Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(29)

“And it was love at first glance,” Rosalie said with certainty, her young heart feeling as if it had expanded two or three times over. She could hardly believe that here she sat, being entertained by the flattered companion of royalty as he sought to entertain her. Brummell spoke in an extravagant, leisurely manner, as if the world had stopped to allow him as much time as he desired to weave his romantic story.

“Love! What a trifling word that is for what I felt! I was born anew the first time our eyes met. She was . . . innocence itself, come to life in human form.” The Beau picked up an almond biscuit and nibbled it carefully, seemingly lost in his reflections. Rosalie watched him silently, not daring to speak a word. But having discoursed with Brummell before, Rand knew that he was waiting for the prompt of another question.

“Your sentiments were mutual?” he inquired dryly, and the cue was picked up instantly.

“I had her kind assurances that they were. But alas, there were obstacles before us that no mere man could overcome.”

“Suddenly I sense an overbearing father entering the scene,” Rand said. Rosalie sent him a quelling look, which he managed to ignore. He knew she disliked his tendency toward irreverence, but at times it was impossible for him to resist.

“How perceptive,” the Beau commented, accepting a cup of tea from Rosalie with gratitude. “I hope you were liberal with the sugar . . . ? Bless you, m’dear. You are as gracious as the Duchess of Devonshire herself, another good friend of mine. Now, to continue with my recounting . . . Ah, yes, the father. Sir Reginald Doncaster, a well-meaning but misdirected man, who had ruled beloved Lucy with exacting discipline all of her life. Doncaster felt that no man was fit to husband his daughter, and while I agreed, I also felt that I came as close to being worthy of the honor as any other. Despite my petitions, her hand was eventually promised to the Earl of Rotherham. At the same time, the regiment was sent back to London, and during our enforced separation, disaster occurred.”

“She committed suicide,” Rand guessed.

“No, what a silly idea!” Rosalie exclaimed. “Not when she had everything to live for—she was young, she was in love . . . I know what I would do. I would pack my belongings and leave—”

“Which is precisely what she did,” the Beau affirmed, his attitude becoming sad and puzzled. “Except that she did not run to me. She virtually disappeared with her governess. No one knew where she went. There were rumors that she had gone to France, but no one knew for certain. The days, the weeks, the months marched onward, and in the blackness of my despair I sensed that I would never see her again. The story ends a year later. She was found here in France.” Shaking his head, he reached for another almond biscuit.

“What happened?” Rosalie asked urgently, and as the Beau chewed and swallowed the confection, Rand answered for him.

“She committed suicide.” “No!” she contradicted.

“Yes,” Brummell said, reaching out a hand to receive a small ivory box from his valet. “Drowned in the Seine.”

“It doesn’t make sense that she would just give up hope,” Rosalie said, feeling tremendous pity for the unknown Lucy Doncaster. She herself had never experienced the pain of star-crossed love, yet she knew it must have been unbearable.

“Ah, for you, perhaps not,” the Beau said, withdrawing a miniature from the gleaming box and staring at it reflectively. “To understand, you would have to have made the acquaintance of my beloved. So fragile, so in need of protection. She was strong enough only to flee, not to fight.”

“I’m afraid Rosalie would not understand such a reaction,” Rand said, his voice shadowed with laughter, and he stood up from the table to peer over Rosalie’s shoulder as Brummell handed her the likeness.

At first glance Lucy Doncaster appeared to be very young, a quaint child, her face rounded sweetly with youth, her hair powdered with pale gold-white and pulled up into an elaborately curled, immensely tall heap on her head. Her skin was fair and almost translucent, a tiny black heart-shaped patch applied near the corner of her mouth. Her lips were quirked with a delicious hint of a smile. The delicately etched face, the pert nose, the eyes as dark and clear as fine sapphires, caused Rand to whisper something in amazement, his breath gently stirring Rosalie’s hair. She shivered, having no idea if the chills in her spine were because of the picture or his presence behind her.

“It’s Rosalie,” Rand said, and the Beau chuckled triumphantly.

“I told you the similarity was remarkable.” “Yes, it is,” Rand agreed slowly, his tawny eyes fixed on Rosalie as he returned to his chair. Were it not for the previous existence of Georges Belleau he would had sworn she was a Doncaster by-blow. As if she knew what he was thinking, she met his gaze defiantly. Just imply that I’m some nobleman’s bastard child, she thought while clutching the miniature, and I’ll make you sorry!

“What a kind twist of fate it was that you decided to visit Calais,” Brummell commented, breaking the heavy silence, and Rosalie turned to him with the determination to enjoy herself.

“And how kind of you to receive us,” she said. “I felt assured that any company Rand Berkeley brought with him would be enjoyable. As usual, I was correct.”

“Thank you,” Rosalie replied. “Ran . . . he . . . Lord Berkeley . . . “ Suddenly unable to decide how to refer to Rand in front of Brummell, she hesitated in confusion. Both men were silent, one of them out of politeness, the other out of some inscrutable, mocking impulse to let her flounder on her own. “He mentioned to me,” she continued with a spark of anger toward Rand, “that you had previously made acquaintance.” “Yes,” the Beau said, an ironic smile crossing his face.