Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(15)

“You would prefer a fast-paced finale? I’ll endeavor to oblige you,” he said, and before she could take another breath he thrust into her, hard and demanding, rending her feminine softness without restraint. Rosalie cried out in surprise and pain, her body arching sharply into his in immediate reaction. The disembodied feeling returned as she realized that he had penetrated inside of her, that he remained there and was suddenly still as he stared into her dazed face. Rand whispered something, a trace of some undefinable emotion in his tone. He remained unmoving as Rosalie endured the uncomfortable sensation of being filled, too much and too deep. He held her face between his hands, but she would not meet his eyes or accept the touch of his mouth. She had not wanted to be possessed by him, neither did she want his consolation. Patiently he let her adjust to the feel of his body, allowing the first shock to wear off before he began to ease in and out of her with exquisite care.

As remorse mingled with his desire, Rand’s manner changed entirely. He was extraordinarily gentle, trying to soften the stiffness of her body with his touch, brushing the lightest of kisses across her face. Although she lay underneath him like a stone, he continued to make love to her in a way that ordinarily would have given a woman unimaginable pleasure. But she was a virgin, and not only her body but also her spirit was wounded. She felt no gratification from his touch, only degradation.

Rosalie’s arms, freed now, drifted down to her sides as she felt the control and the power of his movements echo through her body. Each thrust aggravated the burning discomfort between her legs, and she felt as if she had been scorched by some inner fire. Now I know what it’s like, she thought dully, her quivering thighs locked on either side of his. It was just what Amille had predicted it to be, full of pain, embarrassment, the baseness of physical desire. She had been told that women were created to serve man’s needs, to give pleasure with their bodies. But how, Rosalie wondered miserably, did a man find pleasure in this? She doubted now that she would ever submit to someone voluntarily, not to this kind of invasion, this insult to her innocence, her dignity.

Finally, mercifully, he stopped, tensing as he pressed into the feminine sheath of her, then breathing out with a taut sigh. Exhausted, Rosalie lay beside him in misery, turning away as soon as he moved off her. She could feel rather than see the unnerving gaze that swept up and down her body. Rand glanced at the sheet, shaking his head slightly at the fresh stain of bright red. Even with such obvious proof, it was difficult to believe that she had been an innocent. He had never taken a woman’s virginity until now. Baffled and disquieted, he rose on one elbow and contemplated her forlorn figure silently. At age twenty-eight Rand had known a considerable number of women, yet not one of them had provided such acute pleasure as he had just experienced. Somewhere in the midst of possessing her, his lusty enjoyment of her body had changed into awareness of her fragility. How vulnerable she was, how delicate the feel of her body clasping him, how crude his pleasure had been in comparison to her tender inexperience. She should not have been used so, and he felt a shame in the realization, a shame he covered up with his customary brusqueness.

“You were telling the truth,” he admitted quietly, and as Rosalie quivered with hatred, she refused to look at him.

“Let me go now,” she said in a whisper compacted with emotion.

“Where exactly are you proposing I let you go to?” he questioned, wondering now about the situation she was in. Dammit, now he was uncomfortably aware of feeling responsible for her.

“To the residence of my employers, the Winthrops.” Rand frowned. He recalled having made the acquaintance of Lord and Lady Winthrop . . . miserly, overfed, patronizing, both of them sycophants to anyone of a higher station. It was doubtful that either the baron or his wife was magnanimous enough to extend any sort of mercy to a transgressing housemaid. “I have had the opportunity to meet both of them,” he said finally. “As well as their daughter, Elizabeth.” He remembered her as a vapid creature, traditionally pretty, hardly interesting.

“Elaine,” Rosalie corrected, feeling a sudden mad and illogical desire to snicker at his mistake. She had often wondered if others found Elaine as undistinctive and bland as she suspected. Now the truth was out.

“They did not strike me as being exceptionally understanding. You won’t be welcomed back by them, not with the overabundance of women willing to take your place.”

Rosalie did not know how to respond, acknowledging inwardly that he was right.

“I don’t care where I go. I just want to get away from you,” she said in a small, bitter voice. Suddenly Rand wanted nothing more than to be able to leave the scene, disliking the necessity of facing what he had done. But he could not wish her away, and if he simply cast her out, the memory of her would linger in his mind in the most tormenting way.

“Of all mornings to wake up with a conscience,” he muttered, “this is probably the most inconvenient.” His straight brows drew together in an intimidating scowl. “I have no desire to see you further misused,” he continued, “but I have no time to settle things here.” As she turned toward him and opened her mouth, he cut her off. “Furthermore, I have no confidence in your ability to fend for yourself.”

“I don’t give—”

“I know. I understand your feelings. And believe what you may, I sympathize with them.” “Hardly,” Rosalie said with accents of loathing, “unless you have a taste for suicide.”