Rogue's Mistress Read Online Free PDF Page B

terrified—beautiful, young,
helpless, burning alive with the fever, sobbing piteously in his arms. And
there had been nothing— nothing —Julian could do to save her.
    Genevieve’s passing had shattered
Julian’s youthful idealism forever . . .
    Afterward, he had gone through a
black period, for several years living the life of a rakehell. He’d gambled, womanized,
and even fought duels beneath the Oaks. He’d quickly gained the reputation of
“Julian the Terrible.” Indeed, a number of Belle New Orleans’s fairest sons had
actually crossed the street to avoid his path, for soon his hair-trigger temper
had become legendary.
    Then Julian’s existence as a
libertine had been brought up short when his father had suddenly died of a
heart attack, and Julian had been forced to manage the family’s cotton
commission exchange and supervise his mother’s affairs. A few months later, he
had spotted lovely Justine Begué at a quadroon ball on Chartres Street; at once
he’d been captivated by the beautiful octoroon. He’d installed her in a lavish
bungalow on the Ramparts, and they now had a son together, four-year-old
Arnaud.
    A proud light gleamed in Julian’s
eyes at the thought of his child. Ah, how he loved the boy. His son would lack
for nothing, ever; and when Arnaud became a man, Julian would see to it that he
walked among Creole society as a peer.
    As for Justine . . . He sighed,
his heart welling with tenderness toward her, and deep regret. At one time,
when he’d discovered Justine was pregnant, he’d even considered marrying her.
But here in New Orleans—alas, the die was cast. In the society in which he
lived, she could be his mistress—but never his wife. Marrying Justine would
have meant fleeing with her to France, away from the restrictive laws and
customs here. It would have meant turning his back on his family forever.
Indeed, when Julian had dared to broach the subject of marriage to Justine with
his mother, she had threatened never to speak to him again, and even Justine
had prevailed upon him to see reason.
    “Is there anything you need, maître ?”
a voice now called from the doorway.
    Julian turned to face Henrí. Over
past years, he had come to depend increasingly on the man—as coachman, personal
servant, and even as confidant. He and Henrí were about the same age, and
Julian had often mused that the incident at Sophie Delgado’s bordello nine
years ago had somehow bonded the two of them.
    “I’ll be needing the carriage
shortly, Henrí,” Julian replied. “It seems I’ve been summoned to St. Mary’s
School.”
    “I’ll bring the coach around at
once.”
    “Some nonsense about my ward,
Mercy O’Shea,” Julian continued conversationally. “I’ll swear, she’s as much
trouble at eighteen as she was at nine.”
    Henrí wisely did not comment
directly. Instead he said, “You do not see the girl much of late.”
    Julian’s eyes narrowed. “That’s
true. But then, she’s indifferent to my presence. She always has been.”
    “The young lady has become . . .
quite beautiful,” Henrí went on.
    “Quite,” Julian conceded
ironically.
    “It is good of you to provide for
her as you have, maître .”
    Julian laughed bitterly. “Now
those are words I’ll grant you’ll never hear from the young lady’s lips.” He
drew out his finely carved gold watch and flipped it open. “Shall we go?”
    ***
    Mercy O’Shea stood in the walled
garden before St. Mary’s Parish House, anxiously awaiting the arrival of
Philippe Broussard. Seeing him thus was forbidden—but then, Mercy delighted in
breaking the rules the Sisters of Charity had imposed on her at St. Mary’s
School.
    Standing next to a blooming
crabapple tree, Mercy prayed that she wouldn’t be spotted by nosy Mother Anise
or well-meaning Sister Clarabelle. She glanced toward the imposing French
Renaissance building beyond her. Noting that no one was about, she quickly
crossed herself and prayed that the nuns would remain