Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(21)

“It’s for business,” Rand began, and then he sighed. “Well, for personal reasons as well, I suppose.” As she remained silent, he persisted in the task of unbinding her hair, becoming absorbed in the methodical process. Her quietness encouraged him to continue. “The Berkeleys have many sources of income, but the most well-known besides Berkeley Square is the shipping company. We are trying to cut into the business done by the East Indiamen, now that Europe is recovering from the economic havoc of Napoleon’s rule. According to my grandfather the earl, managing it all requires a staunchness of character and an affinity for responsibility that I’ve shown no sign of possessing so far. And unfortunately the earl is quite old.”

“You’ll inherit everything?” Rosalie could not help but be impressed by the immense power and the weighty obligations that would eventually be passed on to him. How could he speak of it so casually? “If I am not capable of resolving the shipping problems that have sprung up between Boston and Havre, he’ll find some way of giving a large portion of the estate to my younger brother.” Rand suddenly gave a soft, dry laugh that rasped pleasantly along her nerves. “If he has to bury me alive, he’ll do it to keep as much as possible of the Berkeley fortune intact.” “And your brother has this . . . staunch character and responsible nature that your grandfather desires for you?”

“No. But he has talent with money.” Rand had a head for facts and figures, but he had never shared an affinity with Colin in the way he regarded currency. Colin prized money not for what it could buy or accomplish, but for itself. He worshiped a metallic goddess, constantly seeking ways to make the coins multiply.

Rosalie absorbed the information silently. Something in Rand’s voice indicated that his was more of a personal quest than he wanted her to believe. Perhaps he was trying to prove something to his grandfather. She wondered what kind of man his brother was, and why he spoke of him with such an odd, sardonic note in his voice.

Slowly the strands of sable were freed from their woven prison, two or three at a time, until finally he was satisfied that they were all gone. Rosalie sighed in gratitude, and then she felt his fingers slide under the hair to her scalp, massaging away the soreness and tension that had built up. Hardly daring to move, she allowed his strong hands to ease away her weariness, wondering guiltily if she should be enjoying it, unwilling to stop him.

Rand felt himself pulled into the curiously erotic sensation of liquid silk flowing through his fingers. When he realized the effect it was having on him, he stopped abruptly and let his hands fail from their task. “I think the bath is ready,” he said. “You can use the water first.”

As if coming awake from a brief dream, Rosalie blinked a few times and then stood up, throwing him an uneasy glance before she left the bedchamber. Rand closed his eyes until the quickly awakened and slow-todie fire left his body. He had been wrong: he hadn’t been sated by her. He wanted her still, wanted her even more than he had a few mornings ago. A wave of something between surprise and dread swept over him as he recalled that she was the one woman in the world he had promised not to touch. “Rand, you fool,” he muttered, wiping damp palms against his hard thighs and wondering if there was anything else he could do to further complicate his life. Unwittingly he had set himself up in his own particular hell, in which he was left with the thirst of Tantalus. Worse than the desire to take her again for his own pleasure was the knowledge that he’d left her unawakened, afraid of a man’s desire, empty of the anticipation of love. And he had promised to leave her so, and so he would. He had a debt to face, the price of his passion.

Three

He that hath no mistress,  must not wear a favour, He that woos a mistress, must serve before he have her.

—Anon.

The innkeeper’s talkative wife, Marie Queneau, had been adamant about recommending Madame Mirabeau’s as the only draper’s shop worth mention in Havre. Rand had deposited Rosalie there after putting in a perfunctory appearance as her benefactor. “Tout ce qu’elle veut,” he had said. As the words “all she wants” danced through her mind, Rosalie had smiled at him wickedly, endeavoring to cause him as much unease as possible about what she would spend.

Rosalie did not relish playing the role of his mistress, but she found that the unspoken title had given her a certain status, even though the clothes she wore had become filthy and ragged. It seemed that the mistress of a wealthy man had more influence and importance than even his wife, at least in Madame’s viewpoint. Madame attended to Rosalie personally, strewing designs, “fashion babies,” and samples of cloth and lace in front of her. After years of conservative clothes and serviceable colors, Rosalie found herself in the midst of a minor predicament. Trying on Elaine’s castoffs was one thing but actually purchasing such high fashion for herself was both unnecessary and pretentious. Pastels were the rage, delectable shades of carnation, coral, cucumber, powder blue, and lavender. They were colors that would be quite useless for a servant who came into occasional contact with soot and dust. There was no need for her to order a ball gown, since Rand would obviously not have the time or desire to take her dancing, even though balls were held frequently in celebration of Napoleon’s defeat. And the delicate, mouth-watering laces and frills, the ruching and edged scallops . . . on her, they would be like peacock’s feathers on a pigeon. Don’t dress yourself like a maid, Rand had warned her mockingly, and his words remained in her ears as she looked uncertainly at one sketch after another. But that’s what I am, she thought despairingly, a maid and a companion. She should select things that would last long after Rand Berkeley had faded from her life.