The innkeeper’s talkative wife, Marie Queneau, had been adamant about recommending Madame Mirabeau’s as the only draper’s shop worth mention in Havre. Rand had deposited Rosalie there after putting in a perfunctory appearance as her benefactor. “Tout ce qu’elle veut,” he had said. As the words
“all she wants” danced through her mind, Rosalie had smiled at him wickedly, endeavoring to cause him as much unease as possible about what she would spend.
Rosalie did not relish playing the role of his mistress, but she found that the unspoken title had given her a certain status, even though the clothes she wore had become filthy and ragged. It seemed that the mistress of a wealthy man had more influence and importance than even his wife, at least in Madame’s viewpoint. Madame attended to Rosalie personally, strewing designs, “fashion babies,” and samples of cloth and lace in front of her. After years of conservative clothes and serviceable colors, Rosalie found herself in the midst of a minor predicament. Trying on Elaine’s castoffs was one thing but actually purchasing such high fashion for herself was both unnecessary and pretentious. Pastels were the rage, delectable shades of carnation, coral, cucumber, powder blue, and lavender. They were colors that would be quite useless for a servant who came into occasional contact with soot and dust. There was no need for her to order a ball gown, since Rand would obviously not have the time or desire to take her dancing, even though balls were held frequently in celebration of Napoleon’s defeat. And the delicate, mouth-watering laces and frills, the ruching and edged scallops . . . on her, they would be like peacock’s feathers on a pigeon. Don’t dress yourself like a maid, Rand
had warned her mockingly, and his words remained in her ears as she looked uncertainly at one sketch after another. But that’s what I am, she thought despairingly, a maid and a companion. She should select things that would last long after Rand Berkeley had faded from her life.
I want to live!
Her own words came back to haunt her.
I want to dance and flirt—
She could almost hear Amille’s reply: Rosalie!
Toss my head . . . make eyes at handsome men . . ,
Don’t dress yourself like a maid.
Rosalie, a voice said in warning.
“Madamoiselle Belleau,” Madame Mirabeau inquired with exquisite tact, “would you like me to ‘elp you choose?”
“Oui,” Rosalie said, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Make me . . . as elegant as you can. S’il vous plait.”
They spent all morning and part of the afternoon choosing, discussing, measuring, fitting a simple gown that had been stitched quickly by many pairs of hands for her to wear until the rest of the lot was finished. The total order included scandalously fine underwear, stockings, slippers, bonnets trimmed with feathers, gloves, two pelisses, one with sleeves, one without, and some chemise dresses, light and closely fitting, trimmed with wide bands of embroidery around the bodice and hem, or pleated frills and ruching, with deeply scooped necklines. Rosalie wondered at the differences between the French and English versions of the classical style.
“It seems to me that the French make much more of a production out of the . . . breasts than the English,” she remarked, looking uneasily at the display of cleavage one of the gowns would reveal, and for some reason Madame Mirabeau burst out into gales of laughter. By the end of the session Rosalie was feeling daring enough to ask for the formal-wear designs, and she found her interest caught immediately.
“The Valois,” Madame explained, her voice faintly excited. “No longer the cool, pure lines of the classical style. This is more for a woman, do you see?”
“I see,” Rosalie said, peering at the sketches curiously. There were puffs and slashes in the sleeves and skirts, longer waists that were nipped in to small proportions, wider shoulders, fuller skirts. Some of the sleeves were gathered several times down the arm, finished at each gather with bows or tassels. “I gather corsets are coming back?”
“Pah!” Madame exclaimed. “They would have come back years ago, had it not been for the war! Women have been letting great rolls settle on their stomachs without the laces.”
They’ve also been more comfortable, Rosalie wanted to point out, but she was not experienced enough to be a critic of fashion.
“Then make this one for me,” she said, indicating a design with a peculiarly shaped neckline, a V that reached down to between the breasts.
“In silver-blue?”
“Justement,” Rosalie agreed, and they grinned at each other. “But, Madame, tell me, is this an extraordinarily expensive order?”
Madame Mirabeau picked up a bolt of silk and fingered it idly as she fastened Rosalie with a speculative look.
“Monsieur seems to be a generous man, yes?” Rosalie nodded doubtfully. Rand was generous, per
haps. But philanthropic? No. She would not dare complain if he decided to cancel half the order, for she and Madame Mirabeau had most definitely picked out more than she had need of.
It took most of the day for Rand to convince the customs officials at the port to allow Lady Cat to dock.
They were convinced that the cotton shipment she carried was fraudulent, and none wanted the responsibility for it. The close-minded attitude they all shared was a result of the trade barriers Napoleon had established during the worst of English and French hostilities. In order to defeat the British, Bonaparte had banished all trade with England by setting up a formidable customs network. The plan had backfired, nearly ruining the French merchant class and agricultural system. Without a sympathetic French minister of the interior to ease the bans, it would have been an even greater disaster. Even though the former emperor was now languishing on a small island in exile, there was still a residue of hostility toward the British on the part of the customs officials.
The captain of Lady Cat, a weathered man in his midforties who went by the name of Willy Jasper, assisted Rand in checking the first few bales of cotton as the customs officials watched. Jasper ran his ship like a man-o’-war, with discipline and efficiency. He was dependable and self-assured, for the job he held was equal to a similar position in the Royal Navy and he possessed a large amount of pride in what he did. In return for his excellent service he was granted several tons of the ship’s total weight capacity to use for private trade. It was no secret that he intended one day to retire and use the money to buy his own ship. Jasper and Rand worked their hands into the fragrant Georgia fleece, and predictably the bales were rife with stones. A flurry of conversation ensued among the Frenchmen, so fast that Rand could understand only one word in ten.
“Sorry about this,” Jasper apologized in a low monotone. “The bloody American buggers swore they weren’t cheating anymore; What do they think we are,
bloody idiots?”
“It would seem so,” Rand replied, his face carefully neutral as he flickered a glance toward the customs agents.
“Send it back?”
“No. Despite the extra weight, there’s still some valuable cotton here. Send back a message instead: ‘Cargo lost at sea. Too heavy to float.’ ”
Jasper chuckled suddenly.
“Aye, sir.”
“I doubt our position could be much clearer. The problem is in getting the next shipment through.” Rand turned to the chattering officials and tried to clear the situation with his laborious French. He had little doubt of his ability to persuade them to see reason, for postwar France was not in much of a position to upset the fragile, newly established trade channels with England. Slowly the French market was beginning to recover and they had need of both raw and manufactured cotton, guns, wool, leather and saddlery, and especially coffee and sugar. The best and most luxurious goods in the world came from England at a massive volume as steam power was being developed and made use of in the tide of Britain’s industrialization. Rand intended to take as much advantage as possible of France’s hunger and England’s overabundance.
Much later in the day as the sun was beginning to lose its tenuous grip on the darkening sky, Rand pulled the smart, fast curricle-hung gig to a halt in front of Madame Mirabeau’s shop. Impatiently he entered the small building and stood near the doorway, wondering how his one-time mistress had fared. Madame Mirabeau peered at him from a curtained-off room. “One moment, monsieur,” she said, and there were
muffled sounds of giggling as her head disappeared. Obviously they intended to stage some sort of production for his benefit. He could hear Rosalie’s voice, although it sounded as if they were trying to keep her quiet.
“He won’t care which slippers! Yes, I know he’s paying, but you don’t understand . . .”
In another few minutes Madame came out and flung open the red curtain dramatically, gesturing for Rosalie to follow. Rand smiled slowly as an elapse of several seconds occurred. When she finally emerged the smile left his face, the color of his eyes changed from tigergold to green. Rosalie stopped in front of him, feeling unaccountably bashful as he viewed the results of their day-long handiwork. She waited in vain for him to speak. Did he like it? It doesn’t matter what he thinks, she told herself. As he said nothing and continued to stare, Rosalie lifted her chin slightly, her attitude becoming faintly regal as she gathered pride around her like a mantle.
The gown was of the softest, palest pink imaginable, glimmering like the inside of a shell. Small puffed sleeves caressed the tops of her arms and the neckline plunged so deeply that it merely clung to the tips of her breasts before cupping them underneath and falling in thin folds to the floor. Her figure was youthful and slim but the full curves of a woman were undeniably there, enhanced by the soft, clinging material. The only jewelry she wore was a small gold pin which gleamed and winked from the pale velvet ribbon fastened around her neck. Rosalie’s skin flushed slightly at Rand’s intent perusal, her eyes shining a clear daylight blue. They had trimmed her hair in the front so that what had formerly been wisps were now fashionably curled bangs, but the rest was pinned in a heavy, gleaming mass at the back of her head.
“I hardly recognize you,” Rand said huskily. The sight of her had hit him like a blow, leaving him unprepared, defenseless. He looked at her as he wavered between desire and resentment. She wasn’t covered enough, he thought, relentlessly tearing his fascinated gaze from her breasts . . . yet the rational part of his mind insisted that she wore no less than any other fashionable women. A question stung him suddenly with painful accuracy: was he going to be able to bear keeping his hands off her? His pride, his word, was involved in the matter, for he had promised not to take her again. Good Lord, how had he devised such a trap for himself? I didn’t know, he thought with hungry discontentment, I didn’t know then that I would want her so much.
“You look very nice,” he mumbled, aware that an approving statement was expected of him from the women. Although Madame Mirabeau had apparently expected a more flamboyant compliment, Rosalie appeared to be satisfied with it. She gave him a small smile and looked down at herself, and in that moment Rand saw the actions of someone else, a moment of startling clarity, too brief to grasp. Immediately his physical craving subsided as he focused on the surprising realization. Somewhere, somehow . . . he had seen her before.
“Where did you get the pin?” he asked, his gaze thoughtful as it rested on the small circlet of gold. The initial B was carved in the center, surrounded by tiny etched leaves. It was a gentleman’s stock pin intended to anchor the intricate folds of a cravat.
“It belonged to my father, Georges Belleau,” Rosalie replied, fingering the circlet absently. “It was given to me by my mother on my eighteenth birthday.” Why in the world had he asked about her pin? she wondered with vague irritation. Had he even looked at her dress, her face, her figure? Was he so unaffected by her? Not that she cared a whit for his blasted opinion, but after spending all day . . .
“You are pleased with the gown?” Madame Mirabeau inquired coyly, and Rand’s green-gold gaze swerved to her.
“Madame,” he said slowly, “your artistry is equaled only by the materials you were initially given to enhance.” They were polite words of admiration, spoken so perfunctorily that they were meaningless. Rosalie was annoyed more by them than if he had kept his mouth shut.
“Ah, somehow I think you do not speak of the cloth,” Madame Mirabeau simpered, hedging for further snippets of praise in a manner that only a Frenchwoman could. Rand adroitly cut short the exchange by alluding tactfully to the bill.
“Such a transformation is of course worth any price, chère Madame . . .”
“Ah, yes,” she said instantly. “You will notice at first glance the economy of my work, monsieur. You are a
foreigner, but I do not take you for a fool. I charge you only the bare minimum . . .”
Now feeling uncomfortable at the prospect of having a man pay for the clothes, the slippers, even the chemise she wore, Rosalie remained silent until they left an eminently pleased Madame Mirabeau in the shop. He owes it to me, she told herself over and over. Because of Rand Berkeley she had lost her innocence, her employment, her home. A few clothes were the least he could offer. Still the sensation of unpleasantness remained with her, as if the exchange of money between the man and the dressmaker had somehow labeled her as his possession. As they drove home, Rand was the first to speak.
“So you’ve had a profitable day,” he remarked. Rosalie nodded, reaching an experimental hand to touch the newly shorn curls at her forehead. “I see they cut your hair.” The displeasure in his voice was heartening. At least he had noticed something about her that aroused more than polite blandness!
“Just the front,” Rosalie replied casually. “No more decisions without consulting me first.” “I’m not your servant, Lord Berkeley. I take no orders
from you.”
“No orders, just my money?”
“You were the one who suggested the clothes in the first place!”
“I suggested clothes, not cutting your damned hair!” “It’s my hair. I belong to myself, not to you. And
snapping at me isn’t going to bring those few little snippets of hair back. And why do you care any—”
“I don’t care,” he interrupted sharply, gritting his teeth in an effort to control his temper.
They said nothing for a few minutes as the horse’s hooves and the cabriolet wheels rattled over the uneven road, and then Rand sighed in an effort to release some of his pent-up frustration.
“We can’t live like this for the next few weeks. We’ll end up killing each other.”
“As far as I can tell, our differences are uncompromising,” Rosalie said flatly. She also had no idea of how they would be able to survive the stay in Havre.
Rand’s disturbed expression was suddenly lightened by a wry and fleeting smile.
“If France and England can make an effort at coexistence, I think you and I can work something out.” “What exactly do you suggest?” she inquired warily. “What would you say to calling a truce?” A truce. Rosalie toyed with the smooth fabric of her
new gown as a debate raged in her mind. A truce, a cessation of hostility. But it would be dishonest to agree to something like that while she still felt hostile toward him. It couldn’t be changed easily. At times she merely had to look at him to feel the same anger and helplessness that had filled her as he had stripped off her clothes and taken her. He was the only man who had ever had intimate knowledge of her, and she hated the fact that while there might be others in the future, he would always be the first. She would never be able to forget that sunlit room at Berkeley Square and what had happened there, and that alone was reason to despise him. Possibly he saw her now as a person with feelings, but once lie had looked on her as only a body from which he was entitled to steal his pleasure.
“It would be pointless to try,” she said in a low voice, looking out at the rows of dirty houses they passed. She felt a weight settle on her shoulders, and she continued while feeling horribly guilty at refusing his overture. “I wish I had a more forgiving nature, but I don’t. It wouldn’t work.”
Rand nodded slightly, his face implacable, his mouth grim as he clicked to the horse and increased their pace. Obviously the thought had not occurred to her that the situation was glued together only by his oftenneglected sense of honor—he could leave her on any street corner and never be bothered with the sight of her again! Then he discarded the thought of pointing that out, disgusted with himself. Frightening a defenseless woman gave him no pleasure. In the ensuing moments of silence he was free to analyze his odd mixture of reactions to her words. He was offended at her refusal to cry truce. The worst part of him suggested rather snidely that, considering who was who and what was what, she had no right to refuse his tentative offer of friendship. Another part of him was vaguely hurt, as if he had extended a hand to a fluffy kitten and received a scratch for his trouble. And yet overall his regard for her had increased, for she had made it clear that she would play neither the saint nor the martyr by mouthing words of forgiveness that she did not feel.
He wondered how to deal with her. The only solution to the problem seemed to lie in staying as far away from her as possible.
From then on it seemed that the lines were drawn, for Rand made no more approaches and Rosalie made no concessions. A day passed, and then another, and their pattern was repeated until a week was behind them. Despite the brief snaps and arguments, the long silences and oddly tense, watchful conversations, Rosalie knew that she would remember those days at the Lothaire as being idyllic. She slipped into the French language as if it were a fitted glove, the lilting accents often reminding her of Amille. Rand left her alone a large part of the time as he went either to the docks or to check on properties that the Berkeleys owned, and she nestled in the cozy haven of the inn with contentment.
Rosalie had never experienced this kind of leisure time, in which she could choose whatever she wanted to do and know that there would be no interruption. She practiced her music, sat in a velvet nook reading novels by Jane Austen, wandered through the kitchen garden and chewed sun-warmed mint leaves, sat in the meeting-room and chatted idly about the contents of the thrice-weekly Continental newspapers with the other guests of the inn, two of whom were girls from the American colonies touring Europe with their parents.
The only time that she shared regularly with Rand was when they breakfasted in the coffee room on hot café au lait and flaky rolls, and once again in the evening when they shared dinner with the Queneau family and the other guests of the inn. They all sat in the salle à manger and ate huge meals that included fresh herbs and vegetables from the garden. After the main course the top tablecloth was removed to reveal an even finer one beneath, and then decanters of claret, port, and sherry were set out for them to imbibe as they partook of the hothouse fruits for dessert. Rosalie never dared to ask Rand why he never took more than a sip of wine, but she watched him every night and found his lack of taste for it very curious indeed.
Slowly the choice food, the cider from Normandy, the fresh air and sun, the leisure, the freedom, caused her pale skin to bloom with color and health. Rand said nothing about the change that was taking place, but at times he would look at her with eyes containing a bewildering mixture of craving and bleakness.
Although Rosalie continued to avow that she disliked him, she found that he aroused a great deal of curiosity in her. She began to know exactly when he had been brawling, gaming, or engaging in some adventure, because sometimes he would walk in with a reckless and irresponsible gleam in his eyes. It seemed that he enjoyed himself only when he was doing something that the rest of the Berkeleys would undoubtedly have disapproved of. It was difficult to understand him, however, because he was more complex than a typical amusement-seeker. The more she became acquainted with him, the more surprised Rosalie was by the fact that he had bothered to rescue her from her attacker on the night of the Covent Garden fire. Although he could occasionally be kind when the moment suited him, Rand was certainly not a humanitarian. Often he was given to mocking and heartless moods that both awed and dismayed Rosalie.
One night he came back to the inn unusually late after spending the day journeying to Louviers and back. Having made up his mind to forage out additional trade partners, Rand had engaged in negotiations and obstacle-ridden conversations the entire day, with a fair measure of success. He wanted a piece of the French wool business and he was also willing to take the risk of investing in what promised to be an explosion of development in the silk industry. Now that Napoleon was rotting in St. Helena, industries that rested on the whims of the upper classes would undoubtedly flourish.
He strode into the suite wearily and was confronted with the sight of Rosalie submerged in the high-sided tub in the center of the room. Candlelight played over her features, causing delicate shadows to lurk deliriously behind her earlobes and in the gentle hollows under her cheekbones. Wisps of steam curled around her neck, wafting around her head and floating toward the ceiling. Working soap into her hair, Rosalie looked toward the intruder calmly. When she saw that it was Rand, her eyes widened slightly. He had always remained in his room while she took her bath, not having once seen her unclothed since that morning in London. “I thought you were the maid,” she said, her voice
higher than normal. “She’s gone to get some towels.” Don’t be an idiot, she told herself instantly, it’s not as if he hasn’t seen you before! A powerful tension immediately filled the room and shimmered almost visibly in the air. Rosalie had not been this aware of him as a man since that morning in London, and she sank a few inches lower in the water as unwanted memories tormented her. Rand stood as if nailed to that one spot on the floor, his mouth having gone dry, his bright greenish eyes unblinking. With a superhuman effort he tore his attention away from her and regarded his nails intently.
“Sorry. I spent longer in Caen than I thought I would—”
“Did you get many things accomplished?” It took much contrivance to keep her voice casual.
“I . . . Yes.”
“Well . . . I’ll be finished with the water soon,” Rosalie said, and Rand took a step or two backward until he felt the carved door against his shoulders. His pulse picked up speed until its rapidity caused every inch of his skin to prickle in awareness of the fact that her naked body was only a few feet away.
“Don’t hurry,” he said, finding it a miracle that he hadn’t choked on the words. “I’m heading out again— more business to take care of.”
“What about dinner?” Rosalie inquired, frowning, and he shook his head hastily.
“I’m not hungry. I’ll be back later . . . lock the door behind me.”
Disgruntled, Rosalie watched him leave and then she slumped against the back of the tub in relief. After finishing her bath she ate alone and went to bed early, her ears pricked for the sound of a key turning in the main door of the suite. It seemed that for most of the night she remained in a semiwakeful state, waiting for the release of knowing he had returned. He finally arrived when the morning did.
Groggy, her eyes puffy from lack of sleep, Rosalie awakened to the muffled sounds of someone entering the apartments, and she pulled on the pelisse that matched her white nightgown before opening her door. Rand had just come into the suite. She looked at him first in surprise and concern, then in disgust. She could smell some cheap harlot’s overly sweet perfume, its scent distilling through the entire room. His clothes were disheveled, his face as haggard, his eyes as bloodshot as Rosalie’s. His condition hinted more of exhaus tion than drunkenness, as if he had been awake most of the night. Rosalie could not help picturing him rolling and rutting in bed with another woman, and she felt indignation catch in her throat. Promiscuous wretch!
“Well. We make a pair this morning, don’t we?” he said, his words overly soft and carefully enunciated. “You are appalling,” Rosalie stated in a low, taut voice, and he focused an unsteady golden gaze upon her.
“Why, pray tell?”
“You look and smell as if you have slept with every prost . . . whore on the western coast.”
“Very possibly,” Rand agreed, pulling his coat off and letting it drop to the floor. “But if you’ll remember, that was part of our little understanding. If I feel the need, I find some other outlet for my attentions. Or would you rather I had shared your bed after all?”
Rosalie could feel an unbecoming sneer form on her face. She was powerless to remove it. “You’re revolting.” “I’m an unmarried man with no commitment to any
woman. What in hell is so revolting about it?”
“That your wandering lust, troubadour that it is, will apparently perform for any female capable of lifting her own skirts.”
Growling, Rand made a move as if to shake her, but she stood her ground even as his large hands closed over her fine-boned shoulders. His mouth twisted in self-contempt. What was wrong with him? What had caused such inexplicable desire that could not be satisfied by any other woman’s touch or talent? He could not allow this to continue, or he would become as mad as King George.
“I wonder why you lead me on in fruitless bickering,” he questioned softly, his fingers curling slightly into the softness of her upper arms. Rosalie flinched at the bite of his grip. “Could it be that you remember how easily I am led from words to action?”
“If you are implying that I am trying to provoke you,” Rosalie said unsteadily, her blue eyes blazing, “you are mistaken. I was moved to speak only because living in such close quarters makes it difficult to hide my disgust at your promiscuity.”
“Hide it,” Rand advised, jerking her an inch closer so that their bodies were almost touching. She was so small that her head didn’t even reach his chin. “Or I could be tempted to forgo my attempts to satisfy myself discreetly . . . and focus my attentions on the nearest reasonably palatable wench around—which, most of the time, happens to be you.”
Reasonably palatable! Rosalie wanted to slap him across the face as hard as she was able—but she remembered what had ensued the last time she had done it. She held herself stiffly, her hands clenched. “Then force me again,” she said between her teeth. “It
won’t be anything out of the ordinary.”
Abruptly he let go of her shoulders and framed her face with his palms, holding her head in an unbreakable clasp.
“Tell me what appeal you could have for me,” he invited gently. “A woman who offers all the warm comfort of a crusty winter snow. Tempting and haughty in manner, every impulse to draw away from me as if the merest touch is loathsome. You’ve been content in your solitude . . . but I am not so self-sufficient. I was imprisoned for years in such a wintry abode until finally all that made me human drove me to seek warmth. You, however, are the first that I’ve hurt in the quest.”
“What are you talking about?” Rosalie whispered, but he continued as if he hadn’t heard her.
“My attraction to you is ironic . . . a mad desire it is, to sweep away the snow and melt the ice with my hands. And yet I dare not, for it seems that there is nothing underneath the crust, and you would melt away to nothing.”
“You’re mad,” Rosalie breathed, finding that she was trembling as he brought her closer, her breasts quivering against the solid hardness of his chest. As he saw the flicker of dread in her eyes, Rand swore and let her go with a groan.
“Out of my head,” he agreed. “Would to God I didn’t want you.” Abruptly he disappeared into the bedroom and slammed tbe door. Shocked and amazed, Rosalie discovered that she had lost her tongue. How safe was she from him? Exactly how much self-control was he prepared to employ—could she count on him to keep his promise?
They met each other warily that night before dinner, silently, tacitly agreeing to forget the past twenty-four hours. Rand approached Rosalie as she sat in a corner of the main room, her hair shining in the lamplight while she bent her head to read. Slowly she looked up, ready to resume the careful antipathy they had shared during the past several days. The sight of him caused a sudden fluttering in her stomach. Hunger pains, she assured herself.
He wore a navy coat and a shirt and pantaloons of pristine white, his long legs encased in black Hessian boots, a starched white cravat gleaming immacuately at his throat. Somehow Rosalie had become accustomed to the dark golden hue of his skin, for it no longer struck her as odd or unattractive. Although he was not handsome, she knew now with utter certainty why many women would want him. There was something peculiarly magnetic about him, the faint roughness, the vibrancy, the lavish masculinity of him, that made a woman sharply aware of her own femininity. His unpredictability only served to make him more intriguing. His dark-rimmed eyes would change so quickly, from coldness to laughter, and then to shining opaqueness that dared her to guess what he was feeling. Rosalie knew that most women must have been sorely tempted to try to tame him, to coax him to place his trust in them, yet she knew also that not one of them had succeeded.
“You’ve been kept in this place like a little bird in a cage,” he said quietly, and Rosalie stood up as she answered him.
“It was not your responsibility to provide entertainment.”
His eyes swept over her, seeming to catch and retain the glow of the lamp as he surveyed her slender figure in an eggshell-shaded gown trimmed with an intricate leaf pattern.
“This small corner is all you’ve seen of France. I’d like to show you more of it.” His attitude was matter-of-fact, but somewhere in his tone was a touch of apology. Rosalie regarded him uncertainly. Why would he care if she were enjoying herself or not? Her presence here was merely for convenience.
“You planned to begin tonight?” she questioned, indicating his clothes with a nod of her head.
“That depends on whether or not you’d like to go out for supper. There is a place—”
“First I’d like to ask you something,” Rosalie said, her even teeth catching at her full bottom lip as she contemplated him. She had decided in his absence that she would be better off as Rand’s friend. She was not strong enough to last as his enemy. “Is your offer of a truce still open?” Rosalie held out her hand as she spoke. After hesitating, he did the same. But instead of shaking her hand, Rand held it for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as he tried to read her thoughts. Rosalie was deeply surprised at the warmth, the security, the satisfaction she experienced at the simple clasp. What disturbed her was that she did not want him to let her go, and that when he did, she could barely restrain herself from continuing to hold on to him. Her fingers still retained the warmth of his.
“I have some free time in the next few days,” Rand remarked, helping her to slide her arms through the long sleeves of the pelisse. “I thought we might-pay a
visit to an old acquaintance of mine.” As he pulled free a straying curl that was caught under the pelisse, he smiled down at her with blinding charm.
“Oh?” Rosalie had difficulty in focusing on what he was saying, so enmeshed was she in the sense of wellbeing that began to wash over her. Rand, she was beginning to discover, could be very nice when he wanted to. “Who?”
“Some call him the King of Calais.” “Who is that?”
“Beau Brummell, of course.”
Rosalie doubted that much of what Rand told her of Beau Brummell was true. She quizzed him the next two days during the coach ride to Calais, her expression full of delight and incredulity as Rand regaled her with colorful stories that seemed to have been spun by an active mind and fertile imagination. She began to suspect the gleam in Rand’s eyes that belied his perfect ly grave countenance, but he assured her repeatedly that everything he had said comprised merely the bare facts of Brummell’s existence. There were some things Rosalie could not dispute: the fact that Brummell had fled London amid scandal and a tremendous debt was well-known, for his Sevres porcelain, his library of fine books, furniture, wine collection, and works of art had all been auctioned off by Christie in a very public manner. His friendship with George IV, the prince regent, was also famous, for his highness and the most elegant members of the beau monde had often visited Brummell at number four Chesterfield Street, begging for his opinion as to their apparel and their style. Brummell, or the Beau, as he was most well-known, had a legendary way with a cravat, having invented the method of starching the neckcloth in order to make it gleaming and immaculately shaped.
“It is rumored,” Rand told her, “that he has three people make his gloves, one for the thumb, one for the fingers, one for the palm—”
“I don’t believe it!” Rosalie exclaimed, and she leaned a fraction closer, her eyes fixed on his. “Did you meet him often?” she inquired. It was all Rand could do not to plant a kiss on her soft mouth. He smiled, his dark brown lashes lowering slightly as his gaze flickered unnoticeably to her mouth.
“A few times. He would not deign to walk anywhere with me, however. He said that it was obvious by my stride that I would undoubtedly splash his boots.”
Rosalie grinned.
“He didn’t want to get his boots dirty?”
“He had the soles of them polished, as well as the tops and sides.”
“Such a man must have a very inflated opinion of himself.”
“For eighteen years he’s been the Prince of England, much more so than the fourth George. I imagine his fall from grace has had a humbling effect on him. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it hasn’t.”
“Are you certain he’ll welcome visitors?” “You don’t think he moved to Calais for no reason,
do you? He has strategically located himself to receive all the English visitors to the Continent as they cross the Strait of Dover. Anyone coming to or from Paris practically trips over his doorstep.”
The Beau lived near the Hotel de Ville, the center of town, at the home of a French printer named Leleux. As was proper etiquette, Rand had previously sent a messenger with a calling card to inform Brummell of the visit. To express the greatest amount of consideration and attention to the nicety, it was customary to write E.P. (en personne) at the bottom of the card.
It had not occurred to Rosalie until near the end of their journey that there existed no proper or acceptable explanation for her relationship with Rand. Brummell would conclude that she was Rand’s mistress, since she was obviously not his wife or his sister, and the lack of a chaperon indicated that she was not of a respectable family. Many would regard her as a creature of weak morals, without respect for the sensibilities of decent people. It did not matter that those who condemned her hid equal if not worse vices behind the privacy of their doors, in the concealment of impressive titles and polished reputations. Appearance was all that mattered, and if casting stones was in order, she stood in plain view of those hypocritical eyes. She worried silently about the situation, hoping that Brummell would not hold such a thing against her.
She need not have worried. Rosalie would never again meet someone with manners as exquisite as Brummell’s. He ushered them into his apartment as soon as they arrived, as if there was not a moment to lose in making them comfortable. His present home consisted of three perfectly decorated rooms, one for conversation, one for dining, one for sleeping, furnished in a manner that was not at all what Rosalie had expected from a man heavily in debt. As Rand explained later, the Beau was an expert at borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. He procured almost limitless credit by employing his bountiful charm. A valet named Selegue was his only servant, a quiet little man who bustled about unobtrusively as Brummell welcomed them in.
“I am rejoiced that you have made it here!” he exclaimed, his eyes on Rand. “My apartment is humble, nothing like what I’m accustomed to, but in such a crude setting one must shine all the brighter, eh?”
Rosalie stared at him in fascination, having never seen a man more carefully attired. She could well believe that it took him two hours each day to tie his cravat, for each blinding white fold, each tiny crease, was a detail that bespoke care and consideration. He wore a blue coat with a velvet collar and a buff waistcoat, black trousers and matching black shoes that were polished until they reflected his stock. Brummell was thirty-eight, exactly ten years older than Rand, yet he looked so much older and so different that it was impossible to compare the two.
“It frizzles the mind,” the Beau said pointedly to Rand, “how brown you’ve become. Have you no care for your complexion? Skin as dark as a peasant’s—and judging from your brother’s fairness, you cannot use the excuse of heredity . . .”
As Rand murmured something apologetically, Rosalie smiled, knowing full well that her erstwhile lover had no intention of staying indoors to hide from the sun. She observed Brummell’s white, clear complexion admiringly. She could well believe the rumors that he buffed his skin carefully each day with a flesh-brush and rinsed with milk and water.
He had a pleasant round face and bright blue eyes, a face reflecting a wealth of vanity and innocence, charm and entreaty. He loved beauty and simplicity; he believed that those two virtues were embodied in himself, and it was said that he tried to encourage them in others. So this was the man who had humbled a prince and presided over English society for so long.
“I had found the most charming Chinese cabinet for over there . . .” he was explaining to Rand, and as he spoke, those bright eyes turned in her direction. Rosalie felt an odd quake as Brummell stared at her in silence. For several long seconds blue eyes met blue, caught, holding, wondering. Then Rosalie smiled hesitantly. “I think your apartments are beautiful,” she said
simply.
Rand cleared his throat. “George Brummell, let me introduce you to Miss Rosalie—”
“—Belleau,” she interceded.
“Miss Belleau . . .” Brummell spoke in a moved tone, bowing deeply. “I speak in humblest sincerity in saying that I have seen few that have ever come close to your beauty, none that have ever excelled it. The angels must look down as you pass by and weep in envy.”
“Kind sir,” Rosalie replied, smiling at his verbal flamboyance, “surely your precious words are wasted on one so undeserving of them.” Unknowingly she had tilted her head in a halfway flirtatious manner as she spoke, and as she stood before him, Brummell suddenly wrinkled his brow in confusion.
“Jeremy!” he called, his voice impatient and anxious, and as the valet shuffled hurriedly into the room, he caught sight of Rosalie and stopped completely. Feeling herself the object of two shocked and intent stares, Rosalie moved closer to Rand. Protectively he let his fingertips rest lightly on her back.
“Is something amiss, Brummell?”
“No, no, my good man, no.” The Beau recovered himself quickly and patted his valet on the shoulder. “Fetch it, Jeremy. Dear Miss Belleau, please excuse my taxing rudeness, but I hope to explain my actions to you momentarily. I have never seen such a likeness, not in all my born days.”
“A likeness?” Rosalie questioned, her curiosity aroused. As she became aware of Rand’s hand on her back, she tried to keep from moving or changing position, oddly aware that it was a pleasant sensation. “Before your arrival,” the Beau replied, “she was the
fairest woman I had ever been blessed to meet.” His pleasant face became gradually doleful as he continued. “My heart belonged to her as the stars do to heaven. . . surely they all faded a bit when she and I parted.” He sighed. “The saddest tale in the history of love, if not one of the better-known.”
Rand smothered the smile that twitched the corners of his lips as he saw the pity and interest leaping in Rosalie’s expression. She was not aware that Brummell had a warehouse of tales and fabrications, of love, adventure, scandal, tragedy, all of which were carefully preserved and frequently pulled out to entertain his guests. It was one of the marvels of Brummell, that he could find a story to absorb the interest of any listener.
“Shall I continue over refreshments?” Brummell inquired, and solicitously led Rosalie to a small damask-covered table on which reposed a silver tea service. Without interrupting his monologue, he assisted her into a small Windsor chair and indicated that Rosalie pour the tea. By the teapot there was a small platter of red-currant cakes, gingerbread, gooseberry tarts, scones with Corinth raisins, and biscuits de Rheims, expensive almond-flavored cookies. “Her name was Lucy Doncaster,” Brummell began the tale. “Her appearance startlingly close to yours, except that her eyes were the blue of the mist on an English morning. Her hair was the same hue as yours, and it . . .” He cleared his throat meaningfully. “I had the occasion of discovering that it reached nearly down to her waist.” Which was a polite way of saying, Rosalie recognized, that he had been very intimate with Lucy Doncaster. What a charming way to reveal the character of their relationship. “She had the gentlest nature of any woman before or since—she would never contradict, never complain, never reveal a shred of impatience . . .” As the Beau continued, Rosalie turned to her left and met Rand’s eyes, which held a fair amount of wicked amusement. “. . . and it was not possible for our hearts to resist the silent importunings of love. At sixteen I made the acquaintance of the prince regent, was given a cornet’s commission in the tenth regiment, and thus began a celebrated and regrettable friendship that has lasted the past two decades or so. As you are aware, I have recently lifted the blinders of this friendship with Prinny and seen that his shortcomings are too unbearable for a man of my ilk to tolerate . . . but getting back to the story. We met at Brighton, as Prinny was in the habit of ordering our regiment, the Hussars, back and forth from the Pavilion to London. She and her parents were guests at one of many splendid balls at the Pavilion—”
“And it was love at first glance,” Rosalie said with certainty, her young heart feeling as if it had expanded two or three times over. She could hardly believe that here she sat, being entertained by the flattered companion of royalty as he sought to entertain her. Brummell spoke in an extravagant, leisurely manner, as if the world had stopped to allow him as much time as he desired to weave his romantic story.
“Love! What a trifling word that is for what I felt! I was born anew the first time our eyes met. She was . . . innocence itself, come to life in human form.” The Beau picked up an almond biscuit and nibbled it carefully, seemingly lost in his reflections. Rosalie watched him silently, not daring to speak a word. But having discoursed with Brummell before, Rand knew that he was waiting for the prompt of another question.
“Your sentiments were mutual?” he inquired dryly, and the cue was picked up instantly.
“I had her kind assurances that they were. But alas, there were obstacles before us that no mere man could overcome.”
“Suddenly I sense an overbearing father entering the scene,” Rand said. Rosalie sent him a quelling look, which he managed to ignore. He knew she disliked his tendency toward irreverence, but at times it was impossible for him to resist.
“How perceptive,” the Beau commented, accepting a cup of tea from Rosalie with gratitude. “I hope you were liberal with the sugar . . . ? Bless you, m’dear. You are as gracious as the Duchess of Devonshire herself, another good friend of mine. Now, to continue with my recounting . . . Ah, yes, the father. Sir Reginald Doncaster, a well-meaning but misdirected man, who had ruled beloved Lucy with exacting discipline all of her life. Doncaster felt that no man was fit to husband his daughter, and while I agreed, I also felt that I came as close to being worthy of the honor as any other. Despite my petitions, her hand was eventually promised to the Earl of Rotherham. At the same time, the regiment was sent back to London, and during our enforced separation, disaster occurred.”
“She committed suicide,” Rand guessed.
“No, what a silly idea!” Rosalie exclaimed. “Not when she had everything to live for—she was young, she was in love . . . I know what I would do. I would pack my belongings and leave—”
“Which is precisely what she did,” the Beau affirmed, his attitude becoming sad and puzzled. “Except that she did not run to me. She virtually disappeared with her governess. No one knew where she went. There were rumors that she had gone to France, but no one knew for certain. The days, the weeks, the months marched onward, and in the blackness of my despair I sensed that I would never see her again. The story ends a year later. She was found here in France.” Shaking his head, he reached for another almond biscuit.
“What happened?” Rosalie asked urgently, and as the Beau chewed and swallowed the confection, Rand answered for him.
“She committed suicide.” “No!” she contradicted.
“Yes,” Brummell said, reaching out a hand to receive a small ivory box from his valet. “Drowned in the Seine.”
“It doesn’t make sense that she would just give up hope,” Rosalie said, feeling tremendous pity for the unknown Lucy Doncaster. She herself had never experienced the pain of star-crossed love, yet she knew it must have been unbearable.
“Ah, for you, perhaps not,” the Beau said, withdrawing a miniature from the gleaming box and staring at it reflectively. “To understand, you would have to have made the acquaintance of my beloved. So fragile, so in need of protection. She was strong enough only to flee, not to fight.”
“I’m afraid Rosalie would not understand such a reaction,” Rand said, his voice shadowed with laughter, and he stood up from the table to peer over Rosalie’s shoulder as Brummell handed her the likeness.
At first glance Lucy Doncaster appeared to be very young, a quaint child, her face rounded sweetly with youth, her hair powdered with pale gold-white and pulled up into an elaborately curled, immensely tall heap on her head. Her skin was fair and almost translucent, a tiny black heart-shaped patch applied near the corner of her mouth. Her lips were quirked with a delicious hint of a smile. The delicately etched face, the pert nose, the eyes as dark and clear as fine sapphires, caused Rand to whisper something in amazement, his breath gently stirring Rosalie’s hair. She shivered, having no idea if the chills in her spine were because of the picture or his presence behind her.
“It’s Rosalie,” Rand said, and the Beau chuckled triumphantly.
“I told you the similarity was remarkable.” “Yes, it is,” Rand agreed slowly, his tawny eyes fixed
on Rosalie as he returned to his chair. Were it not for the previous existence of Georges Belleau he would had sworn she was a Doncaster by-blow. As if she knew what he was thinking, she met his gaze defiantly. Just imply that I’m some nobleman’s bastard child, she thought while clutching the miniature, and I’ll make you sorry!
“What a kind twist of fate it was that you decided to visit Calais,” Brummell commented, breaking the heavy silence, and Rosalie turned to him with the determination to enjoy herself.
“And how kind of you to receive us,” she said. “I felt assured that any company Rand Berkeley
brought with him would be enjoyable. As usual, I was correct.”
“Thank you,” Rosalie replied. “Ran . . . he . . . Lord Berkeley . . . “ Suddenly unable to decide how to refer to Rand in front of Brummell, she hesitated in confusion. Both men were silent, one of them out of politeness, the other out of some inscrutable, mocking impulse to let her flounder on her own. “He mentioned to me,” she continued with a spark of anger toward Rand, “that you had previously made acquaintance.” “Yes,” the Beau said, an ironic smile crossing his face.
“The first time that we met, I was obliged to thank him.”
“Thank him?” Rosalie glanced toward Rand skeptically. “Whatever for?”
“It was on Berkeley Street that I found my lucky sixpence. I picked it up from the gutter—with a handkerchief, of course—and ascertained that it had a hole in the middle. A battered token, but worth Aladdin’s lamp. From then on I had the most unremitting luck a man has ever dreamed of—”
“Hardly because of any contribution he made,” Rosalie pointed out, indicating Rand with a movement of her head. He smiled innocently at her.
“I take credit whenever possible.”
“—and I lost the coin,” Brummell continued, oblivious of the exchange, “when I inadvertently paid it to a hackney coachman. Hackneys! I’ve always harbored a distaste for them. From then on my life plunged on a downward course, until I came to the straits in which you see me now. Before my move to France, however, I had had the occasion to attend a hunt or two at Berkeley Castle. Rand, how goes the present earl?”
“My grandfather is sickly.” There was a flash of bitterness in Rand’s eyes, so lightning quick that Rosalie might have imagined it. “I spoke with his physician before we left London. There is doubt as to whether he’ll last another year.”
“A pity,” Brummell murmured, yet there was no regret in his voice. Aside from Rand, he had always disliked the Berkeleys. A solemn and pretentious lot, prone to value their money and possessions above everything else. A miserly lot, a cold family . . . basically an unsociable family, which was to the Beau
unpardonable. “Then you will assume the earldom soon.”
“An unappetizing prospect,” Rand stated, swirling his cooling tea in the bottom of his cup, his eyes absorbed in the motion of the liquid.
“Yes.” Brummell looked at him with a trace of sympathy. “I would not welcome the responsibility.”
“I don’t mind the responsibility. But it is a title with many deep and unattended stains.”
“Surely not beyond your capability to wipe clean.” Rand smiled suddenly, looking at Rosalie’s uncom
prehending expression. All she had were kitten’s claws, sharp enough to dissuade but useless for real selfdefense. She was indeed an innocent, one in dire straits if all she had to protect her from the civilized, savage world was him. His gaze did not swerve from her as he spoke.
“Unfortunately,” he drawled, “I tend to follow in the well-worn tracks laid out by my family. And the sins of a Berkeley are sometimes impossible to make adequate reparation for.”
Rosalie tried to steel herself against the faint curl of feeling that had begun to insinuate itself into her heart. Alarmed by it, she lifted the teacup to her lips, nearly choking on the smooth sweetness of her next sip. She mulled over her distressing reaction to him in silence.
Rand Berkeley was a man who did what he pleased regardless of the consequences. That was not unusual for someone in his position. But Rosalie was becoming aware of the surprising fact that he had some sort of conscience. From the way he sometimes looked at her, she had the feeling that his mockery and sarcasm concealed a wealth of far gentler emotions. And when his hard, handsome face contained that peculiar mixture of bleakness and amusement, as it did now, Rosalie wished that she could reach out to that deeply buried part of him that was still young and vulnerable. What is happening to me? she wondered, and, mildly panicked, she took another swallow of tea.