Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(43)

“I would gain nothing, and think of what it would do to Amille. Don’t you see? George Brummell is incapable and, I suspect, unwilling to be a father to anyone.” Her expression darkened with hurt. “He didn’t exactly open his arms to me this afternoon.”

Rand bit off an agreeing reply and searched for something to offer in solace. “He was shocked.” “He is too vain to want a child. He is a dandy, and it’s common knowledge that men like him resent growing old. They don’t want reminders of their age.” Rosalie’s expression became haunted as she continued. “And as for Lucy . . . if she was my natural mother, I don’t know or care why . . . why she wouldn’t want me. Amille did, and that’s what matters.”

Rand nodded slowly, sensing that now was not the time to try to change Rosalie’s mind. She was tired and she was not ready to be honest with herself. He knew her well enough to be certain that she did care about her past and that she wanted desperately to know more about Lucy Doncaster. But Rosalie was afraid of the secrets that the past held, and it would take time to build her courage.

“Then we’ll let the subject rest for now.”

“You don’t agree with my decision,” Rosalie said, her eyes questioning as they searched his face. She couldn’t tell what he thought. He lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug.

“It’s not my right to tell you what to do.” It was her right, Rand mused, to approach her past in any manner she cared to. God knew that he hadn’t been eager to deal with his own!

His comment suddenly amused Rosalie. “May I ask what prompted this change of policy?” Deciding not to reply, Rand smiled, looking lazy and oddly content. The sky was dark outside but the room was filled with hazy candlelight. The glow of the flames picked up the gold in his tousled hair and his eyes, and gleamed across the darkness of his face with a metallic sheen. Rosalie was momentarily engrossed in his movements as he stretched his arms back and locked them behind his head, his muscles swelling and then smoothing under the whiteness of his sbirt. What a strange sight he was with his gentleman’s attire and his swarthy skin. It was an incongruous combination, but oddly attractive nevertheless.

As Rosalie looked at him with inquiring sweetness, Rand felt an aching hollowness gather in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to hold her again, he wanted to taste and touch her, and he realized that he had run out of pretenses to lure her into his arms. What recourse was left? He looked at her in hungry contemplation and felt some part of himself give way to a stronger demand.

“Rose . . . what would you do if I asked you to come over here?” he asked quietly, his intent stare urging her to trust him.

Rosalie blinked in immediate confusion, wondering if she had heard him correctly. “I . . . I don’t know,” she said, her forehead creasing. “I suppose it would depend on why—”

“You know why.” His voice was softer now, more coaxing. A long pause ensued before he spoke again. “Come here.”

It was impossible not to obey. As if she were being drawn by an invisible rope, Rosalie stood up and walked around the table to him, stopping as she reached his chair. He wants to kiss me, she thought distractedly, and the delight and dismay of it tumbled inside her chest like a pair of hard-thrown dice.

They stared at each other, hypnotized.

“Why do you have to be so beautiful?” Rand whis pered. Her blue eyes were dark with wonder and disquiet as they met his. Still she stood by him, every instinct clamoring for her to stay.

“Don’t give me a reason to—” she began to warn, but Rand interrupted her huskily.

“I will never hurt you again, Rose. I will never do anything you don’t want. You must know by now that my word is good.”

She nodded slowly, suppressing a tiny shiver at the honey-soft way he spoke.

“I believe you.”

“Then come closer.”

The air was fraught with suspense. After several moments of inner debate she moved hesitantly to sit down on his thigh, feeling the hard muscles flex beneath her as he shifted to accommodate her. His hands settled at her waist, their pressure light and firm, a steady influence that served to keep her secure, still, close. Suddenly trembling with the awareness of what she was doing, Rosalie extended her hands and placed them on his shoulders. Her fingers spread over their breadth and strength, her thumbs detecting a strong pulse through the thin material of his shirt as they pressed into the shallow hollows beneath his collarbone. She was nervous. A quick impulse to pull away from him seized her, but something caused her to remain. Perhaps it was the curiosity tbat pulsed inside of her, or the odd, waiting look in his gold-green eyes . . . perhaps the insane feeling that he deserved the right to hold her in this way. His fingertips rested on her body with gentle lightness, promising magic.

“I’ve tried to take kisses from you before,” Rand said huskily, drawing her further between his spread knees, “but you would not yield to me.”

“You were different then,” she whispered, thinking of how his mouth had crushed hers. “I remember—” “Don’t.” Rand’s gaze was edged with bleakness.

“Don’t remember anymore. Let me replace your memories.”

The stillness stretched between them, surrounded them, seemed to press her slowly toward him. His words, his gaze, the strange new leniency about his mouth, all of it tempted her beyond reason.