Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(61)

Rand was gone when she woke the next morning, and Rosalie found the tersely worded note that he had left on the table as she went to ring for the chambermaid to bring a small breakfast. His absence drew out until early afternoon as he attended to various business matters, leaving her to read and amuse herself in the hotel room. After a few hours Rosalie began to regard her luxurious surroundings with distaste, feeling like a bird imprisoned in an attractive but small cage. My life is fast becoming structured around him, she told herself grimly, and then she wondered what she was going to do when he was no longer there for her to dote on.

Rand returned much later with a weary scowl grac ing his features, and Rosalie managed to surmount her preoccupation with the personal issues that faced them in order to ask how his meetings had fared. “I’ve spent the entire day negotiating with idiots,” he informed her, dropping into a chair with a sigh of relief. “Quotas, embargoes, restrictions . . . Don’t ask me about the future of Anglo-French trade, because if it depends on men of the ilk I’ve just associated with, the outlook is gloomy.”

“But don’t the French want to build back the economy by trading with the English?”

“They’re in a vulnerable position due to Napoleon’s previous policies. They don’t want to become indebted to England, and they resent us for all that happened during the war—to the point of refusing any sort of compromise.”

“Do you really blame them?” Rosalie asked, and he smiled lazily.

“No. Their attitude is entirely understandable—just not convenient for me. What’s that on the table?”

“Cold meat, sandwiches, cake, fruit, and wine. Out of a lack of anything else to do, I ordered lunch.” “I regret having to leave you here, but the parts of Paris I had to visit today weren’t places for a woman to frequent.”

“I understand,” she said, and as they looked at each other, a long and intimate silence filled the room. Rosalie blushed deeply as she met his gaze, knowing that he was thinking of the night before, and she had a fairly good idea of which moments in particular were foremost in his mind.

“Bread, wine, and Rose,” Rand commented, the shadowed look in his eyes replaced by the twinkle of a smile. “Dare I hope for this kind of welcome even after the marriage?”

Rosalie did not return the smile. She caught at her bottom lip with even white teeth, hesitating several seconds before plunging into the matter that had to be discussed.

“Rand,” she said, finding it an effort to drag the words up from her heart and through her lips, “I didn’t agree to anything last night.”

“Except that you’re mine,” he reminded her steadily, his gaze unflinching.

“I said that in a very . . . emotional moment. But even so, what I said did not constitute an acceptance of your idea.”

“It was not an idea,” Rand said, the warmth leaving his eyes rapidly, to be replaced by wariness. “It was a proposal. You didn’t accept it outright, true. But you implied acceptance, and I’m willing to take that as a binding promise.”

“Why?” she asked desperately. “If it’s just a matter of convenience, I guarantee you can find someone in a quarter of an hour who would be willing to marry you, probably someone of higher birth and more suitable temperament. If it’s because of any sense of duty on your part to save me from having a poor reputation, I need not point out that it’s a hopeless cause.” “God in heaven, why are you so eager to run from me?” Rand demanded, his voice tautly laced with impatience. “You have no employment, no money, no references, no family, no fiancé, no friends who are in any position to help you. I spent the majority of last night demonstrating some of the more attractive benefits of a marriage between us, and still you shrink from it . . . from me . . . as if I had made you the basest offer.

Are you still bent on wringing remorse from me for having forced your virginity? Are you—?” “No! That has no part in anything between us now,” Rosalie said, her eyes bright and so dark a blue that they shone with almost violet light. Finally she found the impetus to speak freely, and her words tumbled over themselves. “I don’t deny our physical compatibility—but even in my admitted inexperience I know that marriages crumble on so small and flimsy a foundation. Do you really think a marriage between you and me would bring any lasting happiness? Are you prepared to keep a vow of fidelity to me? I don’t think so. So far, your commitment to me has lasted for a few weeks, but I have no proof that you will not find someone you prefer over me tomorrow. I can’t predict what kind of father you would be, but I do know the kind of examples that were set for you when you were younger, and I doubt that you—”

“You bitch,” Rand whispered, his eyes going cold, and Rosalie’s voice faltered a little before she spoke again. The words had to be said, for this was the only way she could think of to put him off.

“You’re starting to assume responsibility for your actions, for the interests of your family, the shipping company, the Berkeley properties. You’ve made a good beginning, but how far will it extend? What will happen on the morning when you wake up next to your wife and decide that all of your responsibilities weigh too heavily on your shoulders and that you would prefer to game and roam through London and make love to a pretty stage actress?”

“So you think you know what kind of man I am,” Rand said, and Rosalie was suddenly chilled to the bone at his icy expression. He looked like a stranger. “As well as believing in my eventual infidelity, you’ve also implied that I’m a likely candidate for abusing my children, and predicted that I’ll let my inheritance and family go to the devil.”