Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(9)

Suddenly a hand reached for her, and she gave a cry of terror, discovering that her pursuer had been only a few feet away around the corner. Her fear made her swift as he came after her. Desperately Rosalie acknowledged that the odds of escaping him were not in her favor. She was hampered by long skirts and light slippers that did little to protect her feet from the ground. Furthermore, she had no experience of these mustard-bricked London streets, which were becoming dirtier and shabbier as she ran. I must be heading toward the East End, Rosalie thought in panic, knowing that she was approaching the worst crime district in the world. There was a rotten smell in the air, of corners and ditches filled with foul matter, awaiting the longoverdue rain that would wash them clean. If she could only find a way to outmaneuver the man who chased her and somehow find her way back toward Westminster! Her side ached with cramps. She put a hand under her rib cage as she turned down yet another soot-dusted alley, and discovered with an inner quake that her luck had run out. It was a dead end, and by the time she swung around the man was at the entrance. His arms were brawny like those of a dockworker, his age probably advanced beyond his thirties.

“Leave me alone. I can get money for you,” Rosalie breathed, trembling profusely.

He walked toward her without answering, his face blank of intelligence or mercy. Rosalie was afraid she would not be able to bear what seemed inevitable. She made one last desperate attempt to run. He caught her easily as she tried to slip past him, catching a handful of her hair. He was like an animal, unwashed, uncivilized, without any sort of human sensibilities. To survive in a world such as this it was necessary to brutalize those who were weaker. Rosalie cried out, fighting the hands that snatched at her gown.

Through the nightmarish haze she heard the sound of loud and drunken voices near the entrance of the alley. Her impression was a group of young blades, their clothes a jumble of white, blue, yellow, and black, idling through Fleet Street. Evidently they were celebrating something, for there was much laughter and even snatches of song as they came from a nearby club or tavern. Rosalie continued to scream, knowing that they were her last chance of avoiding the violation of her body and her life. As they became aware of the tiny commotion in the dark alley, the man’s grunts, the woman’s cries, and the swish of her skirts, they began to laugh uproariously and made catcalls, continuing their leisurely pace down the street. Rosalie used her fingernails once more, aiming for her captor’s eyes with a viciousness she had never believed herself capable of. Although she didn’t succeed in wounding him, he dealt her an openhanded blow, sending her hurtling through the alley opening. It was indeed a night of firsts, for she had never been struck before. Rosalie fell into the middle of the crowd of elegant extracts, sinking into dark oblivion as she dropped to the ground, her cheek coming to rest on the toe of a soft leather boot.

“What have you done, that the Goddess of Chance should cast such pearls in your path?” one of the bucks asked the owner of the expensive boot, and a small gathering formed around the crumpled figure on the ground.

“A nice little piece,” Rand commented, kneeling down to lift the delicately curved face off his foot. She was out cold. Her hair streamed everywhere in endless swaths of silky brown, curling gently across the filthy pavement. Thoughtfully he cupped her head in one hand as he considered her features. Although somewhat sooty, her face was perfectly symmetrical, her cheekbones high but not sharp, lips deeply curved. Her body was clothed in the simple garb of a house servant, yet the moderate swell of her br**sts and the neat turn of her waist were discernible nonetheless. He found her figure fairly pleasing. Through the dirt it was obvious that her skin was as unblemished as a child’s, and he felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy as he saw the tracks of tears on her cheeks. “Obviously overwhelmed by such gentle courting,” he said, his tone indifferent and yet faintly acidic. Around him there was a predictable chorus of wagers.

“Twenty guineas he leaves her.”

“Twenty-five that she warms the Berkeley damask tonight.”

“Fifty that he won’t be able to best her companion.” Protests and cheers emanated from the rakes as Rand grinned and hoisted her up over one shoulder. Chance had indeed thrown her at his feet tonight, and he saw no reason why he should refuse it. There was, however, still another matter to consider.

“You care to challenge me for the wench?” he inquired calmly of the lout in the alley entrance. He was answered by a bitter stare and a thick accent. “She’s mine. I chased her through ‘alf of London.” “For your trouble, then,” Rand said, and flipped a guinea to him. The dockworker caught the shining piece in one fist and remained where he was. “She’s mine now,” Rand pointed out softly, his dark hazel eyes resting steadily on the man, and after long hesitation the lout slunk away.

“You could get a good whore for half that,” George Selwyn remarked, eyeing the trim backside of the body slung so snugly over Rand’s shoulder.

“And you’re not including the cost of cleaning the soot from my sheets,” Rand added as he strode away, causing a general round of laughter.

“Berkeley,” Selwyn said, walking hurriedly to keep pace with him, “you have little need of a woman in the midst of preparing to leave at dawn for France.” “Never fear, I’ll fit her into my schedule somehow.” “Do me this favor . . . send her to my doorstep tomorrow morning, and I’ll give you my new bays when you return. Perfectly matched, fifteen and a half hands high, not a white hair between them.”