Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(23)

Much later in the day as the sun was beginning to lose its tenuous grip on the darkening sky, Rand pulled the smart, fast curricle-hung gig to a halt in front of Madame Mirabeau’s shop. Impatiently he entered the small building and stood near the doorway, wondering how his one-time mistress had fared. Madame Mirabeau peered at him from a curtained-off room. “One moment, monsieur,” she said, and there were muffled sounds of giggling as her head disappeared. Obviously they intended to stage some sort of production for his benefit. He could hear Rosalie’s voice, although it sounded as if they were trying to keep her quiet.

“He won’t care which slippers! Yes, I know he’s paying, but you don’t understand . . .”

In another few minutes Madame came out and flung open the red curtain dramatically, gesturing for Rosalie to follow. Rand smiled slowly as an elapse of several seconds occurred. When she finally emerged the smile left his face, the color of his eyes changed from tigergold to green. Rosalie stopped in front of him, feeling unaccountably bashful as he viewed the results of their day-long handiwork. She waited in vain for him to speak. Did he like it? It doesn’t matter what he thinks, she told herself. As he said nothing and continued to stare, Rosalie lifted her chin slightly, her attitude becoming faintly regal as she gathered pride around her like a mantle.

The gown was of the softest, palest pink imaginable, glimmering like the inside of a shell. Small puffed sleeves caressed the tops of her arms and the neckline plunged so deeply that it merely clung to the tips of her br**sts before cupping them underneath and falling in thin folds to the floor. Her figure was youthful and slim but the full curves of a woman were undeniably there, enhanced by the soft, clinging material. The only jewelry she wore was a small gold pin which gleamed and winked from the pale velvet ribbon fastened around her neck. Rosalie’s skin flushed slightly at Rand’s intent perusal, her eyes shining a clear daylight blue. They had trimmed her hair in the front so that what had formerly been wisps were now fashionably curled bangs, but the rest was pinned in a heavy, gleaming mass at the back of her head.

“I hardly recognize you,” Rand said huskily. The sight of her had hit him like a blow, leaving him unprepared, defenseless. He looked at her as he wavered between desire and resentment. She wasn’t covered enough, he thought, relentlessly tearing his fascinated gaze from her br**sts . . . yet the rational part of his mind insisted that she wore no less than any other fashionable women. A question stung him suddenly with painful accuracy: was he going to be able to bear keeping his hands off her? His pride, his word, was involved in the matter, for he had promised not to take her again. Good Lord, how had he devised such a trap for himself? I didn’t know, he thought with hungry discontentment, I didn’t know then that I would want her so much.

“You look very nice,” he mumbled, aware that an approving statement was expected of him from the women. Although Madame Mirabeau had apparently expected a more flamboyant compliment, Rosalie appeared to be satisfied with it. She gave him a small smile and looked down at herself, and in that moment Rand saw the actions of someone else, a moment of startling clarity, too brief to grasp. Immediately his physical craving subsided as he focused on the surprising realization. Somewhere, somehow . . . he had seen her before.

“Where did you get the pin?” he asked, his gaze thoughtful as it rested on the small circlet of gold. The initial B was carved in the center, surrounded by tiny etched leaves. It was a gentleman’s stock pin intended to anchor the intricate folds of a cravat.

“It belonged to my father, Georges Belleau,” Rosalie replied, fingering the circlet absently. “It was given to me by my mother on my eighteenth birthday.” Why in the world had he asked about her pin? she wondered with vague irritation. Had he even looked at her dress, her face, her figure? Was he so unaffected by her? Not that she cared a whit for his blasted opinion, but after spending all day . . .

“You are pleased with the gown?” Madame Mirabeau inquired coyly, and Rand’s green-gold gaze swerved to her.

“Madame,” he said slowly, “your artistry is equaled only by the materials you were initially given to enhance.” They were polite words of admiration, spoken so perfunctorily that they were meaningless. Rosalie was annoyed more by them than if he had kept his mouth shut.

“Ah, somehow I think you do not speak of the cloth,” Madame Mirabeau simpered, hedging for further snippets of praise in a manner that only a Frenchwoman could. Rand adroitly cut short the exchange by alluding tactfully to the bill.

“Such a transformation is of course worth any price, chère Madame . . .”

“Ah, yes,” she said instantly. “You will notice at first glance the economy of my work, monsieur. You are a foreigner, but I do not take you for a fool. I charge you only the bare minimum . . .”

Now feeling uncomfortable at the prospect of having a man pay for the clothes, the slippers, even the chemise she wore, Rosalie remained silent until they left an eminently pleased Madame Mirabeau in the shop. He owes it to me, she told herself over and over. Because of Rand Berkeley she had lost her innocence, her employment, her home. A few clothes were the least he could offer. Still the sensation of unpleasantness remained with her, as if the exchange of money between the man and the dressmaker had somehow labeled her as his possession. As they drove home, Rand was the first to speak.

“So you’ve had a profitable day,” he remarked. Rosalie nodded, reaching an experimental hand to touch the newly shorn curls at her forehead. “I see they cut your hair.” The displeasure in his voice was heartening. At least he had noticed something about her that aroused more than polite blandness!