Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(55)

“Colette, what a find we have made,” the woman addressed her companion, and both of them stared at Rosalie in a way that made her wonder what was wrong with her appearance. Rand stiffened at the sound of the woman’s bell-like voice. Slowly he turned around with grimness darkening his face, his expressive mouth tightening as she addressed him. “Lord Berkeley, how pleasant to see you again.” The way she emphasized the word “pleasant,” Rosalie noticed with annoyance, implied that it was far more of a pleasure to see Rand than was proper to admit in public.

“Lady Ellesmere and Madame Duprin,” Rand acknowledged them both reluctantly, standing to greet them. Lady Ellesmere, Rosalie gathered, was the beautiful gilt-haired woman. Her friend was not as attractive but matched her in sophistication.

“London has been languishing without you,” Lady Ellesmere said to Rand, her tone indescribably sweet and her eyes intent as they met his. She stood very close to him, her slim height making it easy for the pair to stand face-to-face. As she regarded him with familiarity, her gaze touched caressingly on his beautiful hair, his well-hewn features, his wide, firm mouth. Rosalie remained silent and plucked unconsciously at the gold banding on the sleeves of her apricot velvet gown, pain constricting her heart as she watched them together. She felt some of her naivete crumbling rapidly as she realized that there was a certain way in which two people who had once been intimate looked at each other. It was evident to anyone who cared to look beneath the surface of banal conversation and urbane facades that Rand and Lady Ellesmere had been lovers in the past.

It was no surprise that Rand was a man of experience. But to look upon the lovely face of someone he had known just as he had known Rosalie herself, brought a killing sense of dejection to her soul. The thought of him holding this woman, kissing her, entwining with her, was much more than unpleasant. It was degrading, as if the sophisticated blond had somehow managed to taint every sweet memory that Rosalie had shared with Rand. You fool, she sneered at herself. You’ve come to think of yourself as the only woman in his life. But just as this woman shows that you are not the first, she also proves that you won’t be the last. If his desire for Lady Ellesmere had eventually abated, there was no shadow of a doubt in Rosalie’s mind that he would tire of her as well.

Suddenly the next few words the woman spoke abolished Rosalie’s misery, drenching her with shock.

“Ah,” Lady Ellesmere drawled, focusing a light blue gaze on her, “so this is the famous Miss Belleau.” Rosalie went still, her eyes widening. Rand shot Lady Ellesmere a killing glance, which the woman blithely ignored.

“Famous?” Rosalie repeated faintly.

“Why, yes! You’re all over the Times, my dear woman! Why, everyone in the civilized world knows that you claim to be the daughter of Beau Brummell.” Lady Ellesmere turned to Madame Duprin. “I must say, she doesn’t look like an adventuress. Perhaps her claim is true.”

Rosalie felt her face turn white and numb. She had neither the coordination nor the energy to look at Rand, focusing all of her efforts on subduing a surge of panic. “It is neither my intention nor my desire to claim George Brummell as my father,” she managed to murmur quietly, pride enabling her to meet the woman’s gaze directly.

“I can’t quite see the resemblance,” Lady Ellesmere remarked thoughtfully, regarding Rosalie as if she were inspecting the work of a second-rate artist. “But perhaps you share more of an inward similarity. Do you find that you are excessively fastidious, as the Beau is? Or irreverent? Or—”

“Or fond of overspending?” Madame Duprin added, and giggled at the weak sally.

“When did you first discover . . . ? “ The pair of women seemed to have taken a smooth and savage delight in plying her with pointed questions. Rosalie switched her gaze to Rand’s face, and what she saw there made it an effort not to burst into tears. He had known. He was not surprised at the information that she was in the papers. Somewhere deep in his clear hazel gaze was a plea for her not to abandon her trust in him, but she was too hurt to heed the silent words. “When will you be coming back to London, Lord Berkeley?” Lady Ellesmere inquired, her eyes still fastened on Rosalie’s pale face.

“When Paris becomes tiring,” Rand gritted. “I do hope you’ll bring your . . . Miss Belleau when you return. She would enjoy so many of our haunts—”

Rand smiled grimly. “Clara,” he interrupted her prattle with unnatural softness, “I would take Miss Belleau straight to hell before giving her into the care of London society.”

Lady Ellesmere seemed not in the least upset by the profanity as she smiled with catlike contentment. “Are you certain that hell is more amusing than London, my lord?”

“I only know which one possesses a more wholesome atmosphere. Good night . . . ladies.” He stressed the last word lightly and proffered an arm for Rosalie to take. “I believe, Miss Belleau, that the performance is over.” Her hand was shaking as it slipped through the crook of his elbow, yet Rosalie managed to give both of the obnoxious women a polite nod before leaving. Her voice was surprisingly steady as they made their way outside to the waiting barouche cabriolet.

“You had no right to keep it from me,” she murmured in a low tone.

“Rose, I was going to tell you—”

“Don’t bother to finish!” she whispered vehemently. “I know when you were going to tell me. At your own convenience. For your own advantage—”