Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(84)

As Rosalie seated herself gracefully in an embroidered chair similar to Mireille’s, she stretched out a hand to receive the stack of calling cards. Busily she thumbed through them after bestowing a gentle smile on Ninette.

“Not only the notary and the vicar,” she said, flipping through the gilt-edged cards with pleasure, “but also two bankers, a physician, a score of small landowners, and a few members of the noblesse. And assorted wives and daughters. They want to congratulate Monsieur de Berkeley on his contribution to the maintenance of the public well-being.”

“Really,” Guillaume said, eyeing Rand with interest. “Pray, how did you achieve such popularity?”

“He spoke on behalf of the villagers,” Rosalie said, jumping in before Rand could say a word, “to Monsieur Lefevre, a scoundrel who had intended to raise the land taxes of the small landowners, depriving hungry people of food, taking money from those who could least afford—”

“In short,” Rand interrupted laconically, smiling reluctantly at Rosalie’s enthusiastic recitation, “I’m being canonized for a ten-minute meeting with a pinchfisted tax collector.”

“And what is frustrating,” Rosalie continued to Guillaume, “is that he won’t tell anyone exactly what he said to Lefevre.”

“It does not bear repeating in mixed company,” Rand murmured.

“Nevertheless you have made yourself extremely popular,” she rejoined wickedly. “And I intend to take advantage of it by enjoying the company of our visitors.”

“I don’t know if you’re well enough to receive callers,” Rand said thoughtfully. For a split second Rosalie did not know if he was teasing or not.

“Not well enough? You of all . . .” she began, stopping abruptly as she realized what she had been about to say. You of all people know how well I am. Her mind flickered back to those lusty moments in the stable, her skirts pulled up to her waist . . . shaken by a rush of adrenaline, a soaring elation that could not be confined . the velvet bliss that had deepened after the first feverish desperation . . . the heavy languor that had filled her body, their tongues, tasting and exploring . . . the warmth of his large hand on her hip, his thumb stimulating sensitive nerves along the way to Enough! she reprimanded herself, appalled at the path her mind had taken. A bright blush burned in her cheeks as she met his eyes. Rand stared at her intently, a slow smile pulling at his wide mouth as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. You devil, she thought in discomfort, and tried to conceal her agitation in a hasty swallow of lemonade. Guillaume watched the byplay with interest.

“I do not think mademoiselle would be tired by a few visitors,” Mireille piped up in the silence, and Rand released Rosalie from his pinning stare as he glanced over at the young girl.

“Then, bowing to your opinion, we’ll let her have a go at the company tonight,” he said. “Unfortunately I can only predict that Rosalie will be bored out of her little slippers.”

At this comment Rosalie directed a mild, questioning frown at him, wondering what he meant.

Mireille interrupted hurriedly, hoping to prevent an argument from brewing, for she was becoming experienced enough to read the signs. “I have heard that there are a few rumors going around the community about mademoiselle. They are very curious about her.” “Probably,” Rosalie said, suddenly laughing in a sweet, infectious way that caused even Rand to smile, “they think Monsieur de Berkeley has a mad old crone locked in the attic.”

“Or a treasure,” Rand added softly, “that he means to guard quite jealously.”

Her cheeks colored even deeper as she averted her gaze from him and directed her attention to the glass of lemonade.

As Rand had predicted, the endless round of callers quickly lost its novel appeal for Rosalie. Introduced to the guests as Monsieur de Berkeley’s gently bred little cousin from England, she was forced according to custom to entertain the wives, daughters, and womenfolk while Rand received the men in a separate but adjacent room to discuss politics, current events, and theory.

“I think,” Rosalie said grimly on the third repetition of such an evening, “that we should break tradition and all have a discussion together. Men and women. Like they do in Paris.”

They stood alone in the receiving room, Mireille having conveniently disappeared after the last guest had taken leave.

“This is not Paris, petite,” Rand said, amused but sympathetic. “This is a small district in the country, where it has taken hundreds of years for the present customs to develop. I take it, then, that you don’t enjoy the separation of the sexes?”

“Not when mine is so boring!”

Rand burst out into laughter, his eyes glinting. “I’ve never thought that, petite.”

“Heaven help me,” Rosalie continued doggedly, “after what happened in Paris, I never thougbt I’d want to go back there, but much more of this and I’ll walk there myself. The women here are so empty-headed—all they can talk about is how to run a household, how to get the servants to do more work, what to eat for breakfast on a particularly hot day . . . and the ones who can read—do you think they would waste their time on the weekly paper, or even on something by Moliere? No, they read the fashion pages, so that they can enliven the discussion with information on the new style of hats or hairstyles!”