Forever My Love (Berkeley-Faulkner #2)(92)

“He has never done either of those things—”

“Hasn’t he?” After exchanging a long look with him, Rosalie’s eyes fell. There was no need for Rand to voice his opinion of Brummell, for he had stated before that he considered Brummell to be a vain, selfish, shallow leech. And even Rosalie had to admit that Brummell had played a minor part in the long-ago plot hatched by Guillaume Germain to kidnap her. But to her, blood and family overrode every other consideration, and no matter what her father had done, she would forgive him anything. She was completely aware of her own vulnerability on this point, and she also knew that Rand’s protectiveness of her was what motivated his real dislike for Brummell. Ah, what complicated situations people wove for themselves.

“I won’t do something like this again without talking to you first,” she offered.

“No, you won’t,” he agreed curtly.

“Besides, I don’t think I had a great deal of influence on Canning tonight—he said he would consider finding something for Brummell, but he said that we had to consider Britain’s political welfare in its entirety, and not just the needs of one man.”

“In political cant, that means no.”

“I was afraid of that.” Rosalie stood up and approached him hesitantly. “You’re still angry.”

He frowned at her, his burnished hair, eyes, and skin all disappearing into the shadows as he turneddown the lamp. “Only because I love you, headstrong wench that you are, and the thought of anything happening to you drives me insane.”

“Forgive me for not telling you, Rand… it’s not that I don’t trust you, but I know how you—”

He quieted her by touching his forefinger to her lips, and then his hands went to the ribbons of her filmy white gown. His hazel eyes flickered from her face to the curves and shadows of her body, barely discernible through the folds of the garment. Suddenly his hands were rough with impatience, breaking the knotted ribbons with a flick of his fingers, shredding the delicate material carelessly. She took in a quick breath as the garment dropped from her body like a web tattered by a strong breeze, and she felt the caress of his eyes on her bare skin. He lifted her na**d body into his arms and murmured, “Don’t tell me how sorry you are. Show me.” Her mouth clung to his, and she was swept with a dizzying torrent of passion as he carried her to bed.

“Mon Dieu.” Mira stirred as the sunlight poured over her bed with knifelike intensity. She squinted at Mary, who had come in with the breakfast tray and was engaged in pulling back the draperies. The maid paused at Mira’s audible discomfort and cast a sympathetic glance in her direction.

“You told me last night to wake you at ten o’clock,” Mary said. “Would you like for me to close the sun out and return in another two hours or so?”

“No, no. I smell coffee.” Mira struggled up to a sitting position. She felt sore, disheveled, and wretched. What had happened to that sense of well-being she had felt after that first night with Alec so long ago? Why did she feel so anxious and guilty now? She rested her head against a pillow and slitted her eyes. “Mary… ?” she asked carefully. “This morning I would like some hot water for tea. My herbs are in the bag in that armoire—““You are ill?”

“My head aches.”

“I will bring water right away.”

Mira wondered why the maid looked at her so speculatively before leaving the room. It was a general rule that the servants knew all of the secrets of the people they attended. Having once been a maid herself, Mira could attest to that fact with certainty. She wondered if Mary had suspected anything last night upon seeing Mira’s wrinkled undergarments and flushed face… ah, and there were those tiny marks on her neck and the highest curves of her bosom, left by the scrape of a man’s bristled face. Mary had to suspect, Mira thought, and made a small uncomfortable noise in her throat. Rosalie also suspected that something had happened to Mira while she was speaking with Canning. Although Rosalie was preoccupied with her own problems, there was no mistaking the thorough appraisal she had given Mira when they had met near the ballroom.

Mary returned with a small silver teapot and a tiny tray arranged with Sevres porcelain and a silver spoon.

“Thank you.” Mira opened her bag of herbs carefully, hesitating as she regarded the variety of dried plants, powders, barks, and roots. What she needed was turnsole, a crooked plant with threadlike roots, but although it grew plentifully in France, she had never found it in England. “What else… what else?” she muttered, holding a hand to her temple and staring at the herbs. Of all the cures she knew how to prepare, of all the potions and elixirs, she had never paid close attention to any of the remedies that were reputed to prevent conception. Until now, she had had no need of such a recipe. Perhaps it is already too late, she thought, and bit her lip while touching her abdomen lightly. The thought of having a child, Alec’s child, filled her with a curious yearning… yet she could not, unless le bon Dieu had already decided forher. Slowly she dropped the pale red blossoms of garden thyme into the water, as well as rue and the fibrous strands of creeping tormentil. She added violets, rose hips, and fennel to improve the taste of the brew, which had begun to smell decidedly bitter.

“More rue,” Mary said, busying herself with small tasks around the room.

“More…” Mira started to repeat, flushing guiltily.