Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(105)

The exchange was halted by the appearance of Rosalie. Out of the corner of his eye Rand could see the tenseness of her body and the way she had wound her hands in the folds of her skirts. Rand held up his left hand ina commanding gesture, stilling his foil after the last block and glancing at her white face.

“Some mail has arrived,” she said, her eyes dark as they fastened onto his. “A man brought it up from the village. Do you have some francs to give him—?” “Yes,” Rand interrupted, his voice deliberately calm.

He knew why she was so agitated—the answer to her letter must have arrived from England. He knew also that she did not want to open Amille’s letter alone. “Guillaume, we’ll continue this later.”

“Certainement,” Guillaume said, his gaze traveling from one to the other of them in subtle curiosity. He took the foil from Rand and flicked the rubber cap absently, watching as the other man “went into the château.

Rosalie waited in her room, sitting down on the edge of the bed and clasping her hands in her lap until Rand closed the door.

“It’s from Amille,” he stated bluntly, handing her one of the two letters in his hand and reserving the other for himself. “Shall I stay here while you read it?”

“Please,” she murmured, her hands trembling as she broke the wax seal. “You received one also. Who . . . who sent it?”

“My brother, Colin.”

“Oh.” Rosalie paused, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes as she gathered her courage. The paper that she clutched in her hands held the secrets of her past, her birth, her heritage, and the information that it contained was of such importance that she was almost afraid to read it. She thought briefly of Amille writing it, and suddenly Rosalie missed her so much that she felt a physical ache inside her chest.

“Rose . . .” Rand’s voice intruded on her building tension and anxiety. “What is written in that letter will not change anything. You will still be the same woman, with the same talents and strengths, and I am extremely grateful to whoever fathered you. And whether you’re the daughter of Beau Brummell, Georges Belleau, or Father Christmas, I will love you just the same.” She nodded silently, bending her head over the folded parchment and opening it carefully. She spread it over her lap as she read, her eyes becoming wet with tears at the first sight of Amille’s familiar handwriting.

My dearest Rosalie . . .

She turned away from Rand as she read the letter slowly, only pausing halfway through it to take the handkerchief that he handed to her wordlessly. Rand leaned against the wall and watched her, crossing his long legs and folding his arms. His eyes rested on the center of her narrow shoulders, and he stifled the urge to go over to her again, knowing that she had to face the contents of Amille’s letter by herself, without intermediaries. Giving her time to absorb whatever secrets Amille had brought to light, Rand opened his own letter from Colin, scanning it and then rereading it with an odd expression on his face.

Rosalie blew her nose noisily, looking up at him with blurry vision.

“Well?” he asked softly.

Rosalie cleared her throat and wiped underneath her eyes with her fingers. “She wasn’t my natural mother.” Suddenly she half-smiled at the odd sound of those words, and she looked upward to contain the fresh, welling tears of emotion. Her forehead creased as she leveled a brilliant, glimmering gaze at him. “She was Lucy Doncaster’s governess. Lucy was my real . . . I’m Lucy’s daughter.”

Rand nodded slightly, leaning his head back until it rested against the wall. His eyes remained on her intently.

“Your father?” he prompted, and Rosalie sighed in something approaching disbelief.

“Brummell. It’s all true—Amille’s story corresponds to his exactly. Something in me cannot quite comprehend that Beau Brummell is my father. Brummell,” she repeated, as if to convince herself, “the favorite of the regent, the center of London society, the eccentric dandy—”

“He’s a man,” Rand interrupted quietly, “a man, like any other.”

“According to the letter,” Rosalie said, drying her eyes before locating a certain passage, “he was the ‘most handsome, shallow, and charming man Lucy had ever met.’ Amille writes that he was fond of Lucy but that he didn’t have the capability to love deeply. She implies that he was too self-centered.”

“It seems quite likely,” Rand said dryly.

“And then the story becomes a little foggy,” Rosalie continued, lifting the handkerchief to blow her nose once more. “There is a paragraph about the Earl of Rotherham. Have you ever—?”

“No, I’ve never met him or heard much about him. He is a reticent sort.”

“Lucy was promised to him, but even after her affair with Brummell had ended, she showed no inclination to marry the earl. It says here that ‘she was frightened of Rotherham’s obsession with her.’ I wonder exactly what it was that frightened her. In any event, she conceived a child by Brummell. How strange it is . . . that I can’t think of that child being me,” Rosalie said, pausing in wonder. “I suppose I’ll get used to it.” “Your existence was kept a secret from outsiders?” “Yes . . . I . . . was born in France, where Amille and Lucy went to escape from the gossip and rumors, and also from Rotherham, whose obsession with Lucy apparently hadn’t decreased.”