Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(25)

Although Rosalie continued to avow that she disliked him, she found that he aroused a great deal of curiosity in her. She began to know exactly when he had been brawling, gaming, or engaging in some adventure, because sometimes he would walk in with a reckless and irresponsible gleam in his eyes. It seemed that he enjoyed himself only when he was doing something that the rest of the Berkeleys would undoubtedly have disapproved of. It was difficult to understand him, however, because he was more complex than a typical amusement-seeker. The more she became acquainted with him, the more surprised Rosalie was by the fact that he had bothered to rescue her from her attacker on the night of the Covent Garden fire. Although he could occasionally be kind when the moment suited him, Rand was certainly not a humanitarian. Often he was given to mocking and heartless moods that both awed and dismayed Rosalie.

One night he came back to the inn unusually late after spending the day journeying to Louviers and back. Having made up his mind to forage out additional trade partners, Rand had engaged in negotiations and obstacle-ridden conversations the entire day, with a fair measure of success. He wanted a piece of the French wool business and he was also willing to take the risk of investing in what promised to be an explosion of development in the silk industry. Now that Napoleon was rotting in St. Helena, industries that rested on the whims of the upper classes would undoubtedly flourish.

He strode into the suite wearily and was confronted with the sight of Rosalie submerged in the high-sided tub in the center of the room. Candlelight played over her features, causing delicate shadows to lurk deliriously behind her earlobes and in the gentle hollows under her cheekbones. Wisps of steam curled around her neck, wafting around her head and floating toward the ceiling. Working soap into her hair, Rosalie looked toward the intruder calmly. When she saw that it was Rand, her eyes widened slightly. He had always remained in his room while she took her bath, not having once seen her unclothed since that morning in London. “I thought you were the maid,” she said, her voice higher than normal. “She’s gone to get some towels.” Don’t be an idiot, she told herself instantly, it’s not as if he hasn’t seen you before! A powerful tension immediately filled the room and shimmered almost visibly in the air. Rosalie had not been this aware of him as a man since that morning in London, and she sank a few inches lower in the water as unwanted memories tormented her. Rand stood as if nailed to that one spot on the floor, his mouth having gone dry, his bright greenish eyes unblinking. With a superhuman effort he tore his attention away from her and regarded his nails intently.

“Sorry. I spent longer in Caen than I thought I would—”

“Did you get many things accomplished?” It took much contrivance to keep her voice casual.

“I . . . Yes.”

“Well . . . I’ll be finished with the water soon,” Rosalie said, and Rand took a step or two backward until he felt the carved door against his shoulders. His pulse picked up speed until its rapidity caused every inch of his skin to prickle in awareness of the fact that her na**d body was only a few feet away.

“Don’t hurry,” he said, finding it a miracle that he hadn’t choked on the words. “I’m heading out again— more business to take care of.”

“What about dinner?” Rosalie inquired, frowning, and he shook his head hastily.

“I’m not hungry. I’ll be back later . . . lock the door behind me.”

Disgruntled, Rosalie watched him leave and then she slumped against the back of the tub in relief. After finishing her bath she ate alone and went to bed early, her ears pricked for the sound of a key turning in the main door of the suite. It seemed that for most of the night she remained in a semiwakeful state, waiting for the release of knowing he had returned. He finally arrived when the morning did.

Groggy, her eyes puffy from lack of sleep, Rosalie awakened to the muffled sounds of someone entering the apartments, and she pulled on the pelisse that matched her white nightgown before opening her door. Rand had just come into the suite. She looked at him first in surprise and concern, then in disgust. She could smell some cheap harlot’s overly sweet perfume, its scent distilling through the entire room. His clothes were disheveled, his face as haggard, his eyes as bloodshot as Rosalie’s. His condition hinted more of exhaus tion than drunkenness, as if he had been awake most of the night. Rosalie could not help picturing him rolling and rutting in bed with another woman, and she felt indignation catch in her throat. Promiscuous wretch!

“Well. We make a pair this morning, don’t we?” he said, his words overly soft and carefully enunciated. “You are appalling,” Rosalie stated in a low, taut voice, and he focused an unsteady golden gaze upon her.

“Why, pray tell?”

“You look and smell as if you have slept with every prost . . . whore on the western coast.”

“Very possibly,” Rand agreed, pulling his coat off and letting it drop to the floor. “But if you’ll remember, that was part of our little understanding. If I feel the need, I find some other outlet for my attentions. Or would you rather I had shared your bed after all?”

Rosalie could feel an unbecoming sneer form on her face. She was powerless to remove it. “You’re revolting.” “I’m an unmarried man with no commitment to any woman. What in hell is so revolting about it?”

“That your wandering lust, troubadour that it is, will apparently perform for any female capable of lifting her own skirts.”