My Immortal (Seven Deadly Sins #1)(8)
Author: Erin McCarthy

"Your latest ploy to tempt me." Usually the bait Rosa shoved in front of him didn’t interest him—or did, but was easy enough to resist. This time, though, she’d found a woman who was going to prove a challenge. Marley was gorgeous, with thick, lusty brown hair with golden streaks in it and flawless skin, pale for August, a small dusting of freckles across her nose. Her body was lush, curvy, with thighs that Damien had wanted to grab on to and thrust into, and her dark hazel eyes met his straight on. Not with boldness, but with determination. She had been attracted to him, like all women were. After two hundred years, that was often more wearying than arousing, but what had intrigued him about Marley was that she had the willpower to resist the pull, the lure, the charm he had been given along with his immortality.

She wasn’t exotic or a blond bombshell. She was dangerous because at first glance she seemed so ordinary, just an average-size woman in her mid to late twenties. But then she had stared him down, and Damien had felt the first niggling of concern.

Marley had gotten into the back of the taxi, and as it pulled away now, she turned and glanced back at him, eyes wide. Damien felt a very painful kick of lust even as she disappeared from view down his pitted driveway.

Her innocent sensuality appealed to him, and he wanted for the first time in a very long time.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t care." Rosa sounded like she was about to drop back to sleep.

"She knew about Marie. She couldn’t have known that without a little help from you. But it won’t work, you know. I won’t do it, no matter how many carrots you dangle in front of me."

"She knew about Marie?" Rosa was more alert. "Damien, I didn’t, I wouldn’t…"

"You’re a terrible liar. Just let it go, alright? I’m not so easily manipulated."

Disgusted, he hung up the phone and concentrated on the retreating taxi.

He would resist her. He had to. It was the only way to save himself.

November 11, 1790

Dearest Sister Angelique,

I have debated the wisdom of penning this letter to you, but have found myself unable to resist the compulsion to sit down and write to you. I miss France dreadfully. I find myself quite steeped in nostalgia these days, missing the quiet companionship of the other girls at school, the way we laughed and talked and dreamt of our respective futures. I miss my youth.

I imagine that is melodramatic, and you would scold me something fierce for not appreciating the good fortune bestowed upon me by my most advantageous marriage. But I shall tell you, Sister, the secrets of my marriage, because I cannot keep my lips sealed any longer. If I do not expel it all from me, I shall burst forth in hysterics upon my maid, or a complete stranger, perhaps even one of the neighborhood ladies—I shall tell them every last dreadful, seductive, scandalous, horrifying moment of what has happened here at Rosa de Montana, and that, of course, I cannot do.

I arrived in Louisiana in May of last year, as you know. What you don’t know is that after the three-month-long oceanwide journey, I already knew what was in store for me in my marriage. It was destined to be a loveless match, of course, based on politics and business. That I understood when I took my vows. It was what I expected, and I knew my duty. What I did not anticipate was the callous disrespect my husband showed me. Damien is a fantastically attractive man, a physical form and feature that are unflawed. Would that I could say the same for his character. But I am muddling this, not making sense.

Our wedding night—I should not even speak of this, I should be ashamed of my indelicacy, but the truth is, Angelique, I will never post this letter. Damien reads my mail before it goes out, and generally speaking, begrudges me the post. Also, even without his interference, I have neither the courage nor the time to actually send you this missive. It is as if I am talking to you, taking comfort from you, yet I do not have to witness your sadness, your judgment, your pity when you discover how far into sin I have fallen. I daresay I drank too much wine tonight as well, so it is best if I write all of this out, purge myself, then dash the whole sheaf into the fire.

That is precisely what I shall do.

So I can tell you the truth of that night.

I spent my wedding night alone. Yes, I did. After that whole day of anxiety, of smiling falsely, of feeling Damien’s hand upon my elbow as he led me around the room greeting our five hundred guests, I was deposited in my bedchamber in his town house in Nantes. I donned the appropriate white nightrail and camisole, tied with pale blue ribbons, straight from Paris, exquisite and fabulously expensive, as Maman deemed only appropriate to wear when sealing marriage to one of the wealthiest men in France.

I confess to nerves, and allowed myself to spin certain fantasies about the tenderness of my new spouse as he assuaged my fears. But there was also a bit of anticipation, as my husband, as previously noted, is a very attractive man, and I felt certain if any man could bring pleasure to a marriage bed, it was him. I was to be disappointed on both accounts.

Damien did not enter my chamber at all that night, and the next morning, after I had dried my tears and the maids had snickered behind their hands at me, we boarded the ship for our passage to New Orleans. My husband, who had left me alone the night before to what purpose I knew not, was distant and aloof. I can tell you the whole of what he said to me that entire day.

As we departed the house: "You have entirely too many trunks, Madame."

Port side: "Wave good-bye to France, Marie, as you’ll not see her again."

In my cabin, adjacent to his, long after sunset: "Do you know what it looks like that my brand new wife cannot trouble herself to attend a dinner with myself and the captain one day after our marriage? Sit up."

The latter came eight hours after the initial two sentences, when I was feeling the ill effects of the sea. Never having traveled by boat before, I was unprepared for the devastation of the constant motion, and it was in this state of extreme mortification that my husband found me.

"I apologize, Monsieur, but I’m feeling unwell." I tried to pull myself to a sitting position, but the room spun most dreadfully and I leaned against the cabin wall, bilious and suffering.

He gave a snort of disgust, sat on my trunk, and pulled his boots off. I was too ill to consider what he was about. You know I have never been of the most reliable health, and at that moment it was all I could do to keep from disgracing myself. His anger was not readily apparent to me, preoccupied as I was, though I sensed he was displeased.

When he approached me, I thought it was to offer me comfort. To assist me. I laugh now, a bitter laugh of pain at my utter naivete. What a foolish, young, innocent child I was, with no notion of the depravities and cruelty of men. I know now. Damien had not my comfort in mind.