Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(57)

“Nevertheless, I could have done it on my own instead of taking advantage of you,” she insisted stubbornly. “But it was far easier to tell myself I hated you and let you take care of things.”

“And do you hate me now?” Rand asked, watching her turn and pace across the room in a distracted manner. Suddenly Rosalie halted, surprised at the question. So her feelings weren’t as transparent to him as she had feared. She met his eyes, finding in them a hard, watchful expression.

“Now?” she asked blankly. “No, of course not. There’s a difference between being angry with someone and . . .” She paused by a small table and trailed her fingers across the smooth surface, refusing to look at him. “Of course not. How can you even ask that?” she mumbled. Rand took a few steps closer to her.

“But what about when I . . . what about the first time? Have you forgotten what I did?” It seemed almost as if he were trying to reawaken her old animosity toward him.

Rosalie swallowed hard before answering. “I prefer. to think of last night as the first time.”

In the small fragment of time it had taken to utter the words, Rosalie unknowingly slipped past his inner barriers to a place no one had ever reached before. Rand’s heavy lashes lowered over soft hazel eyes as he struggled to subdue the sudden emotions that battered him. He could not remember a time when anyone had forgiven him for the wrongs he’d done, no matter how great or small the transgression. The general assumption had always been that he would not have cared a whit for anyone’s forgiveness, and he had reinforced the attitude by being too proud to ask for it. “Rand?” Rosalie asked, keeping her face averted from him.

“What?” he responded evenly, endeavoring to reassemble his faltering control.

“What did you mean in the cabriolet . . . about wanting to say that I had been the only one?” There was a long silence, during which Rosalie waited for his answer and fidgeted with the tassel that pulled back the window draperies.

“You deserve someone with an irreproachable past,” he finally replied curtly. “Someone . . . untainted.”

Her fingers ceased their restless twining in the tassel cords, stilling as she was suffused with slow, tender warmth. She had once dreamed of a chivalrous knight, a man without flaws who could bring her steadfast and perfect love. And now all she wanted was Rand, with his tarnished past, his easy charm, his strength, his flashing moments of bitter despair and elemental passion. She would prefer him over anyone else— especially over some unfledged boy.

“A callow youth,” she mused out loud, and then smiled. “Innocent, graceless with immaturity. Perhaps I should long for his ill-executed caresses, his awkward kisses, but surprisingly I don’t.” She turned around to face him. “And for that matter, I doubt the irreproachable lad would care to taint himself with the bastard daughter of—”

“Shut up.” Rand’s chest rose and fell unsteadily as he looked at her in the newborn twilight. The weak rays of the dying sun touched feebly on her glossy sable hair, the sweet curve of her lips, the vibrant beauty of a face that would haunt his dreams forever, no matter what fate befell his future. “Any man would want you,” he said thickly. “Any man sane or raving, green as a pasture or wizened with age.”

“Don’t . . .” Rosalie breathed, her heartbeat doubling as she saw the look in his eyes. Then she smiled selfconsciously and strove for a more normal tone. “Don’t even try to pacify me. I’m still furious with you. And . . . you might as well know that I’m sleeping in my room tonight.” She had to start thinking of some way to break the hold he had on her.

“Do you think you can run away from me?” “No, I’m not running away.” She gave a determined shake of her head to emphasize her words. “Not any longer. I’m going to find out if the rumors are true, Rand—I have to know who I am, and if he really is my father. I should have written to Maman . . . to Amille . . . the moment George Brummell started all of this.” “We’ll be back in England soon. I’ll take you to see her as soon as we arrive.”

“I’m going to find a position as soon as we arrive,” Rosalie corrected. “And then I’ll go to see her alone.”

His jaw was set with resolution as their gazes locked together.

“I hadn’t planned to have this discussion now,” Rand said, his voice taking on an uncompromising edge. “But I doubt we’ll find an appropriate time in any case.”

“A discussion about what?”

“Rose, why don’t you sit down?” Rand suddenly looked self-mocking as he continued. “Having no experience with this sort of thing, I have little idea of how long it will take.”

“I don’t want to sit down.”

Her eyes widened as he walked toward her, taking her cool hands into his large warm ones and drawing her close to his body. The crisp, masculine fragrance of sandalwood soap caressed her senses as she looked up at him with rapidly growing uncertainty.

“Rosalie.” He stared down at her with translucent gold-and-green eyes. As if tempted beyond his ability to resist, he lifted a hand to stroke the soft smoothness of her cheek with long fingers. “I know you value your independence. I know you’ve had precious little of it. But there are other needs of yours, just as there are needs of mine that . . . that are more important than independence.”