Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(75)

“If you wish to ride after you are better, I will accompany you,” Mireille offered, and the hopefulness was so transparent in her voice that Rosalie’s lips twitched.

“If you’re certain you wouldn’t mind—”

“Oh, no, I would not mind at all! And also,” Mireille continued, apparently encouraged by Rosalie’s acquiescence, “there are beautiful gardens around the château, and even a maze that Monsieur Alvin keeps clipped! If you wish, I will accompany you on afternoon walks.”

“A pleasant suggestion,” Rosalie agreed.

“And I will also accompany you to the fair in the village this month, which Ninette told me about. After I ask Monsieur de Berkeley for permission, of course—”

“Monsieur doesn’t own me,” Rosalie interrupted, suddenly annoyed at Mireille’s assumption that Rand had the right to approve or disapprove of her activities. “We don’t need his permission.”

“But he is your cousin, your guardian, yes? He must be told of these things or . . . or he will become very angry with me,” Mireille pointed out. Rosalie’s expression softened immediately. The last thing she would wish on anyone, especially Mireille, was Rand’s anger. One scowl from him was enough to chase someone’s wits under the bed! “Besides, I do not think he would say no to anything you wanted.”

“No?” Rosalie questioned, her voice dry. “Unfortunately he has very particular ideas about what he thinks I should do.” And so far her attempts to manage Rand had been met with varying degrees of success. He was not an easy man to manipulate.

“Je suis d’accord,” Mireille said, nodding vigorously. “You are right, he is a strong-willed man.” Suddenly her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “But when you smile at him, mademoiselle”—she lifted her tiniest finger and waggled it—”his will is no stronger than this!”

Rosalie gave a smothered laugh and broke one of the soft white milk rolls, shaking her head in dismay.

“I wonder if it was wise of Rand to pick you as my companion,” she said, chuckling quietly before spearing a tiny mushroom with a three-pronged fork.

“A pair of brown geldings, an old brown match horse, a chestnut mare, and a bay,” Rand listed the contents of the stable thoughtfully, the sinewy, muscular length of his legs stretched out in front of him as he lounged negligently in the frail, elaborately ornamented chair. He had come to Rosalie’s bedchamber after an early-morning ride, finding her at the beginning of a leisurely paced breakfast. She was an enchanting sight, her paleness erased with the warm flush of a long sleep and recent awakening. “The bay can work up to a respectable speed, but the others are too old and wellfed to be of much use.” He chuckled suddenly, his goldtinged eyes focused on a distant memory. “I don’t recall many details about the old marquis except for his love of horses. I wonder if he knows somehow that his fortyhorse stable is currently being warmed by five roundsided nags who swish at flies for exercise.”

Rosalie laughed, pulling apart a croissant and spreading a crumbling bit of it with fresh honey.

“You plan to augment the ranks of the d’Angoux stables soon?” she inquired.

“I’m going to visit some of the more prominent local landowners today. Perhaps there’ll be a few prospects. In any event, it’s customary here for the new residents of the district to pay first calls.”

“Really? They’re not going to make the first move and welcome us? And I thought the French were so hospitable. It makes more sense the way we do it in England, the other way around.”

“I would rather that no one came to visit for a few weeks,” Rand replied, stroking his lean cheek absently. The shadow of bristle made him appear darker than usual, and vaguely unscrupulous. “The reason we’re here is to find some peace, not to play host to a gaggle of curious callers.”

“Oh . . .” Rosalie stopped chewing in mid-thought, then forced herself to swallow. “Do you think anyone knows . . . about the gossip . . . ?”

“About the rumors concerning Brummell’s daughter?” Rand clarified, and then shook his head. “You’ll discover shortly that this little province is an entire world, insulated from Paris just as much as it’s insulated from Japan. Local affairs are the concern here—local news, local gossip. Now, in England, you’ve been a gossipmonger’s dream, but here . . . well, you won’t make the local circuit for quite a while.”

“Thank you,” Rosalie said dryly. As she washed down the croissant with hot, milky coffee, her eyes brightened with a pleasant idea. “Then that means I can accompany you when you visit—”

“You can rest and relax in bed for a while longer,” Rand corrected, his voice containing that autocratic note that sorely tempted her to disobey him. “And if you’re feeling stronger, you can have Mireille accompany you on a tour through a wing or two of the château. There are paintings, sculptures, and amusements enough to keep you occupied for a while.” Smothering her vaguely outraged reaction to his tone of command, Rosalie contrived to keep her reply appropriately mild. Rand would not be won over by her stubbornness as quickly as sweetness.

“Will I see you for lunch?” she asked, sounding more wistful than she would have preferred. However, she was satisfied to hear that his voice was noticeably softer than before.