Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(10)

Rand slid him a skeptical look. “If she means that much to you, then throw in a cancellation of my brother’s debt to you as well.”

George Selwyn sighed and nodded reluctantly. “I only hope she’s worth it.”

“So do I,” Rand said, flashing a wicked conspiratorial grin at his companion.

Transporting a limp form, no matter how light or small, was a nuisance, especially all the way back to his apartments in Berkeley Square. Rand laid her across the small seat of his one-horse, four-wheel chaise, a light vehicle that was suitable for driving pell-mell through the cobbled streets of London. She stirred not a whit even as he carried her through the door of his bedroom. Rand’s first inclination was to have his valet clean up his new acquisition while he prepared for bed. This particular manservant was a valuable employee, accustomed to keeping his mouth closed no matter what the circumstances or provocation. But on second thought, Rand decided to perform the task himself. She was so small, so vulnerable, that he was oddly disinclined to let her out of his sight.

Gently he laid her on the fine Colerain linen bedspread, stripping her gown and stockings off efficiently and discovering that her underclothes were well-worn but scrupulously clean. Dampening a cloth with some water from a white porcelain pitcher, he wiped the soot from her face, revealing tender skin that shone like satin. Her features were a marvel to behold, even robbed as they were of expression or animation. Her body, divested of all but a chemise of thin cambric, was nothing short of magnificent. Slender, yes, but undoubtedly womanly. How had she come to be in the situation he had witnessed tonight? he wondered, removing the grime from her arms and neck carefully. She did not appear to be a whore, but neither was she a member of the gentry. Her limbs were slim and capable-looking, without the delicate roundness that characterized ladies of nobility. She engaged in some kind of labor, yet it was not overly exacting, judging from the beauty of her hands. Absently he wound a lock of her hair around his fingers. The mahogany silkiness of it gleamed richly in the lamplight, as though it had taken on its own life.

“Sweet angel,” Rand murmured, “‘tis a pity you’re unconscious.”

Rosalie stirred slowly, her mind rising from the incoherent darkness. There was a dull ache that spread over her entire body, but most intense was the pain that stretched from temple to temple. A soft exhalation came from her mouth as she struggled to open her eyes. She was laid out on a mattress of some sort, in a room that was quietly lit, the yellow warmth of lamplight bathing the air. Painfully she tried to recall what had happened, her last memory being the scene in the alley, the echo of her own cries coming back to haunt her. What had happened?

Giving a brief moan, she raised her fingertips to her forehead, feeling stabs of pain rebound through her skull. She must have been brought back home, Rosalie thought, becoming aware that she was in a bedroom and that there was a presence beside her.

“Martian?” she whispered, and ignored the sharp throbbing of her head as she shifted slightly. Starded, she encountered the sight of a man sitting on the edge of the bed.

“So they’re blue,” he said huskily, looking at her eyes, and she stared at him in wonder. She had never seen anyone like him. About him there was a peculiar appearance of vibrancy, of darkness overlaid with gold. Lurking behind the grave lines of his mouth was the possibility of tenderness, yet she was not certain of it. His features were not strictly handsome, being aggressively made and lacking delicacy, and his skin was too dark by far. As Rosalie looked at him she had the impression of a polished surface that concealed much, and it made her uneasy. Most remarkable were his eyes, dark-rimmed and brilliant gold, and somewhere in the gold was mixed a cool green. They were assessing eyes, she decided, and suddenly the effort of keeping awake became too taxing for her. It was a dream, she thought, feeling the softness of the bed engulf her exhausted body. Her fancy had been lent life and color in the imagination of sleep, and in her abstracted condition she was glad it was over.

Two

If you would be, what I think you, some sweet dream,  I would but ask you to fulfill yourself.

—Tennyson

Pouring newly heated water from a silver jug into a matching basin, Rand began his morning ablutions. Slowly he became aware that his overnight guest was awake, for he felt the touch of her gaze on his back. He turned around to look at her. She was regarding him with something far removed from the calm curiosity of last night, her eyes a more brilliant blue in the daylight than any he had ever seen. Her breathing was quick and uneasy, her fingers tense as they twined around the edge of the bed linens.

“Good morning,” Rand said casually, but she remained mute. A woman’s silence was a novelty to a man of his experience. He soaked a facecloth in the water, wrung it with a deft twist, and applied it to his night’s growth of beard, watching her all the while with cool curiosity. Slowly the atmosphere began to take on the nuances of a confrontation.

A thousand thoughts filled Rosalie’s mind, and she began to pull them out in twos and threes, frantically searching for an explanation of how and why she had come to be in a strange room with a man she had never met before. She had been attacked near Covent Garden market last night and had run east, probably to the vicinity of Fleet Ditch. She had cried for help to a crowd of passing dandies, and as far as she knew, they had afforded her none. Had this man been one of them? Had he decided to intervene on her behalf? She watched him intently, disregarding the fact that such a stare was usually considered extremely rude. He did not look like a Samaritan. He was a young man, probably in his late twenties, without a particularly kind appearance. She would have considered him handsome if his features had not been so aggressively formed. His cheekbones, for example, were blunt and strong when they should have been more delicately drawn, and his mouth was too wide. As he resumed the preparations for shaving, his very manner seemed to her rife with self-centeredness, for he asked no questions of concern as to her welfare and gave no genuine sign of interest in her condition.