My Immortal (7 page)

He dropped her sandals on the floor. Then he turned and pulled something out of the armoire. The room was dark, the only light the moonlight flooding in from the tall windows. A breeze danced over her, warm and humid.

Damien unfolded a sheet by snapping it crisply in the air, then letting it float down over her. “Close your eyes, Marley. Go to sleep.”

“You want me to go to sleep?” That didn’t make any sense to her, and she shoved the sheet aside. It was too hot for that anyway.

“Yes,
ma cherie
, go to sleep.”

“Oooh, is that French? Are you French, Damien? That’s sexy.” She lay on her back, resting her hands on her stomach. She’d forgotten she was wearing the bikini. She should be embarrassed—she could only imagine how huge her thighs looked smashed down and spread out—but she felt too languid, too relaxed to care.

“Technically I’m Creole, of French descent. But you’re not closing your eyes.”

“If I close my eyes, will you make love to me?” Marley was a little startled that her thoughts came out as actual words, but it was what she wanted after all. Damien was so appealing and she was so aroused.

But he shook his head. “I cannot. It wouldn’t be right.” He stood at the bottom of the bed, arms crossed over his chest.

The rejection hurt her feelings, felt like a slap to her dignity, her femininity. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked…you have all these women to choose from…why would you choose me?” And when the tears dribbled out of her eyes, she didn’t bother to wipe them, just let them cascade down her cheeks in fat, quick drops.

It hurt. Everything hurt. No one loved her, Marley. They only loved what she did for them, loved that she was their housekeeper, cleaning up after them. Her mother, her father—who buried his head in the sand—Lizzie. No one cared about Marley except for how she cared about them.

“Oh, but I would choose you. I would choose you above any other woman.” Damien climbed onto the bed, moving alongside her as the mattress adjusted to his weight, propping his head up with his arm. “But you’re flying high on drugs right now and I will not take advantage of that. You would regret sleeping with me tomorrow.”

Marley didn’t think she would regret that, honestly. Not when she felt the way she did, hot and bothered and fizzy inside. But she was surprised to hear she was on drugs. “I’m on drugs?”

“Yes, there was something in your drink.” Damien pushed her hair back off her forehead. “I don’t think you had much, but enough to impair your judgment.”

“Oh.” That explained the way she felt, like she was drunk inside a never-ending orgasm, her body hot and excited, mind floating and wondrous. “I haven’t had sex in five years,” she told him.

His eyebrow rose, but he gave no other reaction. “Is there a reason for that?”

“I’ve been waiting for Mr. Right. But he’s late. Very, very late.” She started to giggle, but wasn’t really sure why. Most of the time it didn’t seem funny that she was still single. “I think he forgot to ask for directions, just like a man.”

The curtain on the top of the bed looked soft and shiny. Marley stared at it hard. “My mom, she’s bipolar, you know. Between taking care of her, cooking and cleaning for my dad, working with my students, helping Lizzie with Sebastian…well, I haven’t had a lot of time to go looking for him either. And he just hasn’t rung my doorbell. Nobody rings the doorbell but the UPS man and the guys who try to sell me doorknocker polish and magazines.”

“Doorknocker polish?” Damien frowned.

Marley undid the tie at the back of her neck. The strain of holding her breasts up had the nylon strings digging deep into her flesh. It hurt, was giving her a headache. “I think Lizzie is bipolar too. But my mom, she’s always on the down side. She gets depressed to the point where she doesn’t bathe, won’t dress herself. Lizzie’s the opposite. She’s high, all this nervous energy, crazy optimism…she wrote that she was in love with you, but you don’t even remember her.”

“It’s wonderful, Marley, how you take care of everyone. But you need to make sure you take care of yourself too.”

“That’s what a vibrator is for—taking care of myself.” Marley laughed again, pulling the bikini top off altogether. It was irritatingly tight, itchy and distracting.

Damien sat up and started unbuttoning his shirt.

Now this had possibilities. Marley licked her lips, getting the last bits of cinnamon sugar from the corner.

But when Damien stripped his shirt off, revealing a very impressive, muscular chest, he took the shirt and laid it across her own bare chest, his eyes averted.

“I thought men liked big breasts,” she said, offended, even as she snuggled into the well-worn, soft, warm fabric of his shirt. It smelled like him, rich and strong.

Damien smiled, that charming, smooth smile she’d first noticed on him. “You have beautiful breasts, Marley. So beautiful that if I look, I’ll want to touch.”

“So touch.” What was so hard about that for him to figure out?

But he made a sound of frustration. “It’s not that simple. Nothing is what you think it is, and to touch you, make love to you like I want to…it would be wrong. It would be a sin.”

“A sin?” Marley frowned. Damn it. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was here, half naked, at a sex party, and this was a golden opportunity to throw over all her responsibilities, all her frustrations, all her reservations, and indulge in a night of pure sexual hedonism.

But the man she wanted to guide her through the freedom of debauchery was telling her that it would be a sin.

She sighed. This was very disappointing. “That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

Marley bunched up Damien’s shirt and tucked it under her head like a pillow. She rolled up on her side, pressed the palm of her hand on his chest. His flesh was hard and warm, his heart pounding beneath her touch.

“Are you going back down to the party?”

“No. I’m going to stay here with you.”

Marley smiled, head spinning again. Sleep was starting to sound very appealing. “Thank you. It’s so nice to have help for a change.” His face went out of focus, so she closed her eyes.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

And Marley spiraled off into the darkness of her dreams.

Damien watched Marley sleeping, her lips parted, chest rising and falling laboriously. Help her? That was ironic. He couldn’t even help himself. He definitely couldn’t help someone else, especially not someone as completely tempting as Marley.

When she had removed her top, it had taken every ounce of his willpower to prevent him from reaching over and cupping her warm, lush body.

It was his job to promote sin, to encourage lust, obsessive and selfish sexual desire. For that, he was given eternal life, and there was no way out of the bargain he had stupidly struck. But he could no longer take personal pleasure, wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he did, knowing that women found him irresistible, that his powers of seduction were demon-induced, that he was nothing more than a vile snake charmer.

He gave pleasure to women who benefited from his attention, who grew in confidence from their dalliance, who were empowered by it. It was the only way for Damien to reconcile what he was with doing a small measure of good. Marley was different. It wasn’t compassion he felt for Marley, but intense desire, interest, longing. There was no way he could touch her and stay in control, and that was a risk he simply couldn’t take.

Rosa was the child of a Watcher, a demon sent to look after human welfare, who instead had embraced his lust for human women, one of two hundred Watchers who had done so. For Rosa and her father, who had given in to temptation and sin, it was a game to tempt Damien to do so as well. To them it was inevitable that he would give in, become just like them in their proud, evil mischievousness, and over the last one hundred years they had sent many, many women to him to achieve that ultimate triumph.

Yet Damien knew he had made many mistakes, and he didn’t want to repeat them. What he had done back in his mortal youth and his early days of demon servitude, how he had pulled Marie down into his moral sewage, then manipulated Marissabelle to save himself, all fed his convictions, his self-loathing.

Long ago he had come to terms with who and what he was, and accepted responsibility. This was how he had to live. He would provide an atmosphere for those already eager to immerse themselves in their sexual appetites.

But he would not take the innocent down with him this time, not when Marie’s dark, agonized eyes still haunted his dreams, showing him that for all his long life, he had never been a man of worth.

When our baby died, and I lost so much blood, my dislike of Damien’s plantation grew. It was this place, I told myself as I sat on the porch, staring endlessly out at the overgrown drive, at the
pigeonnier
flanking the west of the house, at the new slaves’ quarters marching in a solemn row down by the indigo fields, this place was the reason my baby had died.

Nothing is healthy here. Disease is rampant, the air unbreathable, my constitution compromised by the lack of adequate care.

I refused to dress, refused to powder, but spent many, many weeks sitting aimlessly in my most comfortable mourning gown, the extent of my activity to move from the porch to the salon, to the garden, to bed. Have you ever been swimming, Angelique? Do you know how it feels when your limbs are underwater, how you have to push harder to make them move? That is how I felt, as if my every movement required more effort, as if my world had slowed to a turtlelike crawl, where it hurt to breathe, was fatiguing to walk, was beyond my ability to think.

At first, I believe Damien tolerated my behavior, though I saw little of him. But I think, to give him proper credit, he was allowing me to indulge in my grief, and perhaps needed time to deal with his own. At the time, however, I had little notion of him or what he was about, as I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around anything other than my own pain.

But I believe that as fall shifted into winter, he grew weary of my invalid state. Just before Christmas, he approached me in the salon where I was listlessly watching the fire.

“You will be dressed this evening. We have dinner guests.”

“But…,” I said in alarm. “I cannot.”

“You will.” His green eyes were hard, completely lacking in patience and concern.

When Gigi dressed me that evening, I was startled to see that I had lost weight, that my breasts no longer filled the bodice of my gown, that the waist was too loose to be flattering.

Gigi clucked. “Madame, you must eat! Men like women who are soft and round.”

But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. I went to dinner, I forced vague smiles and spoke only as much as was necessary. I did my duty and I did not once look at my husband.

I could not. I couldn’t bear to see disgust, distaste, disappointment on his face. I had failed to complete the one task I had been brought to Louisiana to do, and my shame, my guilt, my grief were stones around my ankles, weighing me down completely.

There was pity in the faces of those around me, that night and on many others that followed. The men looked at me uncomfortably, and as if they felt sorry for Damien. The older women patted my hands and murmured that I was too refined, too delicate to be living in the swamp. Clearly I belonged back in France. The younger women expressed concern for my health, but behind the words was the smug satisfaction that despite my enviable marriage, their beauty was greater.

It was true that I was losing my looks. The looking glass revealed a gaunt face with dark shadows under eyes that suddenly appeared too large for my head. My hair was dull, skin so pale it had a purplish cast in places, looking bruised and unhealthy.

But I didn’t care.

Not even when their comments grew more and more direct. Not even when Mademoiselle Delerue looked me straight in the eye and said, “My goodness, Madame du Bourg, I had no idea you were still so ill! Should you be out of bed? You look just absolutely
awful.”

This was in the salon one evening after dinner, and Damien overheard. Before I could respond, he did.

“My wife is fine,” he said. “Just not vain. But we thank you for your concern, Mademoiselle Delerue, and would you be willing to indulge us and play the pianoforte? It is my understanding that you are an excellent player and I would love to hear your skills for myself.”

She twittered as he bowed low, too low for an unmarried girl.

I knew his patience with me had completely run out.

That was further confirmed when he appeared one night
in my bedchamber. I was asleep, but woke when he pushed the coverlet back, sending cold air racing over my back and shoulders. It was dark, and I could smell liqueur on his breath, hear him breathing as he settled onto the mattress beside me.

“Damien?” I whispered.

“Yes, it is your husband. Were you expecting someone else?”

“No, of course not.” I stiffened when his hands landed on my backside, fondling my body and working my chemise up. “Damien, please…”

“Please, what? More? Please, Damien, yes, that feels so good? Damien, please, yes, I’ve missed you so much?” His voice was mocking, harsh. “Don’t bother to ask me to stop, Marie. I’ve waited long enough. I have been more than patient. I have been a fucking saint.”

I winced at his language, as I wince even now writing it on paper. It was blasphemous and crude, which perhaps sum up large portions of my husband’s character.

His mouth moved along my ear, nuzzling me, speaking in a hoarse, raw whisper, his hot flesh sending a shiver down my spine. “It is a cruel irony we face. We must do what you hate to give you what you want, but there is nothing for it. You will do your duty and I will do mine, no matter that you are the one woman who seems averse to my touch.”

What could I say? What could I do? My wishes had no place in my marriage, and there was no recourse. I was a wife, this was my husband, and I would do what I had been raised to do, what was my duty, to respect the sacred vows I had taken to honor and obey.

Speaking would have been a waste of breath, worth neither the time nor the effort, and would have achieved nothing.

So I said nothing, did not utter one cry of protest, not even when in his drunken roughness, he bruised my wrists, tore at my tender flesh with his urgency, pushed my head into the hard wood of the bed.

I simply stopped speaking altogether from that moment.

When company was present, I managed the necessities, but with Damien, alone, I ceased talking.

It no longer felt worth the effort, and I had nothing to say anyway.

Marley woke up with a headache and the realization that she was virtually naked in a bedroom at Rosa de Montana. Alone, which was a minor blessing.

“Oh, God.” Unfortunately, she remembered everything from the night before. The party, getting aroused by the woman on the desk, wishing she could experience that kind of liberation. Having a martini, coming upstairs with Damien, taking her top off.

Throwing herself at him and crying when he said no.

It was a complete and total nightmare. It was mortification in capital letters. Embarrassment with a whole bucketful of humiliation tossed in along with it. She was going to have to sneak out a back door and get the hell away before Damien discovered her. Showing him what a needy loser she was had not been in her plans, and there was no way on planet Earth she could ever face him again.

And had she really blathered on about her family? Her mother’s illness, Lizzie’s problems—those were private. She didn’t tell
anyone
what went on in her family. It was no one’s business. Yet she had told Damien.

The shame flooded over her in a hot, sticky wave.

Marley forced herself to sit up, the room spinning slightly, her mouth dry. With shaky hands, she reached for her bikini top, folded at the bottom of the bed and sitting on top of a white T-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts. Apparently Damien had anticipated her embarrassment and had given her some clothes to wear. She was grateful for the gesture, because she had no idea where her raincoat had ended up, and she could not drive back to New Orleans and walk into the hotel in a bikini and a pirate shirt.

And actually, the pirate shirt was missing. She had been lying on a regular pillow and was covered with a light sheet, the floral pattern faded with time and washing. The night before, she had shoved this sheet off when Damien had tried to cover her, but apparently after she had passed out, he had persisted.

“Oh, Marley,” she whispered, fumbling with the bikini top, trying to tie it around her neck. “What the hell were you thinking?” Why would a man like Damien du Bourg—gorgeous, rich, clearly sexually experienced—want to have sex with her?

Duh. He wouldn’t. Doing her would scream entanglement, and she was sure he wouldn’t want messy morning afters where women assumed too much.

The knock on the door made her jump. Marley knew her cheeks were burning, and she couldn’t see Damien again, she just couldn’t. There was nothing either of them could say that would erase her embarrassment.

The knock came again. “Marley? It’s Rosa…Damien’s friend you met the other day. Can I come in?”

Marley hesitated, than relented. Maybe Rosa could show her the quickest way out so she could avoid Damien. “Come in.”

Rosa entered wearing a yellow sundress, her hair pulled back off her face. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

Like an idiot. “Fine. Just a bit of a headache.” And she couldn’t get her strings tied around her back. Stretching her arms, she tried again.

“Damien feels really bad that you had something slipped in your drink. That sort of shit isn’t condoned at his parties. He wanted me to check on you.”

“I’m fine.”

Rosa raised an eyebrow and moved toward the bed. “You don’t look fine. You look like you’ll start bawling if I say boo.” She climbed up onto the bed and reached for Marley. “Here, let me get that. You need to cage those babies in pretty tightly or your ties will blow when you least expect it.”

That had Marley giving a watery laugh. She did feel like crying. The whole situation was ridiculous, and she hated her oversized breasts. She’d like to give them away and be done with it.

Rosa’s fingers made swift work of the ties. “Look, don’t let it hurt your feelings that Damien has bugged out of here on you. He’s a dog, like all men are. And he never stays long with women he sleeps with.”

That
Marley would have understood. That she could have lived with. But his rejection was too much. “I don’t want to see him.” Rosa had moved away, the bikini top securely in place, so Marley reached for the T-shirt. “I was actually going to ask you where he is so I can avoid him. Is there a back door or something?”

“Yeah. I’ll show you. Damien is in the
pigeonnier
, so we’ll go around the other side.” Rosa got off the bed. “You didn’t find your sister, did you?”

“No. Can you please tell Damien to let me know if Lizzie ever shows up here? He has my contact information.” Marley took a shaky breath and pulled the shirt on.

“Sure.”

In another minute, she had the shorts on over the bikini bottoms, and had her feet in her sandals, which had been lying on the floor by the bed. She really couldn’t get out of there fast enough, despite the queasiness in her stomach. They were in the hall heading for the back stairs when Marley realized the keys to the rental car were in the raincoat.