Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(41)

Six

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame . . .

—Lord Byron

Although there were only four people in the room, it was crowded with confusion, tears, and panic. Quickly, efficiently, Rand and Selegue worked to dispose of the situation, since father and daughter were both unable. The valet guided the distraught Brum-mell to a chair, speaking in a soft undertone. Rand held Rosalie’s trembling form against his, letting her draw from his strength and stability. His sensitive fingers curved around the vulnerable back of her neck in a calming touch.

“Rose. There’s no need for this,” he said, sounding so utterly practical and in control that it helped to dispel the queer aura of unreality clouding her mind. “Take a few deep breaths and relax.” Rosalie listened to him and obeyed automatically, forcing deep gulps of air in and out of her mouth as she stared at Brummell’s hunched figure. As soon as her trembling lessened, Rand dragged her from the room, pausing only a moment at the door to deliver a low-voiced comment.

“I’ll be back to straighten out this mess in a day or two. If you two have distressed her unnecessarily—”

“I assure you, this was entirely unexpected,” Selegue interrupted apologetically before bending to speak to the Beau. Brummell was muttering brokenly about Lucy, lost in his own world. His head was clasped in his hands, his elbows braced on his knees as he stared at the floor and began to weep. Rand cast the pair of them a dark look before pulling Rosalie’s arm through his. She followed him blindly, stumbling a little over the hem of her skirts. She was dazed at what had just taken place, her mind completely occupied with replaying the scene over and over again. Everything she had taken for granted, the person she was and the background she bad come from, had suddenly been wrenched away from her. It could not be true . . . none of it could, for Amille would surely have told her about it! How could Amille not be her mother? How could George Brummell be her father? It was all some trick of coincidence!

The carriage that would take them to a local inn was outside the building, the French driver leaning against the vehicle as he turned the page of a daily periodical. “Allons,” Rand said tersely, and the man looked at Rosalie with vague alarm before leaping to his seat with alacrity. Inside the carriage, Rosalie felt a wave of sickness lurch through her body. She held a hand to her middle and closed her eyes, her lungs feeling as if they had shrunk to a condition of airlessness. As she fought to draw a breath, her chest tightening, she looked at Rand in panic. She was being methodically crushed to death by the garments that bound her. Muttering a curse, he drew her halfway onto his lap and worked at the tiny fastenings of her gown. “Damned corset,” he said, buttons flying as a result of his efforts. “The last time, the very last, that I ever let you wear one.” As the cords loosened and her waist expanded, Rosalie inhaled with relief, her head swimming dizzily. Rand also took a breath, realizing that he had unconsciously held it until she had been freed from the laces. Gently his fingers slipped under her chemise and stroked the redscored flesh of her back, soothing the delicate and ravaged skin. Gradually her illness began to subside. “Thank you,” she whispered, and then burst into fresh tears when she had garnered the strength. Clutching the sleeve of his coat in a death grip, she stared at him with a tormented expression, her eyes brilliant and wet. “They think . . . that Maman isn’t my . . .

real mother—”

“I know,” he murmured soothingly. “Breathe deeply—”

“Listen to me—it’s not true! He is not my father! I’m Rosalie Belleau . . . you believe it, don’t you?”

As her words broke into sobs, Rand hesitated uncomfortably and then cradled her against his chest, his mouth tender with sympathy. He felt peculiarly helpless. The other times he had been faced with women’s tears, they had been an artifice and not the product of genuine misery. No woman had ever needed him simply for comfort, and he was not used to such a demand being made of him.

Rosalie pressed her wet face to his shoulder, her nails curling into the lapels of his coat like kitten claws. As Rand field her small form against his, he felt part of her pain, an odd tugging at his heart. This wish to soothe, to offer refuge, was brand new, gleaming brightly as a candle flame, and without questioning it further, he sought to warm her.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, his hand stroking her back in a gentle, repetitive motion. “I’m here. It’s all right.”

“Rand, what am I going to do?”

“Relax for now. We’ll talk about it later,” he said, and she subsided against him, accepting his touch as if it were her due.

As time spun on steadily and her weeping faded, Rosalie felt a fragile trust crystallize between them. An invisible web clung tenuously from one heart to another, a bond so frail that it could be destroyed with one easy blow. Rosalie came to her senses gradually, becoming conscious of how intimately he held her, how the warm strength of his body enveloped her, his masculine scent pleasant to inhale, his breathing even and steady as it disturbed the curls at her forehead. She knew that she should move away from him. Surely by now Rand knew that she had recovered herself enough to move to the other seat. But Rosalie did not want to move at all. His body was solid and hard, yet strangely comfortable. Don’t let go, she pleaded silently, closing her eyes tightly.