Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(30)

“The first time that we met, I was obliged to thank him.”

“Thank him?” Rosalie glanced toward Rand skeptically. “Whatever for?”

“It was on Berkeley Street that I found my lucky sixpence. I picked it up from the gutter—with a handkerchief, of course—and ascertained that it had a hole in the middle. A battered token, but worth Aladdin’s lamp. From then on I had the most unremitting luck a man has ever dreamed of—”

“Hardly because of any contribution he made,” Rosalie pointed out, indicating Rand with a movement of her head. He smiled innocently at her.

“I take credit whenever possible.”

“—and I lost the coin,” Brummell continued, oblivious of the exchange, “when I inadvertently paid it to a hackney coachman. Hackneys! I’ve always harbored a distaste for them. From then on my life plunged on a downward course, until I came to the straits in which you see me now. Before my move to France, however, I had had the occasion to attend a hunt or two at Berkeley Castle. Rand, how goes the present earl?”

“My grandfather is sickly.” There was a flash of bitterness in Rand’s eyes, so lightning quick that Rosalie might have imagined it. “I spoke with his physician before we left London. There is doubt as to whether he’ll last another year.”

“A pity,” Brummell murmured, yet there was no regret in his voice. Aside from Rand, he had always disliked the Berkeleys. A solemn and pretentious lot, prone to value their money and possessions above everything else. A miserly lot, a cold family . . . basically an unsociable family, which was to the Beau unpardonable. “Then you will assume the earldom soon.”

“An unappetizing prospect,” Rand stated, swirling his cooling tea in the bottom of his cup, his eyes absorbed in the motion of the liquid.

“Yes.” Brummell looked at him with a trace of sympathy. “I would not welcome the responsibility.”

“I don’t mind the responsibility. But it is a title with many deep and unattended stains.”

“Surely not beyond your capability to wipe clean.” Rand smiled suddenly, looking at Rosalie’s uncom prehending expression. All she had were kitten’s claws, sharp enough to dissuade but useless for real selfdefense. She was indeed an innocent, one in dire straits if all she had to protect her from the civilized, savage world was him. His gaze did not swerve from her as he spoke.

“Unfortunately,” he drawled, “I tend to follow in the well-worn tracks laid out by my family. And the sins of a Berkeley are sometimes impossible to make adequate reparation for.”

Rosalie tried to steel herself against the faint curl of feeling that had begun to insinuate itself into her heart. Alarmed by it, she lifted the teacup to her lips, nearly choking on the smooth sweetness of her next sip. She mulled over her distressing reaction to him in silence.

Rand Berkeley was a man who did what he pleased regardless of the consequences. That was not unusual for someone in his position. But Rosalie was becoming aware of the surprising fact that he had some sort of conscience. From the way he sometimes looked at her, she had the feeling that his mockery and sarcasm concealed a wealth of far gentler emotions. And when his hard, handsome face contained that peculiar mixture of bleakness and amusement, as it did now, Rosalie wished that she could reach out to that deeply buried part of him that was still young and vulnerable. What is happening to me? she wondered, and, mildly panicked, she took another swallow of tea.

Four

Lovers they knew they were, but why unclasped, Why should two lovers be frozen apart in fear? And yet they were, they were.

—John Crowe Ransom

They arrived at the Lothaire at such a late hour the next night that Rosalie did not stir from her bed until midmorning. She was lifted out of slumber by the heat of the sunshine that gleamed through the windows of her bedroom, and the muffled sounds of knocking, low voices, and the closing of a door. Sliding into a light robe, Rosalie opened her chamber door and rubbed her eyes as she regarded the scene before her. She was quiet, uncertain of whether or not to interrupt Rand’s thoughts. Unaware of her presence, lie sat at the Sheraton table with his broad, firmly tapered back toward her. He opened a note and scanned it quickly. Then his shoulders sagged slightly, as if in relief. Rosalie tilted her head in sleepy curiosity, for she seldom caught him in an unguarded moment. He whispered something to himself, the words indistinguishable as they were borne to her ears on a warm breeze from the window.

“Rand?” Immediately his head turned, dark amber hair seeming to come alive and then settle back into place as he stared at her. Wariness flashed in his hazel eyes, and then was replaced by a smoky look of rapidly deepening interest. Following his gaze, Rosalie stared down at herself and then hastily jerked her robe around her body, realizing that the pink-hued peaks of her br**sts shone through the silk of her nightgown in the brightness of the morning light. In silence she sat down at the table, folding her hands primly in front of her body. Rosalie could not help turning red in consciousness of her reaction to him, for she had found lately that she was spending a great deal of time thinking about the occasions when he had touched her . . . about how warm his skin was, how large and firm his hands were. And when the light shone on his hair, illuminating the golden streaks in the dark amber mass, she wondered what it would be like to let her fingers play through the well-cropped thickness of it, for his hair shone like satin and would surely be a delight to the touch. At first Rosalie had been horrified at her own thoughts, but after having lived with them for weeks, she was becoming accustomed to her own insatiable curiosity about him.