Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(46)

But what would happen after she gave herself to him? Rosalie was afraid that the old saying was true, that what attracted a man in a woman rarely bound him to her. She did not want to touch heaven and then settle for less; much better never to know what she could not have. Rand did not make the situation any easier. At times he looked at her so intently that she flushed in pleasure and confusion; how heady it was to be desired by such a man. She had not allowed herself the right to feel possessive toward him, but when they walked down the streets of Havre, pausing to look at the gaudy merchandise displayed in the store windows, Rosalie was aware that many envious eyes were on her. Rand, with his tall, well-built form and exotic coloring, was a highly visible prize.

Helpfully Rand left the Lothaire during the moments when the closeness became unbearable. Rosalie made the disagreeable discovery that she spent most of the time that they were apart wondering when he would return. Steadfastly she refused to mention their oncoming departure from France, even though it was obvious that bis business affairs would be resolved soon. A new life in London, new employment, being able to see and talk to Amille when she returned—these things should have given Rosalie pleasure to think about. She knew that Rand cared enough for her in his own way to see that she would be established in a good situation, perhaps as companion to a kindly widow, or nanny to young children of an agreeable family.

But Rosalie found no gladness in anticipating the end of their stay in France. To be strictly truthful, she wondered how she would bear never seeing Rand again. When she was old and gray-haired she would still be able to cast her mind back to the time when the not-yet Earl of Berkeley had wanted her passionately, had danced alone with her in a little ballroom and kissed her once with the warmth of a blazing noontime sun. She would live the memories over and over, keeping them worn bright with use.

On the dreaded day when the American cotton finally arrived at port, Rosalie sipped her chocolate and watched Rand shave. After becoming accustomed to the small intimacies of living together, such as helping with dress fastenings and the tying of cravats, Rosalie’s habit of creeping into his room to watch him perform the morning ritual of shaving caused little comment from Rand. After their first week in Havre, Rosalie had admitted to herself that she enjoyed looking at him so casually dressed in the wine-shaded robe: the long, powerful muscles of his calves, the light golden skin at the back of his neck, the sparse, glinting fur visible at the part of his chest that the robe didn’t cover. She had never had the occasion to persue the body of a man with such leisure before, and Rand v/as undoubtedly a prime example of what was most desirable in a man. He did not have the slender, elegant physique of many of the admired and celebrated bucks; instead, he was tall and substantially built, well-conditioned from riding and hunting. His body was hard, muscular and compact, unaltered by pads or stays. Rosalie had come to find his lack of artifice attractive, more so than the carefully curled locks, the reedlike slimness, and the refined shapes of more fashionable men. Surely, she thought, no woman in her right mind would disagree.

“Rand?” she questioned as he scraped the last trace of soap from his face.

“Yes?”

“What happens if the shipment is good?” “Berkeley Shipping will probably win the silk manufacturing contract over East India, giving us a good portion of a valuable market. What else? You and I go home. From my grandfather I receive praise for a job well done, for proving myself capable of handling the family affairs, and my share of the inheritance will be declared secure.”

“What if it isn’t?”

“I engage in an ignominious battle, pointing fingers and resorting to pleading and threats, developing tremendous headaches, and losing my appetite. And you and I remain here until the problem is resolved.” Rosalie squelched the traitorous hope that she would be given a few weeks’ reprieve. For Rand’s sake she would hope that the cotton bales were without flaw. As he hunted on the washstand for a fresh towel, Rosalie stood up from the chair she had been leaning against and walked over to him. Seeing her approach from the vantage of the mirror, Rand turned around and looked down at her with a question in his hazel eyes. Without her slippers on, her head came to a spot well below his chin. It always surprised him, when they were close, how small she was. His heart skipped a beat as she reached up to his face with her fingertips. Gently Rosalie wiped away a smudge of soap from the underside of his jaw with her thumb and smiled at him. “You missed it,” she stated unnecessarily, and then she stood on her toes to press a lightning-quick kiss to his smooth-shaven cheek. He was utterly still, his expression unfathomable. “Good luck, Monsieur Berkeley. Don’t let a few américains get the better of you.” “My problem isn’t an américain,” Rand said, and his mouth turned up at the corners in a smile that would have enchanted a heart of stone. “It’s a little anglaise who shouldn’t come into gentlemen’s bedrooms to watch them shave.”

“What gentleman?” Rosalie inquired, her smile almost saucy, and Rand reluctantly grinned as he motioned her out of the room with a nod of his head.

The early-morning commotion had begun at the dock, but this time Rand’s attitude was unconcerned. “It’s fine,” were the first words Captain Jasper had uttered upon their meeting. As the cotton and other goods were being inspected by customs agents, Rand thrust his hands in his pockets and watched the process with something close to nonchalance. His eyes followed the stout and active form of Willy Jasper as the older man gave brief directions to the crew of Lady Cat during unloading. The men worked together like a well-oiled machine, so accustomed was each to his function in the procedure of docking and unloading. As Jasper felt the touch of Rand’s gaze, he turned around and looked at him thoughtfully, as if he were in the midst of making a decision about a particular matter.