Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(42)

He did not say a word during the short journey to the inn, allowing her to remain in his lap. Both of them were fully conscious, wondering what the other thought, sharing in the mystery of an attraction that neither of them understood.

I swore I wouldn’t touch her. I wish he would kiss me. I wish I didn’t want her.

Then, as they both had dreaded, the carriage swayed to a halt. Avoiding his eyes, Rosalie unpeeled herself from the warmth of his body slowly, her limbs stiff.

“My dress . . .” she said, and he handed her his coat. Wearily Rosalie trod through the front door and up the narrow stairs that led to the suite, pausing as Rand unlocked the door.

“Get into a robe,” he said, pushing her inside. “I’ll order up a bath and some dinner.”

“I’m not hungry—”

“Lock the door behind me.”

“All right,” she said, her voice nearly inaudible. “Whatever you say.”

“You don’t have to be so agreeable,” Rand said, amused, in spite of the situation, at her uncharacteristic docility.

Although her eyes were still lowered to the floor, Rosalie managed to summon a brief and tremulous smile. She felt unbearably alone. This was her problem; this entanglement was centered around her. It had nothing to do with Rand, and she could not allow him to assume all of her burdens.

Rand’s gaze was caressing as it rested on her downbent head. “Close the door, rose épineuse,” he said, and was gone.

Thorny rose. His voice, the softness of his accent, had fallen on her ears like a slow stroke.

Bewildered, she slipped his coat from her shoulders. It was scented of him, and she inhaled the subtle male fragrance of sandalwood as she carried it to his bedchamber. Had she imagined the possessiveness in his manner, the caress of his voice? Was she so unnerved that her imagination was coloring everything in deceptive hues?

When Rand returned he bullied her into downing a glass of cherry brandy, which burned pleasantly as it rilled her with false courage. Her energy depleted, Rosalie found that she was ravenous at the sight of the simple fare set before them: thick-crusted bread, the soft sweetness of Camembert cheese, succulent fruit, and a bottle of wine. As she ate, she felt Rand’s approving eyes rest on her, and as soon as her initial hunger passed, Rosalie set down a piece of bread and met his gaze squarely.

“Better?” he inquired, ascertaining that her strength had returned.

“Much better.”

Rand’s attention flickered to the chambermaid, who was in the midst of emptying the last bucket of scalding water into the metal tub. It would take some time to cool enough to bathe in. Hurriedly the woman finished her task and fled from the room, reading the impatience in his tawny eyes. Rosalie’s heart began to pound nervously as she realized that they were about to discuss what had happened, and all that she had eaten seemed to rise threateningly to the base of her throat.

“I don’t think I’m ready for this,” she said, and an agitated laugh stuck in her throat. “I don’t think I’ll ever be.”

“All we have in front of us,” Rand replied reassuringly, “are a few pieces of circumstantial evidence. Nothing’s been proven—”

“But what about the pin?”

“It’s not all that distinctive. The initial B and the motif of a leaf pattern are nothing unusual. It could be pure coincidence.”

“And my . . . my mother’s name? What if she really had been Lucy Doncaster’s governess?”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean you were Lucy’s illegitimate daughter, no matter how much of a resemblance there might be. It’s possible that this whole situation is a Brummellian tale that has gotten out of hand. As you’ve already gathered, the Beau is not the most reliable source of information. He is romantic, he’s fanciful. He’s been weakened by a recent ordeal. I would sooner trust a London wine merchant not to water the claret than to take Brummell’s word for anything.”

Rosalie sighed, at once grateful for his rational skepticism and unconvinced by it. “Besides,” Rand continued, “there is no motive for keeping your . . , the existence of such a child secret. Lucy Doncaster had several options more feasible than giving this hypothetical baby to her governess to raise. Her first reaction, I suspect, would have been to approach Brummell with the news and garner his support. Failing that, she could have married the Earl of Rotherham and pretended the infant was premature.”

“Why do you seem to know so much about it?” Rosalie could not resist asking dryly, and Rand smiled at her.

“Not from personal experience. But it is hardly an unprecedented dilemma.”

She nodded and chewed on a crust of bread meditatively, finally shaking her head and frowning. “I have a bad feeling about all of it,” she said.

“The only way to refute or prove anything is through Amille Courtois Belleau.”

“No.” Before Rand could say anything, Rosalie spoke in a vehement rush. “She has been my mother for the past twenty years. If any of this were true, she had her reasons for keeping it from me, and I’ll abide by them. If I can’t trust her judgment, the judgment of a woman who has fed and clothed and cared for me my entire life, then I can’t believe in anyone or anything.”

He stared at her in a perplexed manner.

“But how could you not want to know? What if Brummell were your father—”