Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(72)

Rosalie could feel her nipple contract immediately, suddenly aching, tingling in unquenchable arousal. Every nerve was thrown into instant confusion, her pulse heavy and rapid as if her blood had thickened into melted silver. She knew that her body’s reaction to him was unconcealed by the thin cambric of her dress. Cheeks flaming in embarassment, Rosalie blindly focused on the sight outside the carriage.

“Look at what, Mireille?” she murmured. “At the d’Angoux coat-of-arms,” the young girl replied in fascination. “Engraved on the gate—a young man holding a shield . . . and a rose.”

“A rose?” Rosalie repeated, swallowing hard as she became aware that Rand was staring at her intensely. “But isn’t that a sign of royalty?”

“The d’Angouxs have a few ties with royalty,” he answered in a carefully casual way, “albeit in the distant past. In the twelfth century Geoffrey of Anjou married the daughter of England’s Henry I, and later their son became Henry II. In the 1400’s the daughter of Rene d’Anjou joined Henry VI in marriage—”

Gratefully Rosalie seized on the subject, eager to set her mind on something besides her awareness of him. “But I don’t see,” she interrupted, “how marrying the offspring of various Henrys entitled the d’Angoux to put a rose on their shield.”

As his gaze moved from the vivid blue of her eyes to the wide curve of her mouth, Rand suddenly forgot everything he had been about to say. He had never imagined being so hungry, so starved for the assuagement of a woman’s flesh, so needful of her caress, her sweetness. It took a massive effort to collect his thoughts and continue.

“The rose was won in battle. In the fifteenth century, Philippe d’Anjou defeated two powerful families in the struggle for the right to rule Brittany. And if that alone didn’t give him the right to take the rose as a symbol of royalty, he took to wife a sixteen-year-old maiden soon after the battle was over. An English bride—her name was Rosemonde. The English Rose, they called her, and it was said that he valued her above all else.” Rosalie hastily took her eyes away from him as the carriage edged carefully past the gate and started up the long drive to the château.

“What is the Berkeley coat-of-arms?” she asked. “A shield, a wolf, and a birch tree. That’s why Randall is such a common name in the Berkeley family, given to every firstborn son. It means shield-wolf . . . a shield that makes the warrior who carries it invincible in battle.” Even though Rosalie’s head was turned away from him, she could feel his eyes upon her as he said softly, “Hence the Berkeleys are usually certain of getting what they fight for.”

“Until their overconfidence leads to defeat,” Rosalie said stubbornly. Each tiny hair on the back of her neck quivered as he laughed, the sound delicious, masculine, warm.

“Hasn’t happened in centuries.”

The Château d’Angoux was unquestionably one of the loveliest structures she had ever seen. The oldest part of it was a castle, complete with bulky, steadfast towers and rigid walls. Then, rising out of the stone and stability of the castle was the more modern part of the château, designed in a Gothic style of dainty elegance, complete with crenellation, cone-topped towers, and finely arched windows. The whole of it perched among miles of gardens and wooded forests, tiny ponds and a profusion of roses, azaleas, rhododendrons, and chrysanthemums.

“Oh, how beautiful it is,” Rosalie said, and Rand’s mouth twisted sardonically.

“The only monument the d’Angoux family has to offer to its name. There are no more men to carry on the line.”

“It’s so full of. . .” Grace? Romance? Rosalie searched dreamily for the exact words to use.

“Self-conscious grandeur,” Rand suggested, and she gave him a withering look before returning her attention to the gorgeous spectacle of the château. The gravel drive passed through two more sets of gates, then wound artfully by small ponds and clusters of trees before taking a more direct route toward the château. All of the land surrounding the structure was carefully tended, the trees and flowers so well-balanced and harmoniously placed that it betrayed a history of meticulous landscaping and refurbishing. Rosalie began to see what Rand had meant by describing the estate as self-conscious, for it did indeed seem to stand in awareness of its own magnificence. Underneath the leafy fronds and the careful ornamentation it was evident that the château had once been a fortress, a tough, impenetrable giant, and the resilient strength of it still remained, although its edges had been softened by whimsical decoration.

The entrance to the château was dignified and grand, framed by half-columns that edged a wide portico. Four wings branched off from the central building. Strange, how the classical Roman style of it matched the Gothic tone of the rest of the structure. It could have easily been a jarring combination of styles, yet something, perhaps its simplicity, blended all into a harmonious whole. The carriage stopped and Rosalie felt a quick flutter of nervousness intrude on her curiosity. So many new places, so many new things she had seen since meeting Rand, whereas before, her life had been the same year in and year out. Mireille took it all in with apparent ease, for her life had been nothing but constant change.

“It looks very quiet for such a big château,” Mireille remarked.

Rand nodded briefly before unfolding his arm from behind Rosalie. “Right now we have only a small staff,” he replied, opening the carriage door before an approaching footman could reach them. “But in the village there are a number of people who know the ways of the house . . . reserve forces, so to speak. We’ll need a few of them while we’re here.” Then he smiled at her, adding, “unless you would prefer to help with the cooking and dusting?”