Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(58)

“What are you trying to say?” she asked carefully. He took a deep breath, his expression containing an odd, hungry quality.

“I can’t let you live alone in London.”

Instinctively she placed a restraining hand on his chest, her palm curving to the solid, muscled surface. “I know you must feel an obligation to protect me,” she said softly, “but I can deal with everything by myself. I have a fair idea of what to expect—” “You have no idea of what to expect! My God, Rosalie, leaving aside all of the idiocy engendered by the rumors about Brummell, do you know what you would face? Do you realize the kind of men, the quantity o f men who will come sniffing after you like dogs in July? Do you know—?”

“What exactly is the point of this?” Rosalie interrupted, her cheeks burning at his words. “The point,” Rand said slowly, “is that I want you to be my wife.”

She couldn’t believe he had said it. Her heart began to thud heavily, her mouth going dry with shock. She wanted to fall to his feet and weep with the agony of wanting him but not being able to accept him. Letting out a wavering breath, she cast her eyes downward as tears threatened to overflow onto her cheeks. She could not allow herself even to contemplate marriage to a man who might want her now but would surely scorn her later. For the moment, he found her entertaining, but what guarantee was there that he would not tire of her? At her silence Rand frowned, seeming to feel called upon to list more reasons why the union was a desirable one, not admitting even to himself why he truly wanted her.

“It’s obvious that we’re not incompatible. And I’ve decided that I’ve waited long enough to marry. It’s time I took a wife and produced some heirs . . . you and I would have attractive children—”

“We agreed,” she said, her voice shuddering with unspent emotion, “that you would help me find employment after you accomplished what you set out to do in France.”

“That was a lifetime ago. That was two different people ago. And besides, I’ve just offered you a position.”

“You said you would help me find something acceptable.”

As it became obvious that she was not going to accept his proposal easily, Rand’s tension wound like tight springs in his body. By God, if she had decided to meet him with unreasonable stubbornness, she had no idea of what lengths he would go to in order to make her marry him!

“What is so unacceptable to you about becoming my wife?” he demanded. “God knows enough women have vied for the position—why is it my lot that the first one I offer for finds it so distasteful?”

“I don’t find it distasteful,” she said, her eyes downcast. “If you continue to desire me even after we return, then . . . then perhaps we can arrange to see each other until you no longer want to . . . but I won’t be your wife, and I won’t be kept by you.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Rand interrupted savagely, now wanting to choke her. “You’re offering to meet me on the sly, possibly on your days off, or, God help me, on Sundays. And what do you plan for me to do after you’re set up as some brat’s governess or old woman’s companion? Leave a note at the back door of the kitchen when I want to spend some time with you? Exchange pleasantries with the footmen in the servants’ hallway while I wait for you? Like you were some servant—”

“I am a servant,” Rosalie said with artificial calmness. “You aren’t. You were not meant for that.” “Stop it!” she said, and then pulled a hand free to cover her eyes with trembling fingers, knowing that she could never be happy again. Love had trapped her. She could hardly bear the thought of living without him, but it would be equally impossible for her to marry him and then watch his interest dwindle. Any affection Rand had for her would not come close to matching the measure of her feelings for him, and such an unbalanced situation would lead to his becoming bored with her. The picture that thought presented, of being lodged in a lonely country house while Rand amused himself in the city, left her appalled. And being his mistress was hardly preferable, for after he tired of her she would have little choice but to find another man to support her in a similar fashion. “Just let me go,” she whispered.

The four words were all that was necessary to cause Rand’s temper to explode. Somewhere inside flickered the ugly thought that she was taunting him with his own need of her. The more he had of her, the more he wanted . . . and the more he wanted, the less she was willing to give. She stood before him, within reach and maddeningly unattainable, and he could not stand it any longer.

“Look at me, damn you,” he rasped, pulling her hands down by her sides and jerking her up against his body until they were nearly nose to nose. He glared down into her reddening eyes as if he could see into her soul. “I don’t care why you don’t want to be my wife. It doesn’t matter, because you know inside that you’re mine, and no matter how you try, you can’t change it.” His large hands were tight around her wrists, and she could feel the anger in him coursing like a violent river. “Rand, stop!” For the first time since they had met, Rosalie was almost frightened by him, for he seemed to have let go of his control. Her heart began to patter in an erratic tempo.

“I don’t think you really give a damn about the money,” he continued hoarsely, “or even the security I could give you . . . but I do know one thing you want from me.” His hands slid down to her bu**ocks and urged her firmly against his hips, not allowing her to wriggle free. She gasped as the hard, powerful outline of his manhood pressed insistently between her legs. “I heard you cry out my name last night,” he said, his breath filling her mouth with delicious heat. The warmth, the potency of his aroused flesh struck her with the force of lightning. “I remember every little sound you made,” Rand said huskily. “The first time, when you discovered what it was like to be pleasured by a man . . . the second time, when you learned how to move underneath me . . . the third . . .” Weakly she shook her head, and he bent to kiss her with deceptive leisure, forcing her lips apart to allow the erotic stroke of his tongue. “You’ll marry me if I have to tempt, bully, and seduce you into it. You can’t pretend you don’t want me, not when your needs are so obvious. Say you’re mine . . . say it.”