Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(31)

“Bad news?” she asked as his fingers half-crumpled the letter.

“No, not at all.” Although his words were positively spoken, something in Rand’s manner revealed an opposite emotion as he threw a quick glance down at the paper in his hand. “Very good news, courtesy of this morning’s packet ship. I’ve received authorization from the earl to take care of something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”

“Oh?” Her one word was loaded with encouragement for him to continue.

Rand smiled reluctantly at Rosalie’s expectant expression.

“You’re obviously determined to find out everything.” His voice was softer now, curling at the edges with the beginnings of wry amusement.

“I’m interested,” she acknowledged. “Or do you have a monopoly on the enjoyment of good news?” She continued to stare at him in silent entreaty until he relented.

“I’ve wanted to sell off some family property here in France. The d’Angoux estate. Most of the land has been divided and leased to tenant farmers. I want to sell it to them. It’s of little use to the earl, but it’s been a battle to obtain his consent to break up the holdings.”

“Why? If the earl doesn’t need it—”

“Because it belonged to my mother, Helene Marguerite. She was the daughter of the Marquis d’Angoux, the last of the line. The Berkeleys, the earl in particular, Now that my mother is no longer alive, we have no ties to the d’Angouxs, but Grandfather has insisted for years on keeping the d’Angoux estate.” Rand smiled rather grimly. “Since I am the eldest grandson, it’s been dangled in front of me for years.”

“But you don’t want it?”

“I’d rather have a ball and chain manacled to my neck.”

“Oh.” Rosalie frowned as she considered his darkening expression, and decided to pursue another subject. “So . . . you are half-French?” When he nodded, she smiled with a hint of self-satisfaction. “I knew you must be partly French. Your accent is so clear . . .”

“My mother spoke French more often than English.” Rosalie hesitated for several seconds as she contemplated him. How bewildering his manner was—one moment ago he had been amused; now suddenly he was preoccupied and distant. Although it was not unlike him to sometimes jump from mood to mood in the manner of a foraging honeybee, he was unquestionably disturbed about something, and she wondered why the subject of his mother’s estate would have this effect on him.

“You were fond of your mother?” she asked daringly. Rand shrugged. “I don’t remember much about her.” “She passed away when you were very young?” “I wasn’t that young.” He sighed and absently dropped the note onto the floor. “She didn’t have much to do with Colin and me. She and my father, Robert, lived in London while we were raised in Warwick by a staff of servants.” One side of his mouth lifted in selfmocking humor. “Colin and I ran wild in the country, barely fit to be seen by anyone in polite society.”

“So that’s where you learned your manners,” Rosalie said gravely. Rand glanced upward with quick suspicion, and then he smiled lazily as he realized that she was teasing him.

Rosalie was so entranced by his slow smile, the sunlit twinkle in his hazel eyes, that her breath caught in her throat. If given the option, she would have sat there all day merely looking at him with a new sense of feminine appreciation. It was an effort for her to continue the conversation.

“And your mother, she liked to be in London more than with you?” she asked. The concept was not an unusual one, but Rosalie felt that it was unnatural for a woman not to want to be with her children. It was more common among the upper classes to have their offspring raised by servants and strangers than the lower classes.

“It was better with her there,” Rand assured her, and then the sketching of humor left his face. “For that matter, it was better with my father in London as well.

But he moved to Warwick permanently when I was in my early teens.”

“He wanted to be with—”

“He had gout. Severe gout. He was in agony most of the time, in so much pain that a mere sheet over his leg would make him howl. Understandably, that made him unfit to stay in London. He became a drunkard because of it.”

“Is that why you don’t drink often?” Rosalie asked, wondering why his face was becoming shuttered as she delved further into the subject. “I’ve never seen you take anything but a sip of wine—”

“Do you know what I find interesting?” Rand parried, his eyes looking more green than usual in the morning light. “You’re unusually direct for a woman. I’ve never met one that dares to look a man straight in the face quite like you do.” In his experience, a gaze of uncompromising straightforwardness came only from whores who eyed a man with brassy promise or from little girls who had not yet learned the artifice of flirtation.

Rosalie’s cheeks colored and her glance flickered away to focus on the window. “I know. It’s unladylike.” “Yes, it is.” It was impossible to discern whether he approved or disapproved of her directness. “Why are you trying to change the subject?” she persisted.

Their eyes met in challenge, hers questioning, his unfathomable.

Suddenly Rosalie felt like a bumbling detective who had stumbled onto a significant clue. Something was important about her question; there was something he was reluctant for her to know about. It became immediately imperative for her to discover what it was.