Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(13)

Silently daring him to object, she gathered the somber material of her gown in her hands and thrust one leg into it. She would not even take the trouble to put on her stockings, as long as she could take her shoes—

“I wouldn’t bother with that just yet,” he said calmly, setting aside the shaving apparatus. Rosalie flinched. Again, uneasiness clotted in her throat.

“I insist you turn around,” she said, her tone cold. “I am used to dressing in privacy.”

His eyes traveled over the tangled waterfall of hair that looked far too heavy for such a slender neck to support, then touched on the trim, womanly proportions of her body before resting appreciatively on her legs. Her ankles and calves were slender but sturdy, their shape decidedly feminine. Rand smiled in an odd mixture of anticipation and self-contempt as he realized exactly where he desired those enticing legs to be. He was beginning to want her more each minute.

“Small rose, all blooms and claws, your vestments do you little justice. I prefer you just as you are. Put the garments down.”

She began to understand what he intended to do, with or without her compliance.

“A gentleman would not press his advantage in such a situation,” Rosalie breathed, every vessel in her body beginning to reverberate with the increased thumping of her heart.

“I agree. But I make it a habit to collect on my debts promptly,” Rand assured her. Quickly she shimmied into her gown.

“I can return your guinea to you,” Rosalie said in panic, backing away as he approached her. A mute plea shone in the sapphire depths of her eyes.

“But what of my time?”

“Make a reasonable request of payment!”

“A few minutes of your own in exchange,” Rand suggested, grinning suddenly as Rosalie ducked under his arm and retreated to the other side of the room. “Come, there’s no need to carry on like a bit player in a bad farce. I’m usually told that my company is quite pleasant.”

“You’re not going to bed me,” Rosalie informed him grimly. “I’d be as well off with the monster you rescued me from.”

She felt the edge of the shaving stand press against her back. A sudden idea lit through her mind. The razor . . . where was it? She would use it to threaten him and gain her escape.

“You would prefer to have taken your chances with your companion of last evening? I don’t think so. Admittedly, he and I share the same sentiment with regard to you. But although the end will be the same, the means will be quite different . . . that is, if my lovemaking isn’t grossly overrated.”

“I have no doubt it is!”

“You can review my performance afterward,” Rand said gently, and as she scuttled further away, Rosalie spied the shine of the razor out of the corner of her vision. Triumphantly she snatched it up before he could react.

“Not unless you care to be shaved a second time,” she warned, excitement weaving through her tone like tightly drawn reeds. “And I must warn you, I am far less precise with this than you.”

Rand halted in front of her, and Rosalie clutched the razor more tightly. It was terrifying to see his expression fade to metallic coolness, all hints of playfulness leaving his tone as he spoke.

“A threat which would be made all the more effective if you propositioned me with the sharp edge of the blade.”

She glanced down at the weapon, and in that instant he caught her slim wrist easily in a light, steely grip, easily turning it until she felt the feathery press of the blade against her own throat.

“Oh! I loathe you—get away from me!” Rosalie hissed, furious that she had been tricked, dreading the consequences of her threats to him. He smiled with a faint bleakness, dragging her body so close to his that she was not able to move.

“No matter what value you place on my hide,” he said softly, “I happen to cherish it. I don’t wish to see if you feel similarly about your own. Let go of your prize.”

She stared at him with hatred, refusing to loosen her clutch on the instrument. It was her last hope of escape. “Let go,” he repeated, and she moved slightly, causing a slip of the razor. Instantly it was lifted from her skin, but its mark had already been made. Gasping, she relinquished the weapon to him, and her eyes filled with unshed tears as she touched the smarting nick. A few drops of blood seeped to the surface, marring the pearllike whiteness. Never in her entire life had she been threatened in such a manner, and her rage was instantly diluted by surprise and fear.

“It’s not often I meet someone so unreasonably determined,” Rand remarked conversationally, placing the razor out of reach and whipping out a silk handkerchief.

“It’s not often that I am held prisoner,” Rosalie said, her voice quavering. “What are you going to do now? Strangle me?”

“If I were you, I would discard the practice of making such poorly timed and singularly appealing suggestions.” He wound the cloth lightly around her throat, frowning in what might have been regret as his fingertips lingered against her delicate skin. The faintly gray shadow of a bruise marred the pale smoothness of her jaw.

“Don’t fondle me! I will retch if you continue, God’s truth!”

“Rosalie . . .” Rand discovered that he rather liked the feel of her name on his tongue. “Would it make this any easier to be assured I will treat you well?” Good Lord, he had no end of women, matrons and maids alike, all willing to share his bed. Why did the prospect seem so unappealing to this one? Was she playing some sort of game with him?