Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(85)

“Pauvre Rose,” he said, “I would invite you into our discussions gladly, but I think your presence would prove to be somewhat inhibiting. Not for me, you understand—”

“I know that,” she interrupted, folding her arms across her chest and pacing across the receiving-room tiles as Rand leaned against the fireplace mantel and watched her lazily. “At least you don’t mind allowing me the freedom to say what I think. But if these women are so silly that they have to be put in a separate room with their own inane conversation, they certainly wouldn’t dare to contradict anything the men have to say!”

“If you’re angling to be invited into the men’s salon when we call upon the Huraults tomorrow afternoon,” Rand informed her unequivocabiy, “your hopes are in vain. We won’t be in France beyond the end of summer, so our stay is not long enough to justify the breaking of a two-hundred-year-old tradition. Therefore, as the summer continues, you can expect to become an expert on the subject of women’s hats.”

“Then you can expect,” Rosalie said evenly, “that by the end of summer I will be reduced to the intelligence of a child.”

Unsuccessfully Rand tried to keep a straight face. “Most men prefer their women that way,” he pointed out.

“But not you,” she countered, her lips suddenly curving in a smile that faintly echoed his. “Not you, Rand . . . you have a low tolerance for simplerainded people.”

“You know me so well,” he said, his tone gentle but somehow mocking. Rather than waste her time trying to puzzle him out, Rosalie sighed and went to the stairs. “Good night, Rand.”

“Good night,” he responded, settling his broad shoulder more firmly against the wall and continuing to smile in that strange, subtly caustic way as he watched her depart.

In the days that followed, Rosalie endured the visits they received and the visits they made in return, finding gradually that although they were not intellectually stimulating, there was still enjoyment to be found in others’ company. She and Rand, with Mireille and Madame Alvin faithfully in tow, attended breakfasts and private dinners, listening to occasionally competent instrument players. Sometimes there were entertaining singers to listen to, and sometimes the assemblage would all join in the music-making, raising their voices to the ceiling with a variety of results. Rand further endeared himself to the community by bringing down a wild boar on a hunting expedition with several country gentlemen, and the huge bloody tusks of the animal were admired and coveted as if they had been solid gold. He only laughed when Rosalie shuddered at Guillaume’s vivid description of the hunt. Guillaume had accompanied him enthusiastically and wasted none of his inventiveness in the telling of the tale.

Rosalie had at first been mildly surprised by Rand’s decision to take Guillaume along on the hunt. But after thinking on the matter she decided that a friendship between the two men was not unexpected. After all, Rand liked anyone that he could not easily intimidate, and that aside, Guillaume was eminently likable. Ready to plunge foolhardily into any situation, any adventure, Guillaume liked to make impossible boasts and live up to them. He had lived an existence as varied as it was possible for one man’s life to be, having dragged Mireille on more than half of his escapades. He did not often volunteer anything more than superficial information about the things he had done and seen, nor did he allow Mireille to say much about the past. To ward against self-incrimination, he explained . and although it was said in a mischievous way, there was more than a touch of seriousness behind his words. Guillaume liked to live by his wits, and that failing, the sword that he kept well-polished and supple through frequent practice. Each day he engaged in a series of exercises in the garden in the early-morning hours while the ground was still half-shadowed and the day not yet begun. It so happened that this was also the time that Rand liked to ride.

Rand pulled up Diamond and sat in quiet observation one morning, his eyes narrowing in interest as he watched the flickering shadows of swordplay. Gurllaume had the mark of an accomplished swordsman, one who had had little classical training but much practical experience. His knees were flexible and his movements lightning quick, a combination that had probably ensured his survival numerous times despite the poorness of his posture. Over and over he practiced guards and lunges, forming pattern after pattern as the foil flashed in the approaching sunrise. Gradually his movements slowed as he realized that he had an audience. He turned to meet Rand’s eyes.

“I hope for your sake that your matches are always this uneven,” Rand said, smiling slowly.

Guillaume grinned, waving the capped tip of his foil at the empty space in front of him. “Uneven is the way I prefer them, monsieur.”

“May I offer a suggestion with the utmost respect for your considerable skills?”

“Monsieur de Berkeley,” Guillaume said gravely, his eyes twinkling, “there have been and will continue to be times when my life depends on my ability with the sword. All suggestions are welcomed and accepted with the utmost gratitude. I do not like to gamble with my life . . . it is a possession valuable to myself if not to others.”

“You present an unnecessarily broad target for your opponent,” Rand said, dismounting and winding Diamond’s reins around a fragile tree branch. “On the last combination your guard was so wide that you could have been skewered neatly after the double feint. If you angle your body more this way . . . you will change from being difficult to hit to well-nigh impossible.”