Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(33)

Rand took a deep breath and stood up from the table, drawing his shoulders back to stretch them. “Do you want me to order coffee or chocolate for you?”

“No. Please go on ahead. I have some things to do.” Smiling slightly, Rosalie waved him out of the suite, toying with the end of her long braid. When she was certain he was gone, she went into her bedchamber, releasing the emotion that had been trapped so tightly in her chest. Her heart was trembling with anguish, her cheeks becoming wet even before she closed the door behind her. As soon as the latch clicked, a sob broke from deep inside. How can you weep for him? she berated herself, wiping the tears from her face with one hand, sitting on the edge of the canopied bed. She tried to remember all he had done to her. Rand would not allow himself to feel the same for her or anyone else; she wondered if he had the capacity for tears. Furthermore, he would be repelled by her sympathy. But still the unwanted tenderness seeped through her veins like a drug, diffusing gently, softening the thick barriers by which she had sought to hold him away from her.

The farewell they exchanged was a hasty thing. They mouthed conventional words and exchanged brief, unconcerned smiles, and as the coach left the inn Rosalie felt immediate dejection. I feel like a sea wife, she thought morosely. I bid him hello and good-bye, without knowing him . . . and he leaves so easily. But why shouldn’t he? I am not his wife, she reminded herself, not even a mistress. I have no right to feel empty, no claim to force him to keep me.

She had no right to feel as though she belonged by his side.

Chateau d’Angoux was the former home of Helene Marguerite d’Angoux, although Rand would readily have argued that the term “home” had little to do with such a structure. It had ruled the landscape with stern simplicity for four centuries, built on the ruins of a castle that had challenged many an invader as far back as the tenth century. Careful efforts to soften the harsh gray of its countenance had been made. The lush ground had been allowed to produce flowers and vines of ivy that clung protectively to the edges of the bare, cone-topped towers, and small streams lined with trees wound in a seemingly artless pattern around the chateau. The gardens were splendorous, filled with rose beds that connected in intricate figures and thickets of brilliant blossoms. Yet the building still gave the appearance of a warrior waiting patiently for the battle. A small staff of servants had been retained to look after the chateau, and Rand alerted them to his presence before he prowled in the house and around the grounds. The panicked alarm that the master had come to stay was whispered rapidly from ear to ear, and from time to time Rand heard various scufflings of feet as they sought to prepare for him. Chateau d’Angoux had been beautifully kept. Still, merely being in the place where his mother had been born, courted, and married left a sour taste in his mouth, and he could not appreciate the beauty so lavishly presented.

He walked up the marble staircase, trailing his fingertips curiously along the gilded-bronze railing. The Renaissance tapestries of wine-red, ocher, black, green, and blue were of such immense proportions that Rand felt dwarfed by them. Having been here once before, he had a sudden flashback of how it had felt to look at them with the eyes of a child, and the result added to his unease. Then in one of the upstairs rooms he discovered a portrait hung precisely between two heavily framed mirrors. From the canvas Helene d’Angoux stared out into the room with an aristocratic tilt to her head, her golden hair soft and gleaming, her eyes glowing a cool, unearthly shade of green. Her lips were thin and finely drawn, stretched in a smile so soft that it looked as if the artist had caught only the premonition of humor in her expression. The house was filled with her presence, and as he strove to ignore a sense of smoldering airlessness, vague snatches of memory assailed him.

Closing his eyes, Rand could almost smell the violet scent he had always associated with her. His recollections were those of a boy—Helene, a beautiful, elusive creature, a woman full-grown with the soul of a deceitful child. She had possessed a spirit of mercury, enchanting one moment and poisonous the next. No matter how fierce his efforts to win her affection, she never stayed, she touched but never embraced, she gave enough to make what she withheld more painful.

Rand opened his eyes once more, and as he stared at her face, it was the same as always. She smiled but did not speak, she looked at him and seemed to recognize the darkness that seethed inside of him. She was dead, and yet her spirit filled the house like an invisible web, catching at him, binding until he could not move. Chateau d’Angoux had been her sanctuary—she had come back here periodically to hide from the consequences of the mischief she had wrought—and for that reason alone Rand disliked the place.

He swerved his gaze away from her and flinched as he felt the protections he’d built around himself tear like old parchment. In all those years between her death and now, he thought he had succeeded in destroying the fruitless need of love. It was still there, stronger than before.

Wryly he thought that those who enjoyed life had somehow managed to circumvent the workings of the heart. What had happened to the man he had been only a month ago? He remembered how orderly, superficial, and amusing life had been. He had once been forced to seek out feelings when the pattern of his days became too dull: he would find a new woman, spend the night gambling, roam around the city with his companions. It had been an empty life, one which had left him unable to recognize innocence when he had seen it. But somehow, unwittingly he had stumbled onto his salvation the moment he had encountered a hapless housemaid in a London alley. Rosalie . . . who had survived the careless crush of his touch and the trial of being forcibly transplanted. He thought of her at the little country inn and wondered how she fared without him.