Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(45)

“He’s not feeling well,” Selegue offered apologetically.

“Because of him,” Rand said softly, “I’ve never had a worse night’s sleep. I’m not feeling well myself. Let me in.”

The door to Brummell’s apartments was swung wide, and Rand strode into the drawing room. The Beau reclined in a built-in cushioned nook, fingering an object which Rand instantly recognized as the gold pin, still fastened onto Rosalie’s velvet ribbon. He didn’t appear to be surprised at Rand’s presence.

“Amazing,” Brummell murmured dolefully. “Prinny and I each sired a daughter in 1796. His Charlotte and my Rosalie would most likely have been fast friends, had my own relationship been—”

“If Rosalie is your daughter,” Rand interrupted sharply, “I’d say she’s been far better off away from the lot of you.”

“There’s no doubt that she is mine. She’s the living image of Lucy, and I fancy I saw a little of myself in her.”

“Not much.”

“Enough,” Brummell insisted, and Rand became increasingly annoyed as the other man continued to stake a claim to Rosalie. For now, whether she wanted to or not, Rosalie belonged to Rand himself, not to an aging fop whose name spelled certain trouble for her. “Aren’t you going to ask how she is?” Rand inquired with unnatural calm.

The romantic aura of loneliness dropped from the Beau’s facade as he smiled with anticipation. “Yes, do tell. Come to think of it, why didn’t you bring her?”

“She’s confused. She’s unhappy. She doesn’t know who she is, and she’s afraid to find out. And if you care a whit for anything besides the condition of your cravat, Brummell, you’ll erase every trace of yesterday afternoon from your mind.”

“Dear man, have you gone spoony? She’s my daughter! I have no family, Berkeley, at least none that will admit connection to me. She’s all I have. And there is an entire heritage I must tell her about, the legends I have left behind, the—”

“Accepting your name would ruin her,” Rand said bluntly. “You left England with scores of creditors snapping and sniffing over the pittance you left behind. What would she inherit from you?—a legendary debt and a lengthy sojourn in debtors’ prison while you cool your immaculately polished heels in France.”

“I suppose it is far better for me to leave her in your hands, sir! Far better for her to be your hummingbird, and then to be cast off to some other pup when you’ve tired of her. You forget that I have previous knowledge of your reputation, Berkeley. You use the ladies lightly, and then you cast them aside like soiled gloves.” “I wouldn’t call them ladies,” Rand replied, and his expression became inscrutable. “And I would not cast a waif out into the street. I’ll take care of Miss Belleau—” “Brummell.”

“Belleau,” Rand stressed gently, meaningfully, “if your neck means anything to you. For her sake, not yours or mine. I know about the flood of visitors you receive, and moreover, about your fondness for gossip and sad tales. But this will be a secret you carry to your grave, or else I will consider your loose tongue an invitation to hasten your demise.”

For a moment Brummell appeared to be suitably impressed by the words, for he was one to religiously avoid the threat of physical confrontation. Then he managed to put on a show of unconcern.

“Picturesque words,” he scoffed.

A dangerous gleam shone in Rand’s eyes. “Don’t forget a single one of them.”

“Does my daughter agree with you?” the Beau inquired stiffly.

“She doesn’t know I’m here.” Rand began to leave, and then stopped as if remembering something. “As of now, only four people know of the possibility of her connection to you. If the rumor ever gets out, it will spread like wildfire, and I’ll know that it wasn’t started by me or my . . . hummingbird.” He emphasized the last word with light sarcasm. “I would advise both you and your valet to hold your tongues.”

“Selegue, show our visitor out,” Brummell commanded, striving to attain an imperious tone.

“I know the way,” Rand assured him, but hesitated before he left. “One more thing, Brummell. The pin. I want it back, in the event that Miss Belleau decides she would like to have it.”

The Beau suddenly flushed in distress, shaking his head and meeting Rand’s eyes directly. “I can’t give it to you.”

“It’s not yours to withhold. The pin was given to her by her mother.”

“My God, man . . .” Brummell said slowly, the first real traces of emotion lacing through his voice, “. . . are you really as heartless as your reputation would indicate? She’s my daughter. I’ll go to my grave believing it, and from all appearances I’ll go without ever having known her. The pin is the only proof, the only sign that I have of her existence.”

Rand went through a brief inner debate before nodding reluctantly.

Once they had returned to Lothaire, Rosalie found her dilemma growing worse daily, for she was trapped in a situation that she had never anticipated. Confronted with two unacceptable alternatives, either to have Rand or not to have him, she tried instead to find a middle ground. That proved to be impossible.

She had decided at first to treat him with casual friendliness, studiedly ignoring any spark of the sexual awareness between them. The ploy failed because any hint of amiability between them seemed destined to turn rapidly into intimacy. A simple exchange of smiles turned into a long look of shared desire; a touch of the hands threatened to become a much warmer embrace. She thought all of the time about kissing him, and wound up blushing guiltily whenever their eyes met. Finally Rosalie resorted to her old antagonism, which was an even worse tactic. The arguments, the sharp, fast exchanges they engaged in so readily, held a powerful undercurrent of excitement. In those moments they wanted each other the most, and so Rosalie began to feel helpless against the oncoming tide of her feelings for him.