Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(16)

Suddenly Rand’s white teeth flashed in a grin, a slight frisson of amusement at her testiness causing his remorse to subside. He didn’t blame her for wanting to kill him. In fact, he was beginning to admire whatever it was that caused her spirit to rejuvenate so quickly instead of remaining humbled and crushed. Many women in her current situation would be flinging themselves out of the window, not eyeing him with a brilliant glare of hatred.

The thought crossed his mind: she would certainly enliven an unexciting trip. His first inclination had been to pay her off and let her make her own way in the world. But for some bewildering reason he did not want her to become a whore, and that was one of the few options that a ruined virgin of her status could contemplate. Perhaps the most convenient solution was to offer her his protection for a while, at least until he could set her on her feet again.

“It’s obvious that what has already been done cannot be repaired,” he said, his eyes measuring her reaction to his words. It was necessary to make her completely aware of what her circumstances were. “And unfortunately there are further consequences to the events of the past twenty-four hours—the loss of your employment, for example.” As she made no response, he continued flatly. “I believe we can reasonably assume you will not be able to return to the Winthrops?”

“Yes,” Rosalie said, her voice low. “I mean, no, I will not return.”

“And the state of your finances is also apparent.” She nodded slowly. She was utterly penniless. “Any family?”

“My mother,” she admitted, averting her gaze from his as she industriously gathered the sheet around her. “But she works for the Winthrops, and I will not compromise her position.” Rosalie thought of Amille and covered her eyes with a hand in a weary gesture, unshed tears causing her head to ache. “I was separated from her last night when a fire broke out at the theater. I don’t know what became of her. She might be out in the streets this very morning.”

“You appear to be educated,” Rand commented absently, ignoring the worry threaded through her voice. His concern was for her, not a mother who was most likely capable of taking care of herself. “It will be easy enough to find respectable employment for you, as a nanny if nothing else. The problem lies in that I have to leave this morning for France.”

“I don’t need your help to find employment—” “Unless you want the events of last night and this morning to occur all over again, you need my protection until you are safely established somewhere,” Rand said, rising from the bed and padding over to the pitcher and basin. He seemed unaware of the magnificence of his body, uncaring of his own nakedness. Quickly he scrubbed himself down with a square of damp linen. Then, as he brought the water to the bedside table, he saw Rosalie’s red, flushed face and bowed head. A fleeting smile crossed Rand’s lips as he pulled on his robe in consideration for her fierce embarrassment, thinking that his past acquaintance with such innocence had been limited.

“Your protection?” Rosalie murmured in a strangled tone, making a useless effort to keep the sheet over her body as he pulled it from her.

“I’ll have to take you with me to France. It should be nothing longer than a few weeks. When we return, I’ll settle you and your situation.”

“No.” Rosalie glared at him. What arrogance he possessed! She would die before becoming his mistress, allowing him to use her for his own pleasure. After what he had done, how could he have the gall to suggest it? Suddenly she gasped at the feel of the cold wet cloth he applied to her body, and she made a feeble attempt to escape the brutal intimacy of his eyes and hands on her na**d body. Washing every inch of her skin industriously, Rand brought a rosy glow to the surface. She shivered at the chilly friction of the material, her flesh shrinking at yet another bout of unwanted intimacy with him. Good God, did he have to handle her as if she were a prostitute he had rented for the night? “I can’t believe you dare to propose it,” she said, her teeth chattering. “I would rather walk the streets than submit to you even one night.” “I would not make any demands of you,” he said, plying the dampened cloth with strong brown hands. “Inexperienced girls with sharp tongues are not usually to my taste. Call this morning a . . . moment of weakness.”

Rosalie snatched the cloth from him as she felt the coldness of it between her legs.

“I can do that myself!” she snapped, waiting until he turned his head before she completed the ablutions. “Tell me . . . what would happen if your . . . desire . . . was reawakened and I was the most easily available woman? Would I still be so unpalatable to you? Exactly how often do you have these ‘moments of weakness’?”

Her tone made it clear that she considered him to possess all the discipline of a rutting dog.

“You will not be the only woman in France. When I feel the need for female companionship, I’ll have plenty to choose from. So you may rely on my future discrimination.” Rand was sincere in his pledge not to touch her again. His pleasure in her had not been inconsiderable, but it was completely marred by the guilt afterward. A willing whore was far preferable to an outraged virgin—that much he was certain of. Rand handed the chemise to her, and she slipped into it with fierce eagerness to cover herself.

“Rely on your discrimination?” she repeated skeptically. “When you have shown none so far? Do you think I’m an idiot?”