Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(24)

“Just the front,” Rosalie replied casually. “No more decisions without consulting me first.” “I’m not your servant, Lord Berkeley. I take no orders from you.”

“No orders, just my money?”

“You were the one who suggested the clothes in the first place!”

“I suggested clothes, not cutting your damned hair!” “It’s my hair. I belong to myself, not to you. And snapping at me isn’t going to bring those few little snippets of hair back. And why do you care any—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted sharply, gritting his teeth in an effort to control his temper.

They said nothing for a few minutes as the horse’s hooves and the cabriolet wheels rattled over the uneven road, and then Rand sighed in an effort to release some of his pent-up frustration.

“We can’t live like this for the next few weeks. We’ll end up killing each other.”

“As far as I can tell, our differences are uncompromising,” Rosalie said flatly. She also had no idea of how they would be able to survive the stay in Havre.

Rand’s disturbed expression was suddenly lightened by a wry and fleeting smile.

“If France and England can make an effort at coexistence, I think you and I can work something out.” “What exactly do you suggest?” she inquired warily. “What would you say to calling a truce?” A truce. Rosalie toyed with the smooth fabric of her new gown as a debate raged in her mind. A truce, a cessation of hostility. But it would be dishonest to agree to something like that while she still felt hostile toward him. It couldn’t be changed easily. At times she merely had to look at him to feel the same anger and helplessness that had filled her as he had stripped off her clothes and taken her. He was the only man who had ever had intimate knowledge of her, and she hated the fact that while there might be others in the future, he would always be the first. She would never be able to forget that sunlit room at Berkeley Square and what had happened there, and that alone was reason to despise him. Possibly he saw her now as a person with feelings, but once lie had looked on her as only a body from which he was entitled to steal his pleasure.

“It would be pointless to try,” she said in a low voice, looking out at the rows of dirty houses they passed. She felt a weight settle on her shoulders, and she continued while feeling horribly guilty at refusing his overture. “I wish I had a more forgiving nature, but I don’t. It wouldn’t work.”

Rand nodded slightly, his face implacable, his mouth grim as he clicked to the horse and increased their pace. Obviously the thought had not occurred to her that the situation was glued together only by his oftenneglected sense of honor—he could leave her on any street corner and never be bothered with the sight of her again! Then he discarded the thought of pointing that out, disgusted with himself. Frightening a defenseless woman gave him no pleasure. In the ensuing moments of silence he was free to analyze his odd mixture of reactions to her words. He was offended at her refusal to cry truce. The worst part of him suggested rather snidely that, considering who was who and what was what, she had no right to refuse his tentative offer of friendship. Another part of him was vaguely hurt, as if he had extended a hand to a fluffy kitten and received a scratch for his trouble. And yet overall his regard for her had increased, for she had made it clear that she would play neither the saint nor the martyr by mouthing words of forgiveness that she did not feel.

He wondered how to deal with her. The only solution to the problem seemed to lie in staying as far away from her as possible.

From then on it seemed that the lines were drawn, for Rand made no more approaches and Rosalie made no concessions. A day passed, and then another, and their pattern was repeated until a week was behind them. Despite the brief snaps and arguments, the long silences and oddly tense, watchful conversations, Rosalie knew that she would remember those days at the Lothaire as being idyllic. She slipped into the French language as if it were a fitted glove, the lilting accents often reminding her of Amille. Rand left her alone a large part of the time as he went either to the docks or to check on properties that the Berkeleys owned, and she nestled in the cozy haven of the inn with contentment.

Rosalie had never experienced this kind of leisure time, in which she could choose whatever she wanted to do and know that there would be no interruption. She practiced her music, sat in a velvet nook reading novels by Jane Austen, wandered through the kitchen garden and chewed sun-warmed mint leaves, sat in the meeting-room and chatted idly about the contents of the thrice-weekly Continental newspapers with the other guests of the inn, two of whom were girls from the American colonies touring Europe with their parents.

The only time that she shared regularly with Rand was when they breakfasted in the coffee room on hot café au lait and flaky rolls, and once again in the evening when they shared dinner with the Queneau family and the other guests of the inn. They all sat in the salle à manger and ate huge meals that included fresh herbs and vegetables from the garden. After the main course the top tablecloth was removed to reveal an even finer one beneath, and then decanters of claret, port, and sherry were set out for them to imbibe as they partook of the hothouse fruits for dessert. Rosalie never dared to ask Rand why he never took more than a sip of wine, but she watched him every night and found his lack of taste for it very curious indeed.

Slowly the choice food, the cider from Normandy, the fresh air and sun, the leisure, the freedom, caused her pale skin to bloom with color and health. Rand said nothing about the change that was taking place, but at times he would look at her with eyes containing a bewildering mixture of craving and bleakness.