Authors: Eugenia Riley
Rogue's Mistress
Call
me Julian.
“Sweet Mercy,” Julian murmured,
roving his lips over her cheek. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
“Please,” she murmured.
“Please what?”
“Please don’t.”
But he only drew her closer still,
whispering against her ear, his breath hot and sweet. “Do you hate me so much,
Mercy? Don’t you know you’ve been driving me insane for years with that bright
red hair, those huge green eyes? And that prim little uniform—just daring me to
unwrap you and see what you’re really like inside.”
“M’sieur, this is—”
“Honest?” he supplied. “Ah, yes, I
think it’s high time for some honesty between us.”
Even as Mercy trembled in
confusion and uncertain desire, Julian drew back slightly and looked down into
her wide eyes. “So tell me, what are you really like inside, Mercy? Are you as
cold, aloof, and unforgiving as your façade? Or are you as hot and passionate
as a flame—as hot as that mane of wild red hair?”
Mercy was so horrified and
fascinated by his words, she could only stare at him. Finally she stammered,
“M’sieur—”
“Damn it, girl, call me m’sieur
again and I’ll see you live to regret it,” he growled with sudden ill-humor.
“Call me Julian.”
“No.”
He grasped her chin in a
near-painful grip, forcing her willful eyes up to his. “Call me Julian,” he
repeated in a frightening voice.
“Never.”
“Hate me if you must,” he
continued ruthlessly, “but you will know who I am.”
When he kissed her again, a sob
died in her throat. Her fists clenched against his back, then unclenched . . .
He sensed her softening and gentled his approach, snaking his tongue in and out
of her mouth in a blatantly sensual way. Mercy’s stomach hurt and her toes
began to curl. She felt bewildered and helplessly vulnerable.
Suddenly, his hands were everywhere
on her, raking down her spine, tangling in her hair. The thumb of one hand
settled on the taut nipple of one breast, stroking audaciously, while he
splayed the fingers of his other hand firmly over her bottom, pressing her into
something so tantalizing and hard . . .
Mercy was losing her mind. Her
breasts throbbed where Julian touched her, and deep in the pit of her stomach,
a need was gnawing, growing, and seemed to yearn traitorously for the hot
instrument now pulsing against her. Oh, what was wrong with her? How could she
hurt so much yet feel so good, and know all the while that only he could ease
this sweet, wonderful aching?
“Say it,” he demanded.
“Julian,” she sobbed.
Rogue’s Mistress
Eugenia Riley
Copyright 1991 by
Eugenia Riley Essenmacher
Historical Romance
Eugenia Riley Classic
Copyright © 1991 by Eugenia Riley Essenmacher
Publication History: First Avon Books Edition, 1991; First
Kindle Original Edition, April, 2015; v.1.
Cover by Ramona Lockwood
Rogue’s Mistress is a novel. Although the book incidentally
portrays a few actual characters from the history of the times, all
non-historical figures are strictly imaginary, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
The cover image of this novel is used strictly for literary
and illustrative purposes, and any models depicted in the cover image bear no
relationship whatsoever to this work of fiction or to any of the characters or
events depicted herein.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce or
transmit this book or any part thereof by any means whatsoever, without written
permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Address inquiries to:
Eugenia
Riley Essenmacher
P.O. Box
840526 Houston, TX 77284-0526
New Orleans
,
1842
Julian Devereux was ready to take
his ease.
The bitterly cold New Orleans night offered him scant comfort; the brisk wind blowing from the south battered
his large custom coach as it clattered down the cobbled, gas-lit streets of the
Vieux Carré. Even sitting deeply ensconced in the plush interior with the
blinds drawn, Julian could feel the piercing cold, made worse by moisture
drifting in off the Gulf.
Julian lit a cheroot to warm
himself and felt a stab of pity for his coachman, Henrí, whom he could hear
barking a command to the snorting, protesting team. His thoughts turned to
Genevieve and the welcome he would shortly receive in her arms. He grinned. His
parents were in France buying furnishings for the Greek Revival mansion they
were building at the edge of the American District. For months, he had been
free to come and go as he pleased, with no explanation given to anyone.
Such was his due, he reminded
himself. He had recently attained his manhood at age twenty and would shortly
take charge of the generous trust left him by his grandparents. When his
parents returned and moved to their new home, the town house on Royal Street would be his. One day, his family’s cotton commission exchange, which he was
managing in his father’s absence, would fall to his ownership, as well. In the
meantime, Julian planned to take his Grand Tour of Europe and taste all of this
world’s earthly pleasures. In time, he would take a New Orleans belle to wife,
and perhaps he’d establish a quadroon mistress in a cottage on the Ramparts.
Such was the Creole way.
With a gloved hand, Julian moved
aside the shade as the coachman brought the carriage to a halt before a
deceptively ordinary looking town house on Toulouse. A looming archway with an
iron gate was centered on the pale yellow stucco façade. Julian was well aware
that this particular bagnio had run discreetly for years in its choice locale
not far from the stylish St. Louis Hotel; the establishment was tolerated, and
ofttimes frequented, by local officials.
“We’re here, M’sieur Devereux,”
Henrí said respectfully as he opened the door to the coach. The servant’s
handsome, honey-brown features were chafed from the weather; his breath formed
white puffs on the frigid air.
“Thank you, Henrí.” Julian
alighted with lithe grace and ground out his cheroot beneath his heel. Noting
that his coachman was trembling, he added, “You must come along and seek some
refreshment in Madame Sophie’s kitchen. I’ll be a while, and there’s no need
for you to suffer in the cold.”
“
Oui
, m’sieur,” Henrí
replied gratefully. “But the horses—”
“You may tend them directly.”
With Henrí following, Julian
strode confidently across the stone banquette and rang the bell next to the
archway. Standing in a beam of yellow light, he cut a fine figure—a tall,
broad-shouldered young man dressed in an impeccable silk top hat, leather
gloves, polished black boots, and a fitted wool greatcoat.
His ring was promptly answered by
a wizened butler, who broke into a grin as he unlocked the iron gate. “Good
evening, M’sieur Devereux. It’s good to see you again, sir.”
“Good evening, Alfred. You’ll see
that my coachman is provided for in the kitchen?”
“
Oui
, m’sieur. And Madame
Sophie—she’ll be receiving you in the parlor.”
“
Trés bien
,” Julian replied
with a grin.
Leaving the others behind, Julian
strode down the stone corridor and entered the cold, windswept courtyard with
its wilted banana trees and barren flower beds. The parlor on the eastern
corner of the quadrangle beckoned him with its warm, glowing lights. Through
the center part of the elegant velvet portieres, he spotted a woman’s lush
figure, gowned in red satin. The lilting piano strains of “Believe Me If All
Those Endearing Young Charms” drifted out to him.
Quickly crossing the courtyard,
Julian opened the parlor door and swept into the warmth of the luxurious room,
with its floral Savonnerie rags, tufted rosewood furniture, and glittering
chandeliers.
“Julian!” Madame Sophie cried,
rushing forward to greet her favorite patron.
“Good evening, Sophie,” Julian
replied with a grin, leaning over to peck her painted cheek. At more than
thirty years of age, Sophie Delgado still managed to exude an exotic beauty.
She was more Spanish than French, her features etched with patrician
loveliness, her raven hair upswept. She wore a sleek red satin gown and gold
and ruby jewelry. A red and black Spanish fan was clutched in one slim hand.
“So what is your pleasure tonight,
chéri
?” Sophie asked as Julian handed her his hat and gloves and began
undoing the buttons on his greatcoat. “Perhaps a brandy to whet your palate?”
Handing her the heavy cloak and
smoothing down his elegant black frock coat and matching trousers, Julian
glanced around the parlor. A prominent local physician he knew and a strikingly
beautiful quadroon were huddled together on the silk brocade settee, laughing
and drinking champagne. In one corner, an elderly
dame perdue
plied the
grand piano; at the corner table opposite her, four businessmen played faro.
The one he sought was nowhere in
sight.
Frowning, Julian turned back to
Sophie. “Where is Genevieve?”
She laughed and tapped his arm
playfully with her folded fan. “Ah, we know where your appetites lie tonight,
n’est-ce
pas, mon ami
?”
“Was there any doubt?” he asked
wryly. “And I repeat—where is she?”
“You do not think she would dare
entertain another after receiving your note?” Sophie teased coyly. “Why, she’s
upstairs awaiting you, of course,
chéri
.”
With a grin and a wink at Madame,
Julian was out the door like a shot.
He emerged in the chilly
courtyard, then quickly took a curved cypress stairway to the second floor.
Upstairs, he turned down the familiar open catwalk with its iron-lace railings,
flanked by shuttered windows and mellow gaslights on the building façade. He
proceeded directly to Genevieve’s door, where his sharp knock was followed by a
quick and sultry “
Entrez,
chéri
.”
Julian entered the room and shut
the door behind him. Genevieve stood beyond him brushing her hair; she was a
feast for his eyes in her pale blue, diaphanous negligee. Her blond curls
cascaded about her lovely shoulders, and her lush curves peeked through the
wispy, taunting fabric of her gown.
The room was softly lit with
candles, he noted; a cozy fire blazed in the grate. The taffeta counterpane on
the fabulous Mallard bed was pulled back invitingly. On the dressing table was
laid a silver tray with champagne in a bucket and crystal goblets.
That champagne would not be
touched for some time, he thought with satisfaction.
“
Chéri,
” Genevieve cried,
dropping her poised hairbrush and racing across the room into his arms.
“Ah, Genevieve,” Julian said,
laughing as he swung her about, then kissed her eagerly. He held her so tightly
that her toes dangled just above his boots. He drew in a deep lungful of her
intoxicating perfume as he set her down. “It’s been too long,
ma chère
.”
“Indeed,” she replied, her lovely
full lips outthrust in a pout. “Why have you not come to see me, Julian?”
He grinned, smoothing an errant
curl on her brow. “You know how busy we are this time of year, clearing up the
details of harvest at the Exchange. And there has also been the long round of
calling at New Year’s that I was required to make in my parents’ absence. But,
no matter, Genevieve—I have the rest of the winter to devote to you. We’ll
celebrate Mardi Gras together—you’ll see,
chère
, it will be grand.”
Genevieve smiled, displaying
delightful dimples. She stared up at the handsome young Creole who was her
secret love. Julian was so masterfully handsome with his beautifully sculpted
face, square jaw, and deep-set blue eyes nestled beneath dark, curved brows.
His high cheekbones and straight classical nose lent him an aristocratic air,
and his mouth was just full enough to be unspeakably sensual. His hair was
thick and wavy and blue-black; a stray curl dangling across his forehead lent
him a rakish air. His body was youthfully trim, but also hard-muscled, sleek,
and—Genevieve well knew—wickedly designed for a woman’s ultimate satisfaction.
In the year that she’d known Julian, she’d found him to be an incomparable
lover, as well as the man her heart most yearned for. She had no illusions
about what she could mean to him—which was very little, beyond this room of
unbridled pleasure. She realized that they walked in different worlds, and that
he would never recognize her in his own, or else risk being disowned by his
prominent family. Still, she hungrily took whatever time and solace he offered
her.
“Would you like a drink,
chéri
?”
she asked, running her fingertips over his jaw.
“I think you know what I want,” he
replied, sweeping her up into his arms.
Genevieve laughed as her lover
carried her to the bed and gently laid her down. She stared up at him
adoringly, watching him throw off his coat and tear at the studs on his ruffled
linen shirt. She hungrily drank in the expanse of his magnificent chest with
its covering of curly dark hair.
Mon Dieu
, he was the sexiest man she
had ever known! The sight of him alone could spur in her wild urges shocking
enough to make even a seasoned demimondaine blush. Licking her lips in
anticipation, she murmured, “Hurry, love.”
His blue eyes sparkled with ready
humor. “You have missed me, no?”
“Oh, yes, darling.”
Julian whisked off his shirt and joined
her on the bed, covering her lush body with his muscled strength. “But there
have been others—many others, haven’t there?” he asked with deceptive mildness.
Her alarmed eyes flashed up to
his. “
Chéri
, I cannot help it. It is the way I live—survive—”
“Shhhh,” he admonished, laying his
fingers tenderly over her soft, full lips. “I am not saying this to condemn
you,
ma belle
.” Abruptly he grinned. “But you see, I have attained my
manhood now, and I shall shortly come into my trust. I was thinking . . . perhaps
it would be best that I move you out of here—to a place where I shall
generously endow you, of course.”
“Oh, Julian!” Tears sprang to
Genevieve’s eyes as she hugged him tightly. He’s just said the very words she’d
most longed to hear ever since the day she’d met him. He’d just offered to make
her his paramour, his mistress!
“Would you like that,
chère
?”
he asked, nibbling at her throat.
The sharp love nips of his mouth,
his teeth, were driving Genevieve insane. “Oh, yes, Julian! I would like
nothing more than to be your woman alone. The others . . .” Her voice trailed
off and she bit her lip.
“Yes?” Instantly sobered by her
words, Julian pulled back to glower down at her.
Genevieve gulped. Staring up into
Julian’s smoldering blue eyes, she knew she dared not tell him about the
shameful things many of the others had asked her—indeed, forced her—to do. Like
that crude, sadistic Irishman who had visited her once recently—and only once.
If she told Julian of what the bastard had done to her—and was still threatening
to do, if she didn’t grant her favors again—he’d be incited to unspeakable
rage, she knew.
“What is it,
ma petite
?”
Julian prodded with a deep frown. “Have the others hurt you? By God, if they
have—”
She hugged him quickly to hide the
lie she knew she must tell. “
Non, chéri
. It’s just that—none of them
satisfy me as you do.”
He laughed, a deep, rumbling,
sensual sound. Twining one of her golden curls about his fingertip, he murmured,
“Indeed? You know, my pert, pretty miss, I think I’ll take you home with me
tonight.”
Genevieve’s blue eyes grew huge.
“Take me to your family’s home? Julian, you mustn’t!
C’est un scandale
!”
“
Au contraire
,” he said
with a grin. “I’m surprised I haven’t thought of it before. My parents are
gone, the servants are discreet, so who’s to know the better? I’ll take you to
my town house, and then on the morrow, we can rent you a room somewhere until I
can find you a suitable cottage.”
“Oh, Julian!” she cried, deeply
touched by his words. “You would do all that for me?”
“Of course. You have become very
special to me.” Julian realized the truth of his words even as he said them. He
leaned over to run his tongue over her full mouth, tickling her in a blatantly
erotic gesture that at once quickened her breathing. “But first—I know full
well that we’ll never make it home, much less, out of this room, unless I make
love to you.”
“
Full well
,” Genevieve
agreed wickedly, running her hand over the hard, wonderful shaft that now
pulsed against his trousers, pressing deliciously into her most intimate parts.
Julian groaned at her practiced
stroking and kissed her with searing hunger. Genevieve loved Julian’s kisses
and she opened her mouth wide to him, glorying to the bold, enervating thrust
of his tongue.
Soon Julian’s hands pulled at the
ties to her gown, tugging the gauzy fabric down about her waist. His mouth
latched onto a rose-hued nipple, and she bucked in delight, running her hands
through his hair and drawing his mouth deeper into her breast. She brazenly
undid the buttons to his trousers, releasing his wonderful hardness.
About to burst with his need of
her, Julian moved off her for a moment, impatiently shucking his trousers, then
sliding the silken gown off her body, raking his gaze over her nakedness. He
stared down into her eyes, deeply dilated with hunger for him, at the arms
outstretched to him, and at the flush on her beautiful cheeks.
Bien
, she
was ready. He’d spend the rest of the night driving her crazy with slow,
deliberate lovemaking, but this first time, he knew they both needed to take
the edge off their hunger quickly and explosively.
