Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(37)

“Why . . . why did you do that?” she whispered, and Rand blinked as if he did not know the answer. He resorted to quoting a well-known writer.

“How was it once said . . . ? ‘I were unmannerly, to take you out, and not to kiss you.’”

“Shakespeare,” Rosalie guessed, following his cue and making light of the kiss. “King Henry IV.” “King Henry VIII,” Rand corrected, and let go of her with reluctance. “I see you’ve been doing some reading.”

“I’ve been quite busy between Shakespeare, Hume, and sordid love poems of dubious origin.”

“Oh, those.” Rand flashed her a grin, turning and wiping the sheen of dampness from his forehead with a sleeve. “I hope you didn’t place any significant meaning on any of them.”

“At one point, someone obviously did.” ” ‘I barely knew her—’”

” ‘His face is fair and heav’n,’” Rosalie recited wickedly, ” ‘When springing buds unfold, Oh why to him was’t giv’n, Whose heart is wintry cold?’”

Rand smiled slightly as he beheld her, wondering suddenly at the bright, inquiring gaze fixed so intently on him. He would have sworn in that moment that Rosalie was curious about his past romantic involvements. It was an auspicious sign.

“This isn’t the kind of discussion appropriate for you to engage in,” he said. As he had intended, Rosalie’s curiosity deepened to a conspicuous level.

“Appropriate?” she repeated. Was he seriously suggesting that her maidenly modesty would be offended by such a subject? “Heavens above, you sound as if I’ve just arrived straight from the convent.”

“Ah, yes, forgive me,” Rand said, and abruptly his mood changed from subtle amusement to caustic mockery. “You know all about matters of passion, don’t you?”

Rosalie knew that he was thinking about that morning in London, and suddenly she felt hot and uncomfortable. Backing away a step from him, she lifted a hand to smooth her hair, trying to think of another direction to steer the alarming turn of the conversation. The music slowed, stumbled, halted as Annette Queneau ended her practicing.

“Rand?”

“Yes?”

She swallowed painfully before broaching a question. “Are we going back to England soon?”

“I . . . No, not yet. Not until the next shipment from New Orleans is delivered here. And I want to pursue the matter of a contract with a local silk manufacturer. Why do you ask?”

“I know that we’re not going to stay here forever. I just wondered when we were leaving.”

“A few more weeks.”

Rosalie nodded, her expression becoming pinched. “It makes no difference to me. I have no . . . pressing need to get back immediately.”

Rand wished he had not let go of her.

“Are you unhappy here?” he asked hoarsely, and a thousand answers came to the tip of Rosalie’s tongue.

No. Yes. I was happy a few minutes ago. I’m happy when you smile at me, and when I first see you in the morning after a long night apart, and when you look at me and try to guess what I’m thinking. I’m happy being this near to you, I’m unhappy knowing we’re so far apart in every sense. And realizing all of that makes me miserable.

Rosalie kept silent, looking down at the floor. Then with a short sigh she left him. He raked a hand through his hair and walked over to lean against the baroque door frame, staring vacantly down the hallway.

The next morning Rand mentioned to Rosalie the possibility of calling on Brummell in Calais. As he had hoped, the suggestion revived her good humor. Despite the inconveniences of the long journey, she looked forward to the lazy, comfortable hours they would spend with the Beau, hours spiced with targeted gossip and delightful stories. Wanting to look her very best, for she knew that Brummell paid meticulous attention to his visitors’ attire, Rosalie dressed her hair carefully and pulled out a dusty-blue gown. All of the clothes made by Madame Mirabeau were impeccably styled and perfectly fitted, but this one was especially fine, covered with ornate scrollwork in silver and gold at the sleeves and hem. The skirt was also trimmed with satin ribbon and flounces of satin and muslin. The problem that Rosalie encountered in dressing herself was that the gown had been fitted to her as she had worn a tightly laced corset of dimity and whalebone, hence it was now necessary to wear one.

She ventured out into the central room of the suite, the dress gaping widely in the back as she held it up to her shoulders.

“Rand?”

Immediately his head appeared from behind his bedchamber door. “What . . . ? “ Rand’s eyes flickered over her silver-and-blue-clad form intently. Finally he brought his gaze to her face. “That’s a beautiful gown,” he said after a few moments’ silence.

“I know,” Rosalie said, irritated at her own reaction to the way his eyes had seemed to strip her bare. “I can’t fasten it.”

A slow smile pulled at his mouth. “Have I been feeding you too much?”

“No, I can’t lace this bloody corset tight enough!” Rand continued to smile. “How can I help?” Silently she presented her back to him to display the crisscrossed lacings. She heard his soft footsteps, then felt the light tug as he took hold of the cords.

Rosalie held on to a doorframe and gasped as the whalebone prison cinched more securely around her ribs and waist.