Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(54)

“Have you been up long?” he asked.

Rosalie blinked, startled by his casual attitude. “No. Just a few minutes,” she replied, wondering uneasily what inward emotions moved him. It was chilling to suspect that perhaps his words of the night before had been merely a common form of love play. Did he whisper such things to the women he slept with as a matter of routine? Ask him how he feels, a voice from her heart intruded on her racing thoughts. Tell him how you feel.

I wouldn’t dare, Rosalie told herself immediately, and she stared at him with a mute, poorly disguised appeal.

Rand’s expression held an element of the same uneasiness. He could not risk saying anything that would earn her scorn, and he certainly would not throw out a declaration or proposal without being far more certain of the reception he would receive.

“Does the idea of breakfast appeal to you?” he inquired.

Rosalie nodded unhappily. “Yes. I’m . . . a little hungry-”

Suddenly Rand’s lips twitched with amusement, his tension breaking as they found a relatively normal footing to meet on. “That’s understandable,” he said. “You’ve earned the right to a decent meal.”

“Don’t joke about it,” Rosalie said, scowling in quick response to his comment.

He frowned curiously, finding that for some odd reason he was reassured by her sharpness. Perhaps her willingness to share his bed the night before had surprised her as much as him. If so, she was probably uncomfortable with the knowledge that for the first time she had approached a man with desire. Uncomfortable, but not necessarily regretful.

“Conscience-stricken?” he inquired mockingly, and she wiped the betraying scowl from her expression. “No,” Rosalie replied, thinking that it probably would have reflected more highly on her character had she been attacked by pangs of conscience. But instead, she reluctantly realized, she was not at all sorry they had made love, just that she had chosen the worst man possible to fall in love with.

“Good.” Rand looked at her for another long moment and then turned around to go back into his room. “I’ll ring for the maid,” he said over his shoulder.

“Fine,” Rosalie replied, fighting a mad urge to cry, or shout, or do anything that would relieve the gathering heaviness inside her chest. The power he had over her filled her with dread, for although she had fought to keep her independence, her struggles had been for naught. She could refuse him nothing, for now she owned only half of herself. The other half was his. Rosalie could only guess at what game Rand had decided to play. After breakfast in a small cafe he took her shopping, brushing aside all of her hastily conceived objections. Momentarily it seemed that he had discarded all considerations of business, contracts, steamboats, and trade in order to show her the sights and amusements of Paris. Apparently sensitive to the fact that she would balk at any signs of possessiveness from him, Rand kept the attitude of the day on an undemanding level. His manner was light, casual, and considerate, and helplessly she succumbed to the delight of being with him, unable to resist his smile, his gentleness. Occasionally she would catch a glimpse of their reflection in the shop windows, and it seemed each time that the image changed: bashful strangers a lover and his mistress. He purchased countless gifts for her—soft ribbons of satin and velvet, a flask of scent, embroidered gloves, a corded-silk bonnet trimmed with feathers, and other sundry articles— until Rosalie began to laugh despite herself and begged him to stop.

When early evening approached he took her to the grand opera house of Paris, the Italian Theater. Rosalie was dazzled by the huge building of marble, gold, glass, and light. A huge chandelier hung from the center of the building, its heavy, glittering mass seeming to be suspended in midair. As they sat in a conservatively located box, Rosalie was absorbed in the rich, swelling strains of Don Juan and William Tell, and in the ballet danseurs who performed the story of Sleeping Beauty with such magical precision that she held her breath as they flew through the air. She exclaimed over their grace and ephemeral qualities even after the dance was over, until Rand wryly informed her that those selfsame ethereal creatures were at that very moment in the theater green room to greet the wealthier spectators who wished to spend the night with them.

Sometimes Rosalie bewildered him, for he had never met a woman of her tender years who was as outspoken, as spirited and pragmatic . . . and yet she had been sheltered to such a degree that she knew little of things that he had assumed were common knowledge. Her lack of worldliness charmed and at the same time bothered him greatly. Why had Amille Courtois chosen to raise her in such manner? What could she have been thinking of? Perhaps knowing that Rosalie was not born to be a servant, she had encouraged the girl to escape the dreariness of her life through dreams, novels, flights of fancy. As events had proved, it had been a disastrous decision, for there had been no one to protect Rosalie from the hazards of a greedy world that she knew too little about. Rand frowned as he watched Rosalie’s absorption in the artful presentations onstage.

She was too tempting, too vulnerable to men like him. At the first intermission Rosalie turned to speak to him, her sapphire eyes extraordinarily beautiful as they gleamed with an odd light. He would never know what she had intended to say, for in that moment two women approached their box, one of them so beautiful that Rosalie could hardly keep from staring at her in amazement. She appeared to be about the same age as Rand, her confidence and self-possession seeming to be quite remarkably well-developed. Her mouth was etched and shaded in soft red, her cheeks glowing with the same vibrant hue. Her hair was such a pale gold that it shone like a moonbeam, her eyes a delicate eggshell blue. Most remarkable of all was a magnificent bosom which nearly swelled out of her gleaming white gown, further emphasized by a necklace thickly encrusted with diamonds.