Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(56)

“Rose—”

“I’m beginning to feel like the pawn in a game that everyone else is playing! No, don’t look at me like that. I don’t want to be coaxed into a good humor. I don’t want to cry or argue, or talk about it at all—I just want to be left alone to think!”

“And stew about it until it’s out of proportion.” “That’s my right. Just as it was my right to be told about something that affected me so directly!” She groaned in escalating fury. “But to find out from one of your former . . . from a lightskirt who doesn’t even—” “My former what?” he asked ominously. “She’s a lightskirt, I’ll grant, but she’s not a former anything of mine.”

“I saw the way she—”

“Clara Ellesmere behaves that way with anyone fit to wear breeches.”

“And just how familiar is she with the contents of yours?”

Rosalie surprised even herself with the crude question. There was silence in the cabriolet as Rand stared at her and arched a dark eyebrow. Her cheeks burned as he began to smile slowly.

“There’s no need to be jealous, Rose.”

“I’m not jealous!” she snapped, but still the insufferably conceited smile remained on his face. “To be strictly truthful, over the past few years I’ve had no lack of invitations to Clara’s bed. Unfortunately, of late I seem to have become rather discriminating.”

Rosalie looked down at her tightly clasped hands, part of her anger transforming into embarrassment, frustration, and yes, undeniable jealousy. Rand continued in a gentle, no-nonsense voice as she kept her eyes averted from him. “Petite, we’re going to have to get something straight. I’m not an inexperienced man, much as I would like to say you’ve been the only one. There’s a likely chance, a probability, that you’ll hear gossip . . . or perhaps you’ll even make the acquaintance of someone I’ve been intimate with. Not one of them ever meant anything to me beyond an hour or two of pleasure, superficial pleasure at that. But you might as well tell me now if you plan to squabble about every one of them.”

“I hardly plan to squabble about women I never intend to meet,” Rosalie said frostily, slightly mollified by the way he referred to his former lovers as “them,” as if they were an indistinct group that had nothing to do with her. But then she wondered how soon she would be relegated to the category of “them,” and she asked herself for the thousandth time how she had been foolish enough to fall in love with him. “I don’t want to talk anymore,” she said stiffly. “Would you please allow me a few minutes of silence?”

“Only until we get back to the hotel,” he said, a scowl gathering on his handsome face as he contemplated the satisfaction he would get out of shaking her stubborn little body until her teeth rattled. “And only because it’s a matter not meant for the ears of curious coachmen.”

“Your discretion astounds me,” Rosalie muttered, clamping her lips together and folding her arms as she settled down into the carriage seat. The vehicle rolled and bounced through the uneven streets of the city as she sifted through her tumbled emotions.

After collecting her thoughts somewhat, Rosalie decided in a flash of complete honesty that she could not blame Rand entirely for keeping the newspaper article a secret. With her silent and unconscious encouragement he had styled himself her protector, and as such he felt responsible for everything that affected her. In a way, she had almost given him the right to take such an action. But his protectiveness could not continue, that was obvious. He would not be there to shield her forever.

Grimacing slightly, she risked a quick glance at him. Every tautly drawn line of his posture betrayed his impatience. Rosalie had to suppress a small and unwanted smile from settling on her lips, knowing that he was annoyed with her for refusing to talk to him. But she needed time to puzzle out what she was going to say to him, what stance she was going to take, before he had a chance to twist everything around to suit his own purposes. It was far too easy for Rand to convince her of anything he wanted to. Sighing, Rosalie returned her gaze to the slender hands clasped in her lap. How much worse all of this would be if she had confessed her love for him: Rand was far too capable of using it to manipulate her.

The sunset was in full bloom as they walked into Rand’s room. After he helped her off with her pelisse and began to remove his own coat, Rosalie strode over to the window and looked outside at the sky.

“You knew I would want to know that the news was out,” she said, her gaze moving from one side of the street to the other.

“I had planned to tell you soon.”

“It is not up to you to shield me from things like this. I’m not a child”—her voice lowered in self-disgust— “although I’ve acted like one.”

“No—”

“Yes, I have,” Rosalie asserted, flushing with shame and self-reproach. “I’ve given all responsibility for my own well-being into your hands, when you already had enough to worry about. I came to France with you in order to avoid having to make difficult decisions . . . and worse, to take advantage of your remorse. I shouldn’t have come with you. I was perfectly capable of finding a job on my own. I didn’t need your help or your protection—”

“I wouldn’t have let you go off by yourself,” Rand interrupted. “Blame yourself if you like, Rose, but it’s a man’s world.”