Free Rogue's Mistress by Eugenia Riley

up in her at Julian’s arrogant words. You must secure his
cooperation, she reminded herself. You must . “M’sieur, I apologize,”
she forced herself to say evenly. “I know I have behaved recklessly, both today
at the school and tonight.”
    He regarded her dubiously. “That’s
eminently true.”
    “The fact of the matter is, I knew
the sisters never would have allowed me to come here. Still, I had to speak
with you. The situation is— despéré .”
    “Desperate?” he repeated.
Abruptly, he smiled, and his smile was frightening. “Ah, yes, the situation is
desperate.”
    Mercy swallowed hard, foreboding
prickling on her nerve endings.
    Julian strode to his desk and
picked up the decanter of brandy and his glass. “A drink, Mercy?” he asked
recklessly.
    She shook her head, baffled by the
strange and alarming state he was in.
    He turned to her. “So you’ve come
on behalf of young Broussard?”
    She nodded.
    “To beg me not to duel him?”
    She nodded again.
    “Certainly, you’ve not come on
behalf of me,” he added ironically.
    Her chin came up. “I don’t
understand, m’sieur. It’s well known that you’ve never been defeated on the
field of honor.”
    “So why worry?” he asked
insolently. “At any rate, it’s obvious that my death would hardly put you in a
decline.”
    Mercy bit her lip, feeling quite
ill-at-ease. “What is it you expect me to say?”
    “Ah, to hell with it,” he
muttered, downing his drink. He set down the glass and strode forward, his
bright, piercing gaze seeming to cut holes in her. “You’ve come on a mission of
mercy, then? Strange, coming from a creature who seems to have none in her
heart for me.”
    Mercy reeled at his words. “I—I
don’t know what you mean.”
    “Don’t you?” He continued toward
her, picking up a ball of crumpled parchment from the rug. He unfolded it
slowly, carefully, and handed it to her. “Is this what you came for, sweet
Mercy?”
    She scanned the letter quickly,
then looked up at him. “ Oui . But it is crumpled.” She forced a
forthright tone. “You must write it again.”
    Her imperious tone raked across
Julian’s strained nerves. “Write it again?” He lifted an eyebrow in feigned
amazement. “It is not satisfactory?” He bowed elaborately from the waist, then
took the parchment from her hand, ripped it into several dozen small pieces,
and let them flutter to the floor. “Happy now?”
    Mercy was barely able to contain
her urge to claw the mocking grin off his face. “Why did I even come here? As
always, you are an arrogant cad!”
    He whistled, feigning amazement.
“Not a very conciliatory attitude from one who has come to beg for mercy.”
    She drew a hard, seething breath.
“You would—kill Philippe—”
    Now he was angry, too, his hand
slashing the air. “No, damn it! Your precious suitor would kill me . He
is the one who issued the challenge, as you’re well aware.”
    Mercy fought back hot, stinging
tears. “You know you’ll kill him tomorrow. I overheard Sister Clarabelle saying
once that—that you’ve killed three men beneath the Oaks.”
    “Ah, yes, my formidable
reputation,” he said cynically. “’Julian the Terrible’.” He drew a step closer,
his gaze hard. “And you’re right, Mercy. I am terrible, and I likely
will kill Broussard tomorrow.” Even as she gasped in horror, he went on. “Why
have you come to me, then, fully aware of the blackened state of my heart? Why
not entreat young Broussard?”
    “Because he won’t back down,”
Mercy acknowledged miserably. “I know him. He just won’t.”
    “Indeed, it is a most serious
matter, an affaire d’honneur between two gentlemen.”
    “But you could stop it—”
    “Renege?” he asked in disbelief.
“And be publicly posted a coward? It simply is not done, dear Mercy.”
    She gestured in entreaty. “Then
send Philippe the note. Let the two of us marry. Pour l’amour de Dieu —why
are you being so stubborn about this?”
    He