Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(101)

“I’ve loved you,” she replied softly, “since the first night in Paris. We were dancing, and your arms were around me . . . and suddenly I realized that I didn’t want it to end.” She lifted her eyes to meet his, and Rand answered her unspoken question without hesitancy.

“That first time I left you,” he said, his voice low and quiet, “when I came here to break up the d’Angoux holdings . . . I couldn’t stop thinking about all that I had told you that morning. I had no idea of what had prompted me to tell you that much about my past. I was irritated by the fact that I kept thinking about you, and even more by the realization that I couldn’t wait to get back to the Lothaire. My mind was filled with countless schemes to get you into bed—but as well as wanting your desire, I wanted your trust, your affection . things I had never asked from anyone before. I felt as if you belonged to me, and I went a little bit insane each time you denied me.” The firelight shone on his golden skin with a candescent warmth, his thick lashes casting a shadow on the cleanly molded edges of his cheekbones. “You have such little hands,” he murmured, lifting one of them and examining her dainty palm before pressing a kiss there. “It stunned me to realize that you held my entire world in them.” Rand’s thoughtful smile faded as he looked into her eyes. “Why did you refuse when I proposed to you?” he asked slowly, and Rosalie frowned, turning her face to the side. In silence she struggled to find the right words to express herself.

“Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by you,” she whispered. “You’re all I could ever want. But . . . we’re so different. My life has been quiet, sheltered . . . and I know my own heart—”

“And you think I don’t know mine?” Rand raised himself on an elbow, staring down at her intently.

“You’re used to excitement, variety. I was afraid of being merely a novelty to you . . . interesting but temporary.”

“Dammit, Rose,” he said, his expression edged with exasperation, “a novelty? I asked you to marry me. If that isn’t a declaration of long-lasting intentions, I don’t know what is.”

“You know as well as I do what marriage means to a member of the aristocracy,” she said levelly. “Especially one as highborn as you. After producing a suitable beir, I had no guarantee that you wouldn’t install me in the country and proceed to forget about my very existence. Considering the disparity between your disposition and mine, I thought it very likely that you would tire of me and the quiet life that—”

“A quiet life,” Rand said grimly, “is something I would welcome, but I don’t consider it very likely. Not when I haven’t had a moment’s peace since first meeting you. Somehow I can’t picture our married life together descending from the level of ‘tumultuous’ until we’re both in our seventies. Especially,” he added meaningfully, “if you persist in dashing into every dangerous situation that I try to keep you out of.” “It has nothing to do with trust,” Rosalie said in a rush, endeavoring to placate him. “Especially not what I did tonight. I trust you completely. Truly, I wish I could follow your requests to the letter—”

“If only,” Rand said to the room at large, “the wish were supported by deed as well as sentiment.”

“—but I couldn’t stay here any longer. You wouldn’t sit here and do nothing if you were afraid I was in danger, would you?”

It was an effective point. Rand stared at her contemplatively, his mouth twisting.

“You’re going to continue using your own judgment when you decide it’s necessary,” he stated, one eyebrow lifting in inquiry.

“I . . . I can’t behave any other way,” Rosalie admitted, tracing a fingernail on the stitching of his robe and averting her gaze from his.

“What about,” he inquired softly, “in an extreme case, if I asked you to do something without questioning why?”

She looked at him directly, her voice steady and firm. “Then I will trust you enough to do whatever you ask,” she vowed. “You can depend on that. But would the reverse hold true? If I ever asked you to do something for me without questioning it, would you?” He half-smiled, a glint of admiration lightening his hazel eyes.

“Of course, mon coeur.”

The pact was made. Rand’s answer was heartening to Rosalie, for she began to see that he was willing to treat her as a partner, someone he would trust as well as love. Most women were not so fortunate, for most men would not tolerate the kind of debates and discussions that she engaged in with Rand. After a moment of pleasurable reflection, she dared to ask something else. “I have always been determined,” she said, “that the man I married would want me for forever . . . only me, and no other women.”

“I will want you until every stone and brick of this château has crumbled into dust. You were meant for me, and I have no desire for any other woman.” Rand pulled her body closer to his, his large hands molding her bu**ocks and pressing her to the hard, burning length of his manhood. “This,” he murmured huskily, “is all because of you, and of late has promised to become a permanent condition. Sweet, we could spend the rest of the night deciding on stipulations and provisions of our marriage, but since we have the rest of our lives to do that, I have an alternative to suggest.” Rosalie’s temperature seemed to escalate several degrees as he shifted her h*ps against his. Her skin had become oversensitive and hungry for his slightest touch, her breathing shallow and fast as she struggled to accommodate an overload of messages. She wanted to be rid of the soft, clinging material of her gown, which was an unwanted barrier between her skin and his hands. She wanted to feel his hard, na**d flesh against hers, for nothing in the world seemed as glorious as the multitude of differences between their bodies, rough and soft, aggressive and yielding, strong and pliant.