actually been present at the Washington Monument grounds last year
on the Fourth of July, when President Taylor had overindulged in food and
drink, and died of a violent stomach ailment several days later. “It was almost
enough to persuade one to give up rich food and strong drink,” Townsend said,
and everyone laughed. To the fun-loving Creoles, sumptuous foods and fine
spirits were the staff of life.

“Speaking of which,” M’sieur
Beaufort said with a proud grin, “I believe a toast is in order, to my partner
and his new fiancée.”

“Now, André,” Madelaine scolded in
scandalized tones, “you know we’re not making our announcement public until
next week.”

André waved her off. “We’re all
friends here, Madelaine.” Raising his glass, he added, “To Julian and Mercy.”

The others present politely raised
their glasses and repeated the toast; the crystal clinked and the wine was
consumed. Setting down her goblet, Mercy stared across at Julian, who was
studying her with a mocking smile. They had not exchanged a single word since
he’d made his outrageous remarks out at the gate, and she still seethed at his
audacity. How dare the big oaf criticize her clothing—after all, she was only
honoring the dictates of fashion. Even the nuns, who were the soul of
propriety, had found her frock delightful.

All too soon, it will be my
duty—and my pleasure—to tell you what
not
to wear
. Julian’s arrogant
promise still burned across her mind, and she restrained a shiver at the lewd
images his words evoked. She chided herself for ever feeling the slightest joy
at the thought of being with him tonight—the insufferable cad. So he wanted to
play the role of the jealous, possessive fiancé; indeed, he had practically
accused her of coquetry just because she had worn appropriate clothing. She
would find a way to exact revenge from him—and her revenge would be sweet.

As Charles Beaufort turned to her
with a basket of bread and said with adoring eyes, “Would mademoiselle care for
a roll?” the perfect retribution occurred to Mercy. Julian had accused her of
indiscretion—so let her be indiscreet, in the presence of everyone, when there
was
nothing
he could do about it. Moreover, if she made a complete fool
of him, perhaps his Creole pride would be affronted enough that he would call
off this absurd engagement.

She flashed Charles her most
dazzling smile and touched his hand. “Why, of course, m’sieur. You are so
gallant. And would you pour me more wine?”

“Certainly, mademoiselle.”
Flustered and blinking rapidly, Charles lurched forward and grabbed the
decanter with such clumsy abandon that he practically knocked over Madelaine
Devereux’s wineglass in the process. He stammered an apology to Madelaine, then
sloshed red wine into Mercy’s glass and grinned at her idiotically.

“Thank you, m’sieur,” she said,
winking at him coyly. “And now you must tell me all about your planned European
tour in the fall.”

Charles stumbled all over himself
as he told Mercy of his scheduled Grand Tour. Ignoring his graceless delivery,
Mercy leaned toward him and hung on his every word, occasionally touching his
arm or gazing raptly into his eyes.

Her blatant flirtation was not
lost on the others at the table—particularly Julian. He seethed with outrage as
he observed his fiancée playing the role of tease, fawning all over the
cloddish Charles Beaufort. He suspected that she was performing her brazen
little act deliberately—but she was definitely achieving her goal. He was a proud
man, and his fiancée was disgracing his manhood tonight.

Of course, he could retaliate in
kind, by encouraging Celeste Beaufort, who had been making overtures to him all
evening, blinking at him through her washed-out eyelashes and simpering at him
from behind her fan. But all he could think of was how wan the artless girl
waxed next to Mercy. Celeste was as pale and transparent as water; Mercy as
bright and vibrant as a flame. And that dress—that tantalizing, erotic splash
of emerald! All evening, the scandalous décolletage had been a constant source
of torment for his ravenous loins. And he could only imagine what the alluring
proximity of that low bodice was doing to Charles Beaufort, especially as Mercy
now laughed gaily and leaned toward him with an impudent dip of cleavage. With
great restraint, Julian managed not to bolt out of his chair, knock Beaufort
senseless, and drag Mercy off to be taught a lesson she would not soon forget.

“I say, Devereux, what do you
think the price of cotton will do this fall?”

As an impatient male voice
interrupted his musings, Julian glanced down the table at a scowling Robert
Townsend; the Easterner was now negotiating a contract with Julian’s firm to
supply cotton for his cloth factory.

“My pardon, m’sieur,” he responded
with a patient smile. “I think the price will hold steady at around
seventy-five dollars a bale.”

“I’ve heard that there’s been a
lot of flooding up in St. James Parish,” Townsend was continuing worriedly,
scratching his goateed chin. “If many of the crops are destroyed, the price
could skyrocket.”

“Which means it only makes more
sense for you to contract with us now,” Julian continued smoothly. Staring
pointedly at Mercy, he added in a loud voice that she could not possibly miss,
“For who knows? Perhaps the Mississippi
will
boil over before the end of
the season.”

At his words, a flutter of nervous
laughter drifted down the table. Afterward, everyone paused to wonder why
M’sieur Devereux and his fiancée were suddenly staring at each other with such
hot, scathing anger.

***

Silence prevailed inside Julian’s
couch as Henrí drove the threesome back toward the parish house. Even the
normally ebullient Madelaine had little to say as she sat with lips pursed and
fingers laced tightly together.

As soon as Henrí brought the
carriage to a halt, Julian alighted and grimly offered Mercy his hand. He was
looking forward to the few minutes it would take to escort her back to the
parish house—a few minutes he would make certain would be forever burned in her
memory.

Unfortunately, even as he helped
her out of the carriage, the gatekeeper, Old Hugo, ambled forth from the
conciergerie
.
“Good evening mademoiselle, m’sieur,” the elderly Creole said, bowing
respectfully. To Julian, he added, “Mother Anise instructed me to watch for
Mam’selle Mercy and escort her inside.”

Frustration churned inside Julian
at the old man’s words; he was blocked and he knew it. With as much grace as
possible, he handed Mercy over to the gatekeeper. “Good night, Mercy,” he said
in an ominous voice. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

“Good night, m’sieur,” she replied
cheerfully, dancing off in a swirl of skirts.

Julian ground his jaw and turned
back to the carriage.

***

When Mercy entered the parish house
a moment later, Mother Anise and Sister Clarabelle rushed up with eyes aglow.
“Did you have a good time, my dear?” Mother Anise asked.

Remembering Julian’s dark,
smoldering look as he left her, Mercy beamed with happiness. “I had a wonderful
time,” she said gaily.

***

“Your fiancée made a fool of you
tonight,” Madelaine said.

Julian glanced sharply at his
mother; she had uttered her damning words before the carriage had even rattled
off again. “Do tell, Mama. Frankly, I hadn’t noticed.”

“We were among friends tonight,”
Madelaine continued, ignoring her son’s flash of temper. “But you must take the
girl in hand. She’s a strong, willful young woman, and you must take care not
to break her spirit. Nevertheless, you cannot let her run wild. It is unthinkable
that she might disgrace you at our soirée at the St. Louis next week. You must
not allow her to do so.”

“Mama, I did not
allow
Mercy to do anything tonight.”

“That’s precisely my point. You’re
hardly in charge of your own fiancée.”

Julian did not reply. He knew his
mother was right, and he had no real defense to offer. As a man, he should be
in charge of his own fiancée, and he most definitely was not. If only the
gatekeeper hadn’t come forward at that critical moment, by now, he and Mercy
could have had their reckoning. Yet, to his fury and frustration, she had
escaped utterly unscathed.

Nevertheless, the girl had managed
a reprieve,
not
a pardon, he reminded himself with bitter purpose. Let
the little tease play her cat and mouse games; he would catch her at her own
ruse and exact a savage revenge.

And he would claim at least one
thorough, punishing kiss for each and every time the chit dared to call him
“m’sieur.”

***

At the convent later that night,
Mercy found sleep elusive. She realized she had actually enjoyed making Julian
jealous tonight and had taken a certain perverse pleasure in his
possessiveness. Yet she had also toyed with him like a small, reckless mouse
daring a large, powerful cat to pounce.

Was she suicidal?

Even more demoralizing, she realized
that she had spent the entire evening with Julian without even once thinking of
him as the man who had murdered her father. Nor had she indulged a split second
wishing she were still engaged to Philippe Broussard.

These realizations frightened her
more than Julian Devereux himself.

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The following days afforded Julian
little opportunity to be alone with Mercy. The two of them went out several
more times at the invitation of young couples he knew. Mercy’s new maid, Risa,
a pretty, soft-spoken girl of seventeen, rode with them each time to honor the
dictates of propriety.

Julian and Mercy went to the opera
with Francois and Andréa Ravel, and attended a lecture on the Far East with
Claude and Charity La Ronde. Mercy acted curiously well-behaved and modest on
all occasions—even when they went for an intimate dinner at the Napoleon House
with Julian’s best friend, Nicholas Bienville, and his vivacious little
fiancée, Honoree Rossini. Bienville, a notorious rake, stared at Mercy
blatantly throughout dinner, yet she seemed immune to his charms. Nevertheless,
Julian exchanged some heated words with Nicholas when the men went out to the
courtyard for cigars, and the two “friends” quite nearly engaged in an
impromptu duel.

Actually, though Julian did not
know it, Mercy was behaving herself for a reason. She had a feeling that if she
played the coquette too often, Julian would move in quickly to curtail her fun.
Indeed, she was well aware that only Old Hugo’s intervention had saved her from
savage retribution at Julian’s hands on the night of the Beaufort dinner party.
She would not soon forget the smoldering look in his eye when he had
reluctantly released her, after she had made such a fool of him at dinner.
Considering his proud, volatile nature, she reasoned that she would be lucky to
escape unscathed one additional time—if at all! Accordingly, she decided that
she must bide her time and play her hand to optimum advantage.

Which meant she would need to
disgrace Julian at the worst possible moment, at the ball his mother was giving
to announce their betrothal. If she made a fool of him at his own engagement
party, he’d surely have no choice but to call off the wedding, she decided
vengefully.

This thought was very much on
Mercy’s mind on the night of the ball itself, as she dressed at the parish
house. She was assisted by Risa, as well as by Madelaine Devereux, who had
insisted on coming by to supervise Mercy’s preparations. The nuns had tactfully
withdrawn, rather than try to add their presence to the already crowded room.

Wearing just her undergarments and
a loose wrapper, Mercy sat on a straight chair before the pier mirror, with Risa
standing behind her and arranging her coiffure with brush and curling iron.
Madelaine, wearing a regal ball gown of coral silk, stood next to the girl,
observing with a frown.

“No, Risa, do not pile any curls
on top of mam’selle’s head,” Madelaine directed. “Mam’selle’s face is
long—really, of perfect proportions—but we do not need to accentuate the
effect. Kindly pull her hair away from her face and let the curls trail down
her nape. And, mind you, leave a small curl free to dangle by each ear.”

“Yes’um,” Risa said obediently,
following the imperious instructions diligently.

Mercy slanted the slave a
compassionate smile; she liked the shy, respectful girl greatly. Then,
observing Madelaine Devereux’s intent expression, Mercy twisted her fingers
together nervously. How would the socially prominent widow feel when her future
daughter-in-law ruined her soirée by disgracing both mother and son?

Guilt churned inside Mercy. She
certainly bore Madelaine no ill will, yet she was about to cause the woman no
small amount of embarrassment and perhaps even genuine anguish. But neither was
she willing to let Julian take complete charge of her life this way. If
Madelaine got caught in the middle, then that was strictly Julian’s fault for
trying to force this marriage on her in the first place.

When Mercy’s coiffure was
completed, Risa laced a spray of pale pink camellia blossoms over one ear as a
finishing touch. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Mercy realized that
Madelaine had been right—she did look better with her hair more simply styled,
and the small curls near her ears were a definite seductive touch—though not
for the role Madelaine had in mind, Mercy was sure.

Since Creole women often wore
light makeup, Risa worked subtle amounts of rouge into Mercy’s cheeks,
following up with a finishing coat of rice powder. Both women then helped Mercy
don her corset, her many petticoats, and her ball gown—a stunning vision
fashioned of sapphire-blue satin. Once all the gleaming folds were in place,
Madelaine stood back slightly, admiring the girl.

“You look fabulous, darling,” she
murmured. “No wonder my son is so taken with you.”

“Thank you, madame,” Mercy said,
her eyes meeting Madelaine’s briefly. Feeling a new stab of guilt over her
planned treason, she tore her gaze away and studied the striking gown. The
frock was divine, the low bodice and gathered sleeves edged with delicate white
lace, the full skirt embellished by dramatic scallops which revealed a
sumptuous white lace underskirt.

“Is something wrong, Mercy?” Madelaine
asked.

Mercy’s head shot up. “Why would
anything be wrong?”

Madelaine smiled kindly, stepping
forward to adjust the angle of a curl. “It’s just that you look rather
anxious.”

Did she ever—and Madelaine could
not possibly know why! “Well, madame, it is my first time to appear in
society—at least, on an occasion of this magnitude,” Mercy hedged.

“You’ll perform brilliantly, I
assure you,” Madelaine replied with a wave of a slim hand.

Ah, yes, she would perform
brilliantly, Mercy mused. But it would hardly be the type of performance Madame
Devereux had in mind.

“I wanted to bring over
Grand’mère’s sapphire necklace for you to wear tonight,” Madelaine continued
with a small frown, “but Julian vetoed my plan. I can’t imagine why.”

Mercy could. Indeed, she inwardly
seethed as she thought,
Because the scoundrel doesn’t think I’m deserving of
your family’s jewelry
. With great effort, she managed not to blurt out the
words—but this new evidence of Julian’s callousness only reaffirmed her
vindictive purpose.

“Will Julian be coming to get us
soon?” Mercy asked Madelaine casually, fingering a fold of her luscious satin
skirt.

“Ah, no, dear,” Madelaine replied
awkwardly. “Since I wanted to come over and assist you, Julian is taking my
place as host at the St. Louis, to greet any early arriving guests. My escort
for the evening, M’sieur Townsend, will arrive here shortly to fetch us both to
the festivities.”

At this pronouncement, a
treasonous disappointment rose in Mercy, quickly squashed by a surge of anger.
So the insensitive cad wasn’t even escorting his own fiancée to her engagement
party. Add another nail to Julian Devereux’s coffin, she decided grimly.

***

Half an hour later, M’sieur
Townsend was striding past the columned, gaslit portico of the St. Louis Hotel
with Mercy on one arm and Madelaine on the other. Madelaine and the dark-haired
Robert were laughing over some bit of gossip.

Townsend was an entertaining
escort, Mercy had to admit; he had enthralled her and Madelaine during the
drive by describing the new Park Row shopping district in New York City and
telling them all about the latest Paris fashions displayed there. As the owner
of an eastern cloth factory, Townsend was well educated on all the newest
styles. Indeed, he had raved over the fine fabrics and exquisite detailing of
the women’s ball gowns, to the delight of both. Now, as Madelaine made a gay
remark to Townsend concerning the mild weather, Mercy suspected that the widow
was more than idly interested in this slim, middle-aged bachelor with his warm
gray eyes and elegant goatee.

Inside the posh hotel, the
threesome proceeded straight to the rotunda, which was the site of both slave
auctions during the day and society affairs at night, particularly subscription
balls. At the edge of the enormous circular salon, Mercy thanked M’sieur
Townsend for his escort and stood for a moment gaining her bearings.

The huge salon was spectacular,
the walls composed of tall, magnificent archways and enormous fluted columns
which towered up to the high round ceiling with its Italian textured panels and
breathtaking domed skylight. On one side of the room, a fabulous buffet was
laid out on linen-draped tables; white-gloved manservants waited behind the
silver chafing dishes. The scent of hot fish, fresh bread, and spicy Creole
sauces filled the air. On the other side of the room, a small orchestra was
warming up on a dais, the wiry little conductor rapping his baton impatiently
in a heated exchange with the head violinist. Flowers were everywhere—sprays of
fragrant gardenias gracing the pillars, giant magnolia blossoms swimming in
crystal bowls on the tables. Chairs were arranged around the walls to offer
respite for the weary, while the center of the large room was left free for
dancing.

No guests had arrived as yet,
Mercy noted. She frowned. Where was—

“A lady as lovely as you should
not be left alone.”

At the sound of this commanding,
familiar voice, Mercy whirled to see her fiancé standing beside her. Her heart
fluttered wildly, and then seemed to jump into her throat.
Mon Dieu
,
Julian was such a handsome devil! Tonight he was formally dressed in a black
tailcoat and matching trousers, his shirt, vest, and cravat of snowy white
linen and silk. His black hair gleamed in the resplendence of the gaslights,
and his blue eyes had never looked more brilliant or compelling. His fresh
scent filled her senses, turning her mind into a jumbled haze and her fine
plans into violent disarray. Suddenly, just breathing was a struggle.

Luckily, Julian stepped forward to
fill the gap. “You look beautiful tonight, Mercy,” he said sincerely, eyeing
her in a direct, appreciative way that made her heart pound even more fiercely.

Then, worse torture, he took her
gloved hand in his and lightly brushed the back with his mouth. Even through
the lace fabric, a delicious burning shot through her at the merest touch of
his lips, and, as his solemn eyes met hers, she felt as if a flame had just
seared her innermost parts.

“Thank you, Julian,” she somehow
managed. “You look fine yourself tonight.”

“I’m sorry I was not able to come
fetch you,” he continued, at last releasing her hand. “But Mama prevailed upon
me to fill in as host until she arrived.”

His words pulled her from her
stupor, reminding her of her avowed purpose. Ignoring the fact that her hand
still seemed to burn where his lips had brushed her, she said recklessly, “It
is no tragedy, I can assure you. Actually, M’sieur Townsend was a lively escort
for your mother and me.”

Julian grinned. “Perhaps I should
feel jealous?”

“Jealous?” she countered
flippantly. “Of M’sieur Townsend? Actually, I think he has his eye on your
mama—and vice versa.”

Julian raised an eyebrow at that.
“I’m pleased to hear of it—although I’d be reluctant to lose Mama to an
Easterner.”

Mercy waved him off. “He’s rich as
Midas. But then—so are you,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Is that why you’re marrying me?”
he teased, moving closer.

“We both know quite well why I’m
marrying you!” she snapped, fighting her own appalling response to his charm
and nearness. “And it isn’t by my choice.”

He sighed. “Mercy, may we have a
word alone, outside?”

“Outside?” At once, she felt
intensely flustered.

But Julian was already grasping
her hand and leading her toward the back of the salon. “We’ll just have a
little chat out on the veranda,” he said firmly. “ ’Twill be quite proper,
you’ll see.”

Julian led her through an archway,
then they paused on the shadowy veranda which adjoined the courtyard area of
the hotel. Mercy noted that the courtyard beyond was enchanting, filled with
perfumed greenery and a tinkling fountain. The looming walls surrounding the
patio afforded a feeling of intimacy. Softly glowing gaslights cast a dappled
glow on the scene, and high balconies with iron railings offered the hotel
guests a view of the lushness below.

Mercy realized that Julian was
staring at her. She managed to meet his gaze evenly. “Why did you bring me out
here?”

He drew an oblong velvet box from
his breast pocket, handing it to her. “I brought this for you to wear tonight.
”

Pleasantly surprised, Mercy opened
the box. She gasped as she glimpsed a fabulous necklace of gold-capped
sapphires. She knew at once that this extravagant piece was worth a small
fortune. So that’s why Julian had insisted that his mother bring her no
jewelry!

She stared up at him in awe. “This
was your grandmother’s?”

“
Non
.” The word in French
rolled off his tongue like the silkiest caress. “I bought it for you.”

“You bought it for me? But why?”
she asked in a stunned voice.

“To celebrate this occasion.” His
smile grew devastatingly intimate. “And because you’ve been behaving yourself
lately.”

“I beg your pardon?” she managed
over her thundering heart.

Julian touched the delicate curl
at one ear; unwittingly, she shivered. “Didn’t I tell you that I’d buy you a
bauble or two if you could so persuade me? Well, your modest conduct over the
past week has persuaded me.”

Charmed by his words despite
herself, Mercy stared down at the spectacular necklace through the sudden sting
of tears. The last thing she had expected was for Julian to be kind to her
tonight—and his solicitude was now devastating to her resolve. After all, she’d
only been behaving herself lately to get him to lower his defenses, so she
could play her trump card.

Julian was holding the glittering
chain in one hand. He caught Mercy’s chin between the fingertips of the other
hand and spoke with an intensity that was equally unnerving. “I wanted to bring
you something new tonight, Mercy, not something from the past. And I did so
because I was hoping that we can put the past aside tonight, once and for all,
and go forward from here. Would that be so difficult,
chère
?”