Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(28)

“It frizzles the mind,” the Beau said pointedly to Rand, “how brown you’ve become. Have you no care for your complexion? Skin as dark as a peasant’s—and judging from your brother’s fairness, you cannot use the excuse of heredity . . .”

As Rand murmured something apologetically, Rosalie smiled, knowing full well that her erstwhile lover had no intention of staying indoors to hide from the sun. She observed Brummell’s white, clear complexion admiringly. She could well believe the rumors that he buffed his skin carefully each day with a flesh-brush and rinsed with milk and water.

He had a pleasant round face and bright blue eyes, a face reflecting a wealth of vanity and innocence, charm and entreaty. He loved beauty and simplicity; he believed that those two virtues were embodied in himself, and it was said that he tried to encourage them in others. So this was the man who had humbled a prince and presided over English society for so long.

“I had found the most charming Chinese cabinet for over there . . .” he was explaining to Rand, and as he spoke, those bright eyes turned in her direction. Rosalie felt an odd quake as Brummell stared at her in silence. For several long seconds blue eyes met blue, caught, holding, wondering. Then Rosalie smiled hesitantly. “I think your apartments are beautiful,” she said simply.

Rand cleared his throat. “George Brummell, let me introduce you to Miss Rosalie—”

“—Belleau,” she interceded.

“Miss Belleau . . .” Brummell spoke in a moved tone, bowing deeply. “I speak in humblest sincerity in saying that I have seen few that have ever come close to your beauty, none that have ever excelled it. The angels must look down as you pass by and weep in envy.”

“Kind sir,” Rosalie replied, smiling at his verbal flamboyance, “surely your precious words are wasted on one so undeserving of them.” Unknowingly she had tilted her head in a halfway flirtatious manner as she spoke, and as she stood before him, Brummell suddenly wrinkled his brow in confusion.

“Jeremy!” he called, his voice impatient and anxious, and as the valet shuffled hurriedly into the room, he caught sight of Rosalie and stopped completely. Feeling herself the object of two shocked and intent stares, Rosalie moved closer to Rand. Protectively he let his fingertips rest lightly on her back.

“Is something amiss, Brummell?”

“No, no, my good man, no.” The Beau recovered himself quickly and patted his valet on the shoulder. “Fetch it, Jeremy. Dear Miss Belleau, please excuse my taxing rudeness, but I hope to explain my actions to you momentarily. I have never seen such a likeness, not in all my born days.”

“A likeness?” Rosalie questioned, her curiosity aroused. As she became aware of Rand’s hand on her back, she tried to keep from moving or changing position, oddly aware that it was a pleasant sensation. “Before your arrival,” the Beau replied, “she was the fairest woman I had ever been blessed to meet.” His pleasant face became gradually doleful as he continued. “My heart belonged to her as the stars do to heaven. . . surely they all faded a bit when she and I parted.” He sighed. “The saddest tale in the history of love, if not one of the better-known.”

Rand smothered the smile that twitched the corners of his lips as he saw the pity and interest leaping in Rosalie’s expression. She was not aware that Brummell had a warehouse of tales and fabrications, of love, adventure, scandal, tragedy, all of which were carefully preserved and frequently pulled out to entertain his guests. It was one of the marvels of Brummell, that he could find a story to absorb the interest of any listener.

“Shall I continue over refreshments?” Brummell inquired, and solicitously led Rosalie to a small damask-covered table on which reposed a silver tea service. Without interrupting his monologue, he assisted her into a small Windsor chair and indicated that Rosalie pour the tea. By the teapot there was a small platter of red-currant cakes, gingerbread, gooseberry tarts, scones with Corinth raisins, and biscuits de Rheims, expensive almond-flavored cookies. “Her name was Lucy Doncaster,” Brummell began the tale. “Her appearance startlingly close to yours, except that her eyes were the blue of the mist on an English morning. Her hair was the same hue as yours, and it . . .” He cleared his throat meaningfully. “I had the occasion of discovering that it reached nearly down to her waist.” Which was a polite way of saying, Rosalie recognized, that he had been very intimate with Lucy Doncaster. What a charming way to reveal the character of their relationship. “She had the gentlest nature of any woman before or since—she would never contradict, never complain, never reveal a shred of impatience . . .” As the Beau continued, Rosalie turned to her left and met Rand’s eyes, which held a fair amount of wicked amusement. “. . . and it was not possible for our hearts to resist the silent importunings of love. At sixteen I made the acquaintance of the prince regent, was given a cornet’s commission in the tenth regiment, and thus began a celebrated and regrettable friendship that has lasted the past two decades or so. As you are aware, I have recently lifted the blinders of this friendship with Prinny and seen that his shortcomings are too unbearable for a man of my ilk to tolerate . . . but getting back to the story. We met at Brighton, as Prinny was in the habit of ordering our regiment, the Hussars, back and forth from the Pavilion to London. She and her parents were guests at one of many splendid balls at the Pavilion—”