Forever My Love (Berkeley-Faulkner #2)(54)

“Hellhole,” Berkeley supplied, temporarily discarding his usual fondness for well-turned phrases.”Exactly. But, Rand… the situation is even more difficult, in light of what I’m about to tell you.”

“I can scarecly wait to hear it.”

“I think… that is, to all appearances… she has been Lord Sackville’s mistress for the past two years. She hasn’t exactly admitted to it, but—”

“Oh God,” he muttered.

Rosalie drew herself up like a mother hen protecting her chick. “Rand Berkeley, I hope you’re not about to offer a word of criticism!” she whispered rapidly. “She’s only done what she’s had to do. And you know very well that once upon a time you put me in that same position—don’t forget that I was your mistress for three months before we were married!”

Rand winced, his hand rising as if to cover her mouth.

“It wasn’t at all comparable with this,” he said. “For one thing, I wasn’t twice your age—”

“I don’t see what age has to do with it.”

“There are times, Rose, when your moral code is conveniently ambiguous.’’

“Please, my lord,” Rosalie said with a frown, “--just | for a minute try to understand what it might be like to be ] a woman, alone, without protection. I once had to con- | template such a prospect and it frightened me to death. Somehow Mireille has managed to survive it, but she has been hurt--“

“Hurt? How?” Despite his worldly demeanor, Berkeley was a compassionate man, and his voice softened with what Berkeley knew was concern.

“I don’t really know yet. But it is clear that Mireille needs rest and attention. She was such a confident child—now she can hardly bear to meet my eyes. She seems so dispirited and hopeless that it disturbs me dreadfully. In fact, she is so upset that she refuses to go back into the manor. I don’t know how we’re going to get her things out of there—““Wait. Slow down. What do you mean, ‘get her things out of there’?”

“Rand,” she said, looking at him with pleading blue eyes, “she meant so much to me in France. She was my only friend at a time when I needed one. She took care of me when I was ill… I would like to return the favor now.”

“You’re asking if we can take her back to Warwickshire with us,” he stated resignedly.

“You had no objection to the idea five years ago,” Rosalie reminded him. “Remember when you said then that she could live with us?”

Berkeley lifted his eyes heavenward. “Dammit, you never forget anything… yes, the offer still stands.”

She squeezed his hand tightly. “Oh, how I adore you—”

“Before you smother me with words of affection, be forewarned that I fully intend to question her about Guillaume.”

“Of course, my dearest husband.”

“I’ve been altogether too lenient with you lately,” he grumbled, basking in the glowing smile she bestowed on him. “I wonder that you asked my permission at all.”

“I must ask you one more favor: would you allow me to take her to Warwickshire now?”

“Now?” Rand repeated, giving her a genuine frown of displeasure. “And miss the hunt?”

“I don’t know what else to do with Mireille. She will not spend one more night on the Sackville estate. You know I dislike hunting anyway, and I certainly dislike most of the women whose company I would have been forced to endure.”

“Do you realize how it will appear if you turn around and return home, leaving me alone?”

“If you really cared what people thought, youwouldn’t have married me in the first place,” Rosalie said softly, stroking her fingers along the back of his hand, soothing his ire as only she could. “And though I dread the idea of sleeping apart from you for a night or two, I am already looking forward to welcoming you back.” She stood on her toes as she murmured into his ear, “... and I promise to make up for all of this on the eve of your return.”

“How?” Berkeley inquired, characteristically concerned about specifics, and she smiled slowly before whispering a few well-chosen words to him. Her promise earned the guaranteed response, for he offered no further argument.

Chapter Seven

Surrounded by green grottoes and thick woods, Berkeley Hall presented the picture of a well-ordered fantasy. It graced Warwickshire like a perfectly cut diamond, poised between the land and the sky with vaulted arches and neatly finished crenellation that formed the base for pinnacles that seemed to pierce the clouds overhead. Trefoil-shaped windows and fluted pillars lent the house an air of lighthearted grace. As Rosalie and Mira were helped out of the carriage and escorted into the hall by two footmen, Mira discovered that the interior of the house was even more beautiful than the exterior, adorned with imported yellow Siena marble, shining mahogany, bronze railings, and richly framed portraits.

“Lady Berkeley!” came a pleased exclamation, and a stout woman who appeared to be the housekeeper approached them. She was followed by two maids, one of whom looked to be considerably chastened. “You’ve returned home earlier than expected.”

“Yes, Mrs. Grayson,” Rosalie replied. “There were some unforseen difficulties…” She stopped and frowned as she noticed the tear-streaked face of one of the maids. “My goodness, Nell, why are you crying?”