Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(117)

“I thought so,” Amille admitted wryly. “But not only did I underestimate the depth of Lucy’s love for Brummell, I underestimated the Earl of Rotherham’s obsession with her. He was incensed at the postponement of their marriage and consumed by his passion for Lucy. Somehow he discovered where we were and went to France. After going to the market one day, I came back to my parents’ cottage to find him there, staring like a madman at Lucy, who was at that time eight months pregnant. He said many things to her, Lord Berkeley, dreadful things which made a girl as fragile and sheltered as Lucy scream and cry. And then, before rushing out of the cottage and back to England, he made it clear that he still wanted her, that he was still going to marry Lucy, if only to punish her and the child for what they had made him suffer. He felt that he had been betrayed . . . no, profaned, and he swore he would satisfy his need for vengeance. The dread this created, on top of her anguish over Brummell’s desertion, caused Lucy to go a little mad, and shortly after Rosalie was born, Lucy climbed upon the parapet of the Quai d’Augustins and threw herself into the Seine.”

“And you decided to keep Rosalie.”

Amille smiled. “I loved her from the first time I saw her. To protect her I took a new name and pretended to be a respectable widow. I have never regretted keeping her because she has brought me as much joy as a daughter could give to a mother.”

Rand was suddenly still, his body stiffening as the realization hit him. “God. I’ve been asking the wrong question,” he said huskily. “Over and over again: why would someone want Brummell’s daughter. Brummell’s daughter!”

“That is right, Lord Berkeley,” Amille said, and her eyes were shadowed with a peculiar combination of emotions. “I have been afraid of it ever since the rumors and articles began about Rosalie’s identity and her involvement with you in France. Rosalie has not been kidnapped because she is the daughter of George Brummell. She has been kidnapped because she is the daughter of Lucy Doncaster.”

Fifteen

Only joy, now here you are Fit to hear and ease my care; Let my whispering voice obtain Sweet reward for sharpest pain, Take me to thee, and thee to me . . .

—Sir Philip Sidney

The door was bolted.

Rosalie swore at the discovery, throwing down the hairpin clutched between her fingers. Angry, frustrated tears threatened to spill from her eyes but she held them back as she paced from one end of the overelaborate room to the other. After working at the lock for hours and finally hearing the blessed click that had signified freedom, she had found that the door still would not open. There were no windows, no tools that would aid her in escaping, no fireplace . . . in short, there was no way out except for that door. The fact that the room was luxurious did not comfort her, for it was still a prison. The embroidery, fancywork, filigree, posies and bouquets, ruffles, and rosettes did little except to irritate her. This room had none of the wellorganized flamboyance of the Château d’Angoux; instead it possessed a cluttery English prettiness that threatened to suffocate her.

A lit oil lamp perched on one of the small tables by the frilly bed; a basket of perfect fruit posed on the other. Rosalie walked over and selected an apple, biting into it cautiously. The fruit was firm and sweet, and she chewed it slowly as she reflected upon the events of the past three days. Ever since Guillaume had left her in the Gypsy wagon she had been bound or locked up, transported from place to place by a succession of strangers, who had not mistreated her but had not spoken a word about her eventual fate. Escape was always made impossible, for her abduction had been conducted with care and an obvious amount of forethought. Part of the journey had been by ship. Even though they had landed at night and she had been blindfolded, Rosalie had recognized the scents of the English docks, English air, and the sounds of English voices. It was slightly comforting to know that she had been brought back here instead of transported to some foreign country where the language and the people were unfamiliar to her.

Judging from the somber stillness of her surroundings, Rosalie guessed that she was in a house located deep in the countryside: no traffic, no horses, whistles, or voices. Occasionally she would hear the scuffling sounds of servants’ feet just outside her door, but it was evident that they had been told to ignore her stubborn pounding and her shouted demands.

“Cowards,” she gritted between her teeth, throwing the half-finished apple into the nearest receptacle and resuming her pacing. “All of you are cowards. At least have the courage to face me and tell me why it is I’m being held against my will!” Her voice rose in helpless fury as she directed it toward the bolted door. “I don’t know if it’s night or day! I can’t breathe in here! I have no books, no papers—damn you all, I’m sick of waiting!”

Silence.

“I’m going to go mad,” Rosalie whispered, pressing her hands against her temples and taking a few deep breaths to calm herself. Unbuttoning the front of her high-necked lavender dress, she lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, liquid pooling in her eyes until she closed them and tried to occupy her mind with sane, sensible thoughts. She wondered where Rand was, and if he was as distraught as she, and if he had caught Guillaume and made him confess where she had been taken. He will find me, she told herself. He will take England and France apart until he finds me. She did not doubt his love for her, nor his strength and persistence. Rosalie even managed to smile as she thought of him in a rage . . . although the sight was awe-inspiring, a small part of her was always excited by his anger, for the intensity and wildness of it reminded her of his passion. Then she thought of him laughing, his teeth white against his copper skin, eyes glowing, his amber hair shining with layers of gold and brown. She remembered him as he told her that he loved her . . . how wonderfully gentle his mouth would become, how strange and compelling the mixture of colors in his hazel eyes was. Sighing, Rosalie found that her body had relaxed in temporary peace, her nerves now tranquil. “Neither you nor I will let anyone part us,” she murmured, dragging her fingers back and forth across a neighboring pillow. “You are my life, and separated from you I am nothing. Bring me back to life, Rand.” Rosalie turned her cheek into the pillow and slept, immersing herself in more thoughts of him.