Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(11)

But perhaps she owed him her gratitude. He must have helped her to escape the attacker, since she had no recollection of having been molested. Rosalie flushed hotly as she came to the discovery that her clothes were draped over a Trafalgar chair in the corner and that she was wearing nothing but her brief chemise. She had never even been alone with a man before, much less while tucked in his bed wearing skimpy undergarments! And this stranger was also clothed in precious little, although he wore the wine-hued robe as casually as if it were the most complete formal attire. It made her uncomfortable to realize how large, how very masculine his form was. Had he ever longed for the slender physique so prized by fashionable standards? Somehow she didn’t think so.

Dazed, she cast her eyes around the room. It contained tortoiseshell cabinets, elegant Sheraton furniture and cerule chairs, and Grecian motifs that blended the whole with harmony. A glowing Brussels carpet adorned the floor, and a brilliant-cut chimney pier mirror gleamed above a table with cabriole legs. If he owned this, then he was a man of some means. It was richly furnished, more luxurious than even the Winthrops’ residence . . .

Rosalie’s blood ran like ice through her body as she dwelled on the subject of the Winthrops. No matter what the excuse or how extenuating the circumstances, Lady Winthrop would not tolerate the breaking of her rules. She would cheerfully throw Rosalie and Amille out into the streets right after poor Martha, quicker than a wink and with no afterthought. Rosalie realized that she had probably lost her job, her future, and every shred of security she had once possessed. She darted a glance to the window. It was barely daybreak, the sunlight just beginning to filter through the sky. Since the Winthrops slept until late morning, there was still a thin chance that she could get home before they awoke. But perhaps Maman had already alerted them of her disappearance? Only if Amille had made it home at all last night. Rosalie’s heart pounded with worry. She had to get home as quickly as possible. But what of this man?

“Interesting,” the stranger said, his voice pleasantly modulated, if cool. “With each new thought your eyes change a different hue.”

“Where am I?” she asked, her voice coming out in a croak.

Ignoring her question for the moment, he brought her a cup of hot, fragrant tea from a tray on one of the Sheraton tables. She refused to move, eyeing him as if he were about to attack her. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice shaking. “Please tell me what happened last night.”

“Why don’t you take some tea first?” he suggested reasonably. “You look as though you need it.” Rosalie hesitated and then accepted the heated china cup carefully, feeling trapped as she looked at him. The dark-ringed green of his gaze was peculiar, for it was lightened by several brilliant shades of topaz that made his eyes startling as they shone against the burnished tan of his skin. She wondered briefly at his obvious lack of care for the effects of the sun. Any darker and he would appear quite barbaric. Well-bred gentlemen kept their skin pale; even George IV, the prince regent, was known to apply leeches to divest his face of color. Perhaps this man was a naval officer or a port official. “Where am I?”

“We’re at my apartments in Berkeley Square,” he informed her. Rosalie relaxed enough to take a sip of the strong, reviving tea. She was not too far from Bloomsbury, where the Winthrops resided.

Rand’s eyes rested on her steadily as he became intrigued by the incongruity between her unfashionable clothing and her upper-class accent. “What is your name?” he asked, his mouth tilting slightly at. the corners at the picture she made, her hair a silky tangle, her bearing demure, her grip on the teacup entirely proper.

Immediately alarmed, Rosalie shook her head. Her hands were still trembling from the shock of finding herself in such a predicament, causing a few drops of hot tea to spill on her arm. She could not begin to place any trust in this stranger, at least not until she found out who he was and how she had come to be here.

“I would rather not say,” she said in a low voice. “Then tell me where you come from.”

“I . . . I would rather not tell you that either.” “Interesting,” he remarked in a light, amused tone, his smile mocking. “To be strictly equal, I suppose I’m not obliged to reveal anything further. And yet I’d wager you have a few questions to ask.”

“My name is Rosalie,” she said in a small rush, knowing that as things stood she had to depend on what limited kindness he might possess. Better to try to oblige him if she could.

“Rosalie . . .” he repeated, turning toward the mirror of a mahogany shaving table and dampening a wellused cake of soap. The approaching sunlight gleamed in his hair, touching off cool gold tones in the closely scissored strands of brown. “No last name?”

“You have no need to know it.”

“True enough,” Rand drawled, unconcernedly lathering his face with the hard milled soap. “Well, since you’ve told me half your name, I’ll be at least halfway obliging.”

She started as he flipped open a long, well-sharpened razor. His expert manner with the instrument caused her no small amount of unease.

“Sir,” she asked shakily, “how is it that I am here?” The razor made a smooth, careful path down his brown throat before he answered.

“My companions and I happened to pass by as you were accosted last night. Circumstances . . . made it impossible for me to ignore you.”