Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(17)

“Look, I would prefer not to think of you at all. And I would rather not waste more time talking, so make a decision. Walk out the door so I can be rid of you . . .

or come with me, and I won’t spare you a thought, much less try to crawl into your bed. Either way, I won’t feel guilty, do you understand? But if you opt for the second choice, at least you have the certainty of being well-fed and lodged while you look for new employment.”

“I . . . I don’t know what to do,” Rosalie whispered, her defenses crumbling in the face of his hard manner. “But I don’t want to be with you.”

Rand was almost startled at how young, how naive she sounded. It should have irritated him, yet somehow she had gently disarmed him. When, if ever, had he wanted to take a woman in his arms merely to comfort her? Rand was suddenly certain that he had become debauched, for not only did he want to cradle her as if she were a little girl, he also wanted to join her on the bed and show her what sexual pleasure was. His gaze moved over her face, her damp, smooth skin and rosekissed mouth, the gentle curves of her cheekbones. Chafing at the unfamiliar nagging of remorse, Rand sighed heavily.

“Make the choice, little one,” he said gruffly, knowing that if she decided to leave him he would take her with him anyway. It was clear that she had never been on her own before, clearer still that she would be forced to grow up fast if she hoped to survive. Even on his best behavior, he would not be a good influence on a sheltered girl . . . and no matter what he promised, he could not absolutely guarantee that he would not touch her again.

“I would expect nothing less than this from someone of your birth,” Rosalie said bitterly. “You think that a few good meals and a few days of luxurious lodgings are going to pay for what you’ve done—I hope your conscience tortures you! You won’t ever be able to repay what you owe me!”

No one had ever dared to speak to him in such a manner. Rand found himself enormously irritated by the imperiousness of her tone, and even more by the fact that a mere girl could affect him so.

“That I owe you anything is a debatable question,” he said cuttingly. “The virginity of a woman of social consequence is a thing of some value. The virginity of a housemaid is usually dispensed of quite easily, and therefore of much less worth. If you have even a shred of common sense you’ll accept my protection before I withdraw the offer.”

“I suppose,” Rosalie said, trembling with outrage, “that you think I should be prostrate with gratitude.”

“I think,” he replied levelly, his voice quiet, “that you are very young. And that you’ve been taken advantage of due to an unfortunate set of circumstances. And further, I think that if you don’t accept my offer and you decide to try taking care of yourself, you’ll end up flat on your back by nightfall, either in an alley or in a brothel. Now, for some reason that I don’t understand and don’t especially care to examine, I don’t want that on my conscience. But if you refuse me I will consider myself absolved of all blame, whatever your fate happens to be.”

“How convenient for you,” Rosalie choked, bending her head in an effort to keep from breaking into violent tears. Again Rand felt that maddening twinge of guilt.

“Look . . . it is impossible to change what has hap pened,” he said slowly. “But I’ll try to make up for it by finding you a respectable position when I return from France. However, in the meanwhile I cannot leave you here alone. Come with me.”

“I don’t trust you,” she said unsteadily. “I’m afraid you’ll have to.”

Rosalie felt berself weakening. It was a temptation to relinquish herself to the situation. She was afraid of facing the world alone, especially in a city as dangerous as London. She did not want his protection, but she had to make the best of her present circumstances. The prospect of going to France with him actually began to seem like a sensible proposition. For one thing, he could do no further harm to her. In the eyes of society, the worst that could happen to a young woman had already taken place. People would probably be able to see that she was no longer unspoiled, for she was certain that it was branded on her for all the world to see. And she would be blamed for it, no matter what explanations she gave. What did she have to lose? What difference did it make if she went to France or starved in the streets of London? Nothing Maman could do would save her now. For the first time in her life, Rosalie was utterly aware of being alone.

“My mother does not know where I am,” she said, her throat tight.

“Your mother . . .” he repeated, a furrow digging into his forehead. He felt as if he had robbed a cradle. “God, how old are you?”

“Twenty,” she said, and his expression became clearer, although there was still the residue of a frown in his strange-hued eyes. “But I must let my mother know—” “Write a note,” he said with flaring exasperation. “I’ll have it sent to her.”

She went to her clothes and slipped them on, feeling more like herself as she was enveloped in their protection. Am I making the right decision? she asked herself in consternation. It didn’t really matter. There was nothing else she could do. Then Rosalie sat down at the mahogany French writing desk and> accepted a sharp quill from him. Rand began to dress, sliding a perceptive glance at her stiff back. She was frozen in indecision.

“I have little experience with mothers,” he remarked, “but I would suggest that you make it somewhat positive, unless you would like to severely upset what peace of mind she might have.”