It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Annette Queneau had arrived home from school only a few  minutes  before.  Annette  was  a  quiet  child,  not given at all to her parents’ assertive pragmatism. She appeared to daydream often, especially as she played music.  Rosalie  did  not  wish  to  interrupt  the  child’s reverie, and so she enjoyed the light, rhythmic music of the polonaise and the waltz while sitting in the tiny ballroom nearby, perched on the railing of the musicians’ platform with her eyes closed as the pianoforte rang with music.

The ballroom, with its ornamental pink and gold, seemed like something out of a fairy tale to Rosalie. It had not been an unexpected find at the inn, for there were ballrooms everywhere in France, reportedly more than seven hundred in Paris alone. Dancing had never been so popular or so necessary to the morale of the public. Rosalie imagined what the room would look like filled with dancing and music. The accented strains of a romantic, bittersweet melody floated into the room, trembling in the chandeliers, falling through the air like invisible rain until Rosalie could resist its call no more.

She stood up and whirled to the center of the floor, her slender arms and filmy blue-and-white skirts wrapping around her body gracefully, her hair coming loose, the pins flying in every direction. Then amid the blur and the  freedom  of  her  private  rapture,  she  sensed someone’s eyes upon her.

Rand stood in the doorway, his throat strangely tight. He had never seen anything so lovely as she was in that moment, pirouetting like an exuberant spirit, her dark hair tumbling down to her slender waist. She came to an immediate halt as she saw him, her eyes so bright and vivid a blue that their color shamed the sky. Her heart clenched in resistance to a great pull of longing.

“Rand!”

Rosalie picked up her light muslin skirts and rushed to him impulsively; for a moment they both thought that she would fling herself at him, but she stopped a few inches away from him, her cheeks flushed a bright pink. Rand felt curiously bereft as he looked down into her  face,  realizing  that  for  a  split  second  he  had anticipated the feel of her in his arms. Faintly dismayed that the time away from her had not lessened his need of her, he gave in at last to the undeniable truth of his desire. He would want her until he lived and breathed no longer.

“Hello,” he said, his voice soft with some emotion Rosalie could not identify, and she let her eyes travel over him hungrily. His tall, powerful frame was shown to advantage in top boots, buckskin breeches, a brilliant white shirt, and well-cut coat. How impossibly vibrant he  appeared,  as  if  he  were  prepared  to  meet  the relentless world with sword drawn. It was good to see him again, so good that as Rosalie looked over him she had the sensation of being nourished after a long time of fasting.

“Did everything turn out the way you wanted?” she asked, and he smiled down at her.

“For the most part. The land has been sold to the tenant farmers at a fair price. There’s still the chateau and the parcel it rests on, but there are prospective buyers for it.”

“I’m glad.”

He looked different, Rosalie decided slowly. Open, less guarded, less troubled. The magnetic quality about him had increased many times over, or perhaps it was just that she was more attracted to him than ever.

“Dancing to a waltz,” Rand said as they stared at each other, his mind sifting busily through ideas to find any excuse to hold her. “Scandalous behavior.” “I hadn’t anticipated the existence of a witness.” “What about an accomplice?”

Before she could utter a word, he caught her hand irretrievably in his and coaxed her out onto the floor. The  music  drifted  around  them,  enticing,  urging, drifting in a tempting pattern.

“We can’t,” Rosalie protested, laughing and pulling ineffectively at her hand.

“Why not? You can’t deny you’re in the mood to dance.”

“Because.”  A  nervous  expectation  filled  her  as  his hand  settled  at  the  small  of  her  back,  beneath  the wondrous curtain of hair. “Because it would be dangerous for your toes. I’ve never danced with a man before. I practiced with Maman, and she always let me lead.”

Rand laughed softly, amused but not dissuaded. He held  her  with  a  proper  distance  set  between  their bodies.

“If the attempt becomes too abusive on my toes, we’ll abandon it,” he said, and turned her very slowly. The waltz was circumspect and leisurely, their feet

moving  at  an  indolent  pace.  He  was  a  marvelous dancer, guiding her so firmly that there was no chance of a misstep, and Rosalie dreamily followed his smooth movements while gradually relinquishing all control to him. His eyes contained the myriad hues of an autumn forest—green,   gold,  amber—so   intense   that   they seemed to glow. She could not break her gaze from his.

“All right?” he questioned huskily, and Rosalie nodded mutely. Dancing with him was the most seductive experience she had ever encountered. An embrace . . . almost. An excuse for holding each other, a socially sanctioned reason to clasp hands and entwine fingers. Their  bodies  were  close  enough  to  brush  together occasionally, and each time they drifted toward each other unconsciously, Rosalie felt as if fire had flickered over her skin.

“I’m  surprised  your  mother  let  you  learn  how  to waltz,” Rand said, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. Although the dance had become the rage in France at the end of the previous century, it had been acceptable  in  England  for  only  a  year  or  two.  The intimacy   it   allowed   between   two   partners   had originally shocked most of English society, which had decried the waltz as vulgar and demoralizing.

“She didn’t think I would ever have the occasion to practice the knowledge.”

“Not even when the Winthrops gave a ball?” Rand questioned, his eyes alight with an odd tenderness.

“Well . . . even Maman agreed with Lady Winthrop that it was not suitable for me to dance with any of the young men there. It might have encouraged them to . . . well, it might have encouraged me . . .  so I stayed by

Lady Winthrop and the dowagers who  .  .  .” As she trailed off uncomfortably, it seemed to her that his hold on  her  tightened,  and  that  during  the  next  turn  he urged  her  the  slightest  bit  closer  to  him.  “Imagine,” Rosalie resumed a trifle breathlessly, unable to keep from chattering, “if I had never gone to the theater with Maman that night, and you had attended one of the Winthrops’ balls, and I had seen you from afar, dancing with  Elaine.  We  never  would  have  met,  but  Elaine would have told me everything about you . . .” Silly as her prattle was, he appeared to consider it

thoughtfully.

“I would not have been dancing with Elaine,” Rand said. “And I wouldn’t have let you sit with the dowagers.”

“Oh?”

“I would have found someone to make the necessary introductions and then made you waltz with me until your slippers were worn through.”

Rosalie giggled at the thought. “You wouldn’t have given me a second look,” she accused.

“Taking  into  consideration  the  fact  that  I  avoid  a gaggle of dowagers whenever possible, I might have taken an hour or two to notice you. But eventually I would have seen you in their midst from far across the room . . . and in one glance I would have drowned in a pair  of  great  blue  eyes,”  Rand  murmured.  The  low huskiness of his tone flustered her to no small degree, and Rosalie stared up at him, spellbound.

“I . . .  I might have danced the quadrille with you,” she  said,  perhaps  a  little  wistfully.  Swallowing,  she suddenly  realized  that  it  was  imperative  for  her  to break the mood before she melted in his arms, and her voice  became  brisker.  “But  I  wouldn’t  have  waltzed with you, no matter how often you asked—”

“Wise girl.”

“—although  I  think  all  the  criticism  of  such  a harmless little dance is hardly well-deserved,” she finished in a sensible tone.

“Obviously you’ve never read Salamo Wolf.” “Who?”

“A German writer. Two years ago he published a best-selling pamphlet . . . the title was something like ‘Discussion of the Most Important Causes of die Weakness of Our Generation in Regard to the Waltz.’ ”

Rosalie laughed up at him. “You’re not serious.” “The sequel was even worse.”

“I fail to see what’s wrong with waltzing.” “Ah, now you’re daring me to show you.” “Show me,” she repeated in a challenging way. With a  dazzling  smile Rand  accepted,  for  he was

never above playing the rogue.

“The trick of it is all in the timing,” he said, his hand drawing  slowly  across  her  back  and  pulling  her inexorably  nearer.  “This  pace  is  slow,  sedate appropriate for when dowagers and chaperons lend a watchful eye to the activity of their charges. But this . . . this  is  the  French  waltz.”  Their  steps  became  more theatrical, the half-turns became deep circles. Expertly Rand turned her in a pirouette with one hand, and Rosalie’s eyes widened slightly as he caught her again in his arms, this time so closely that she could feel the hard,  smooth  coordination  of  his  thighs  against  her own, her soft breasts pressing against his cbest. She dared not say a word, for their mouths were almost touching, and she felt the warm caress of his breath against  her  cheek.  The  dance  echoed  some  ancient impulse buried deep within . . . the man to guide, the woman to follow, to submit. The momentum and the circles forced their bodies together, and as they moved together   Rosalie   felt   herself   become   pliant   and responsive  to  him,  her  insides  tightening  in  an unfamiliar pulsing which she would recognize later as the beginning of desire.

Rand closed his eyes briefly, his control undermined by the clean, feminine scent of her skin, the waterfall of wondrous satin hair that flew around them, her soft body brushing against his, the closeness of a delicate earlobe which he longed to nip lightly with his teeth. “And this,” he said with difficulty against her temple, letting his lips press there almost unnoticeably, “is the Viennese waltz, the worst of them all.” He whirled her around the room so quickly that Rosalie had no time to breathe or think, crushed against him in an undignified but exhilarating madness, her skirts wrapping around his legs during each turn and then falling, clinging, falling, clinging . . . She began to giggle in dizzy jubilation, her very soul on fire as he laughed huskily in her ear, his arms firm around her. She was on the edge of a spiry precipice, yet he would not let her go. Finally he began  to  slow  down  and  Rosalie  clutched  at  his shoulders unsteadily, feeling as if she were drunk.

“Rand,”  she  said  in  the  midst  of  her  merriment, gasping for breath, “I’m going to fall—”

“I’ll catch you.”

He looked down at her in a way that he never had before. Rosalie’s smile vanished slowly as she realized that they were not dancing any longer and that he was still holding her. Carefully Rand stroked the curls away from her face, and with butterfly lightness brushed a kiss on her forehead. She stared at him in shock and extreme awareness. It had been a brotherly gesture, but he stared down at her not with the eyes of a family member, but of a lover.

“Why . . . why did you do that?” she whispered, and Rand blinked as if he did not know the answer. He resorted to quoting a well-known writer.

“How was it once said . . . ? ‘I were unmannerly, to take you out, and not to kiss you.’”

“Shakespeare,”  Rosalie  guessed,  following  his  cue and making light of the kiss. “King Henry IV.” “King Henry VIII,” Rand corrected, and let go of her

with  reluctance.  “I  see  you’ve  been  doing  some reading.”

“I’ve been quite busy between Shakespeare, Hume, and sordid love poems of dubious origin.”

“Oh, those.” Rand flashed her a grin, turning and wiping the sheen of dampness from his forehead with a sleeve. “I hope you didn’t place any significant meaning on any of them.”

“At one point, someone obviously did.” ” ‘I barely knew her—’”

” ‘His face is fair and heav’n,’” Rosalie recited wickedly, ” ‘When springing buds unfold, Oh why to him was’t giv’n, Whose heart is wintry cold?’”

Rand smiled slightly as he beheld her, wondering suddenly at the bright, inquiring gaze fixed so intently on him. He would have sworn in that moment that Rosalie was curious about his past romantic involvements. It was an auspicious sign.

“This isn’t the kind of discussion appropriate for you to engage in,” he said. As he had intended, Rosalie’s curiosity deepened to a conspicuous level.

“Appropriate?” she repeated. Was he seriously suggesting that her maidenly modesty would be offended by such a subject? “Heavens above, you sound as if I’ve just arrived straight from the convent.”

“Ah, yes, forgive me,” Rand said, and abruptly his mood  changed  from  subtle  amusement  to  caustic mockery. “You know all about matters of passion, don’t you?”

Rosalie knew that he was thinking about that morning in London, and suddenly she felt hot and uncomfortable. Backing away a step from him, she lifted a hand to smooth her hair, trying to think of another direction to steer the alarming turn of the conversation. The  music  slowed,  stumbled,  halted  as  Annette Queneau ended her practicing.

“Rand?”

“Yes?”

She swallowed painfully before broaching a question. “Are we going back to England soon?”

“I . . . No, not yet. Not until the next shipment from New Orleans is delivered here. And I want to pursue the matter of a contract with a local silk manufacturer. Why do you ask?”

“I know that we’re not going to stay here forever. I just wondered when we were leaving.”

“A few more weeks.”

Rosalie nodded, her expression becoming pinched. “It makes no difference to me. I have no . . . pressing need to get back immediately.”

Rand wished he had not let go of her.

“Are you unhappy here?” he asked hoarsely, and a thousand answers came to the tip of Rosalie’s tongue.

No. Yes. I was happy a few minutes ago. I’m happy when you smile at me, and when I first see you in the morning after a long night apart, and when you look at me and try to guess what I’m thinking. I’m happy being this near to you, I’m unhappy knowing we’re so far apart in every sense. And realizing all of that makes me miserable.

Rosalie kept silent, looking down at the floor. Then with a short sigh she left him. He raked a hand through his hair and walked over to lean against the baroque door frame, staring vacantly down the hallway.

The next morning Rand mentioned to Rosalie the possibility of calling on Brummell in Calais. As he had hoped, the suggestion revived her good humor. Despite the  inconveniences  of  the  long  journey,  she  looked forward  to  the  lazy,  comfortable  hours  they  would spend with the Beau, hours spiced with targeted gossip and delightful stories. Wanting to look her very best, for she knew that Brummell paid meticulous attention to his visitors’ attire, Rosalie dressed her hair carefully and pulled out a dusty-blue gown. All of the clothes made by Madame Mirabeau were impeccably styled and perfectly fitted, but this one was especially fine, covered with ornate scrollwork in silver and gold at the sleeves and hem. The skirt was also trimmed with satin ribbon and flounces of satin and muslin. The problem that Rosalie encountered in dressing herself was that the gown had been fitted to her as she had worn a tightly laced corset of dimity and whalebone, hence it was now necessary to wear one.

She ventured out into the central room of the suite, the dress gaping widely in the back as she held it up to her shoulders.

“Rand?”

Immediately  his  head  appeared  from  behind  his bedchamber door. “What . . . ? “  Rand’s eyes flickered over her silver-and-blue-clad form intently. Finally he brought his gaze to her face. “That’s a beautiful gown,”

he said after a few moments’ silence.

“I know,” Rosalie said, irritated at her own reaction to the way his eyes had seemed to strip her bare. “I can’t fasten it.”

A  slow  smile  pulled  at  his  mouth.  “Have  I  been feeding you too much?”

“No, I can’t lace this bloody corset tight enough!” Rand continued to smile. “How can I help?” Silently she presented her back to him to display the

crisscrossed lacings. She heard his soft footsteps, then felt the light tug as he took hold of the cords.

Rosalie held on to a doorframe and gasped as the whalebone prison cinched more securely around her ribs and waist.

“I think that’s enough,” Rand said doubtfully. She shook her head. “I’ll never get the gown fastened

if it isn’t tighter. Go on, pull.”

He hesitated, aware of a vague unpleasantness in his stomach at the thought of compressing her body with the laces any more. Due to the sensibly styled empire gowns, corsets hadn’t been necessary for more than a decade. Binding a woman’s figure in the contraptions seemed like an unnecessary form of torture. “Why don’t you wear another gown?” he suggested. “Am I going to have to call for one of the maids to do

it?”

Muttering under his breath, Rand pulled the cords again, watching her waist diminish another inch to an unbelievably  tiny  size.  Rosalie  took  several  shallow breaths and held a hand to her midriff.

“Can you—?” she began to ask, but he cut her off sharply,

“No. No more. I’m already battling an urge to look for a pair of scissors.” He pulled the back of the dress together  and  fastened  the  buttons  efficiently  as  he spoke.  “Why  you  women  insist  on  bringing  back  a fashion  that  should  have  been  outlawed  in  the  last century—”

“I’ve heard some men are doing it. Even the prince regent supposedly—”

“Yes, the ones who frequently overindulge their taste for wine and food. But you don’t need it, Rosalie.”

“How can you be a judge of—?”

“I’ve  seen  you,”  Rand  reminded  her,  and  as  she stiffened he lingered over the last three buttons. “It’s a crime to alter your shape.”

Rosalie closed her eyes, heat rushing to her face as she felt the warm, sensitive touch of his fingers at her neck. Suddenly it seemed as if he had just touched her for the first time. The memory of their naked bodies entwined was distant and no longer clear. Sometimes she could recall briefly the hardness of his body over hers, the flexing of heavy muscles, the deep shudder that had racked his limbs as he had thrust into her. But strangely, it seemed that two other people had been joined in that bed, that she had never met Rand until they had arrived in France. In self-protection, Rosalie dragged herself to the present and bunted for a way to break the intimate silence.

“Coming from a connoisseur, I suppose I should be pleased at the compliment,” she said.

“I’m  not  a  connoisseur,”  he  said  quietly,  looking down at the top of her head.

“You’re right. The term ‘connoisseur’ implies a certain respect  for  the  subject  of  your  interest.  A  hobbyist, then.”

Rand stifled an urge to close his hands around her throat and throttle her, wondering grimly why she was determined to antagonize him. “If you’re a hobby of mine,  I  must  have  a  peculiarly  masochistic  idea  of enjoyment.”

She  turned  around  to  face  him.  “I  have  only  my experiences  with  you  to  examine—and  the  obvious conclusion is that you have no respect either for me or for women in general.”

“If that were true,” he said in a dangerous tone, “we’d be in that bed right now, regardless of your prickly little thorns, Rose. I do respect you.”

“Then I don’t understand  .  .  .” she began, and her voice diminished to nothing as she stared at him. The shape of his mouth, a touch too wide, finely made, expressive, had altered slightly with his irritation. A flash of memory curled insidiously through her mind; how hard his lips had once felt as they had demanded access to hers, how soft and tender as he had brushed her forehead with a kiss after their dance together. I’m lost, she thought, realizing in that moment that she was beginning to care for him.

“You don’t understand what?”

“Why you did  .  .  . what you did  . . .  in London,” Rosalie  muttered,  desolation  encasing  her  heart  like hardening plaster.

Rand’s irritation evaporated immediately. Bleakly he searched  for  an  answer  and  found  it  impossible  to speak. How could he explain it to her? The world he had been raised in had been one without compassion, without patience. He had learned his lessons well, the main one being that pleasure was something taken, not given. It was a conditioned reflex that when he discovered  a  need  he  satisfied  it  without  considering  the consequences. And how could he further explain that because of her he was beginning to change, that he had learned to feel regret?

“I didn’t know you then,” he said slowly. “All I knew was that . . . Oh, hell, Rosalie, you were beautiful and you were there at a time when I wanted a woman.”

He expected her to fly at him in anger, and he would not have blamed her for reacting in such a way. But instead  her  expression  twisted  in  bewilderment,  her voice became quieter.

“I don’t understand you,” she whispered. “Why are you so kind sometimes, and then so . . .” She could not find  the  appropriate  word  to  use;  how  could  mere words describe his changeable nature? And how could she ever hope to trust someone who was cold, sweet, gentle, selfish, without explanation, without warning, without consistency?

They were both subdued as the carriage rattled on its way to Calais, avoiding each other’s eyes as they were jostled along the poorly constructed roads. Their stops for  food  and  rest  were  too  infrequent  to  break  the tension or relieve their growing weariness of travel. The atmosphere inside the vehicle was so stifling, watchful and restless that Rosalie almost leapt out of it when they reached Brummel’s residence. It was all she could do  to  accept  Rand’s  assistance  docilely.  Visiting Brummell  again,  however,  was  well  worth  the  trip, especially when Rosalie detected a shadow of loneliness leaving his face as they crossed the threshold. Despite the  constant  flow  through  his  door  of  the  best  of English society, including the Duke of Argyll, the Duke of  Gloucester,  the  Duke  of  Beaufort,  Rutland,  the Duchess of Devonshire, the Lords Alvanley, Craven, Bedford, Westmoreland, and d’Eresby, Brummell’s social life was a mere fraction of what it had once been.

He could not help but sorely miss the popularity and the activity he had until recently enjoyed.

“Ca  fait  une  eternité  qu’on  ne  vous  a  pas  vu,”  he exclaimed, beaming at them, and Rosalie felt an answering smile curve her lips.

“It has been a long time,” she agreed, allowing him to help  her  off  with  the  pelisse  and  lifting  her  skirts slightly as she walked to an armless upholstered chair. “Have you received many guests since the last time we met?”

“Dozens, m’dear, all bringing the latest news from London.  I’m  afraid,  however,  that  the  quantity  of visitors exceeds the quality.”

“They brought pleasant news, I hope.”

“Some of it was. It is always pleasant to be missed, and I gather Prinny’s unpopularity has been on the rise since I took my leave of England. What is your opinion, Berkeley?”

Rand somehow refrained from observing that Prinny’s unpopularity was due to more than the end of his friendship  with  Brummell.  The  prince  regent  was  a notoriously corrupt individual, a spendthrift of horrible proportions, an inept politician who was often given to drunkenness.

“He is indeed an unpopular individual.”

“Just as I thought,” Brummell said in a self-satisfied way. “Without my advice, his extravagance will lead to disaster. I’ve heard that he’s already taken to wearing pink satin and jeweled shoe buckles.” He shuddered delicately    at the    thought.    “Good    taste    is understatement—don’t forget it. A good cut and fit, cleanliness,  dignity,  changing  the  gloves  at  least  six times a day . . .”

Eager  to  prevent  a  long  discourse  on  the  Beau’s principles of style, Rand sought to interrupt him with tact and haste. “News of the Pavilion has been in the English papers of late, also stirring up public displeasure. Since John Nash was hired to work on it last year, many costly additions have been built. Oriental rooms, cast-iron towers, steam-heated kitchens—”

“The Pavilion . . .  a tasteless toy. But to give Prinny his credit, quite impressive in a vulgar way.” “Mr.  Brummell,”  Rosalie  inquired,  her  forehead creasing in a frown, “is there a chance that you will ever reconcile with the regent?”

“I doubt it,” the Beau replied stalwartly. “As they say, too much water has gone under the bridge. I believe the dissolution of a spectacular association.—my wit and his title—began when his weight almost doubled.” “Eve heard he’s something of a stout fellow,” Rosalie

said, and Brummell nodded emphatically.

“The last time I saw him, he was well over three hundred pounds. It took a platform, a ramp, and a chair fitted with rollers merely to get him into the saddle to take some exercise.”

“Oh, my.”

“It was shocking, without a doubt. So much so that Prinny  reminded  me  of  a  huge,  ungainly  porter  at Carlton House, whom we all nicknamed Big Ben. Since Mistress Maria Fitzherbert, the celebrated . . . associate of the regent was also stout of girth, I naturally began to refer to her and Prinny as ‘Our Ben and Benina.’” He paused as a smothered laugh was heard from Rand’s direction. “It was not well-received, though my jest was delivered in an affectionate manner.”

Rosalie looked at Rand and they exchanged a fleeting smile. Charming though George Brummell was, he did not possess a considerable amount of tact.

“The next wedge,” the Beau continued, “was hammered into place when Prinny exhibited the grossest piece of rudeness I have ever witnessed—ignoring me completely at the Dandy Club masquerade. The final blow occurred as I was walking down Bond Street with Lord Alvanley. We happened to accidentally meet the prince and Earl Moira, and after a few minutes’ conversation during  which  the  regent again  ignored  me,  I quipped to Alvanley, ‘Who’s your fat friend?’”

“Oh,  my,”  Rosalie  gasped  again,  wondering  how anyone could possess such daring and audacity to say something  like  that  in  the  hearing  of  the  ruler  of England.

“It was merely a poorly timed jest. But eventually a few debts forced me to quit England before the breach had healed.”

“I see,” Rosalie murmured, concealing her sympathy behind  a  polite  nod.  The  great  Beau  Brummell  was impressive and entertaining, but there was something about him that aroused a strangely protective feeling inside her. He was like a child whose vanity made him excessively naive. She wondered what would become of him, for it was obvious that he had no source of income that was great enough to support the style in which he lived. There was no trace of worry or caution in his face, nothing to indicate that he was aware of his unstable position.

“Miss Belleau,” Brummell said, unfolding his moderately sized form from an upholstered chair, “would you care to see the album I have put together? It is quite sizable, having contributions from many of my present and former acquaintances. There is a verse in particular I  would  like you  to  see,  penned  by  that  marvelous woman, the Duchess of Devonshire. It begins with the line. ‘I have valued the charms of the rose, as I plucked it all fresh from the tree . . .’ I do not remember the rest.” “I would be honored to see it,” Rosalie said gravely, and he muttered something in satisfaction before going to a built-in bookcase and hunting for the album. “Selegue!” Brummell called imperiously, and the little

valet  came  scurrying.  “I  can’t  find  my  album,”  he explained, and Selegue nodded vigorously before waving him back to his chair.

“I’ll fetch it, Mr. Brummell.”

“If it’s too much trouble . . .” Rosalie began. “No, no, not at all, m’dear. It is a very special album,

with unique verses that only my favored guests are invited to regard.”

“We’re very flattered,” Rosalie said.

As she and Brummell smiled at each other with the same degree of beguiling charm, Rand suddenly froze, the idle tapping of his fingers on a hard thigh stilling. He looked at the pair of them and leaned forward, his eyes flickering from one to the other and then widening in  astonishment.  Nothing  in  the  world  could  have induced him to say a blessed word in that moment, for his mind was spinning with suspicion, wonder, curiosity, disbelief.

Brummell must have regarded himself in the mirror often enough to recognize the vague echo of his own expression, for his smile dimmed in puzzlement as he walked toward Rosalie. The album was forgotten. Then he  turned  pale and  his gaze  focused  on  her  throat. Uneasily Rosalie remained where she was sitting.

“Mr.  Brummell?”  she  said  hesitantly,  and  he  appeared overcome.

“Where . . . did you get . . . that pin?” he finally was able to stammer.

Her fingers flew protectively to the small gold ornament that was attached to the ribbon fastened around her neck.

“It was my father’s stock pin. He died when I was young. My mother gave it to me so that I would have something of his.”

“May I see it?” The words were taut, brittle, almost breaking in the complete silence.

Confused, Rosalie untied the ribbon and handed it to him, the tiny gold cirlet dangling from it like a teardrop. She was amazed to see that his hand was shaking. Darting a glance at Rand, she saw that his gaze was focused completely on Brummell. After she had relinquished the stock pin, the men seemed to have forgotten her very existence.

“What  is  the  matter?”  she  asked.  No  answer  was immediately forthcoming. Brummell walked over to the window and held the pin up in the sunlight to examine it closely.

“Selegue!” he shouted strainedly, and the wiry little valet came running back into the room.

“Here is the . . .” Selegue began, stopping as he saw the oddly stooped posture twisting Brummell’s normally  upright  frame.  “What  happened?”  he  asked,  and Brummell handed him the pin wordlessly. A minute of silence ensued as the valet scrutinized the object with care.

“Tell them,” the Beau muttered, as if the effort of speaking were too great to allow more than those two words.

“It is the stock pin your father, William, had commissioned  for  your  sixteenth  birthday,”  Selegue  said matter-of-factly. “The same pin that you gave to Lucy Doncaster  before  you  were  parted  from  her.  The  B stands for Brummell, the leaves patterned after those that adorn the walls of your family estate, the Grove—” “The  B  stands  for  Belleau!”  Rosalie  interrupted,

smiling although her voice was slightly shrill. “I told you, this is my father’s pin . . . Georges Belleau.”

“Georges  Belleau,”  Rand  repeated  softly.  “George Brummell. A strange coincidence that the initials are the same.”

“Stop it!” Rosalie snapped, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Please,  Miss  Belleau,”  Brummell  said,  making  an effort at calmness. “I am sorry to distress you. Let us clear this matter immediately.”

“At once,” she agreed sharply.

“Then would you relate to us the circumstances of your birth?”

“Certainly. I was born in 1796—”

“The year I was eighteen,” Brummell interjected. “—in  France.  My  mother  and  father  moved  to

London  soon  afterward.  According  to  Maman,  my

father was a confectioner. He was killed by a stagecoach as he crossed the street from his store.”

“You have been brought up solely by your mother?” “Yes. I have lived with her all of my life until . . . until

I made the acquaintance of Lord Berkeley.”

“Your mother’s occupation?” the Beau pressed. “She is governess to a respectable—” “Her name. Her name.”

Rosalie stared at him, transfixed by the urgency in his face. Unreasonably frightened, she stood up from the chair and backed away a step. She could hardly speak. “Amille Belleau,” she said, her throat dry.

“Before she was married.”

Silently Rosalie shook her head. She had the premo nition that he already knew the answer. Somehow she forced out the name. “Amille Courtois.”

A deathlike pall fell over the room, for so long that Rosalie thought she would cry out from the tension. Then Selegue broke the stillness.

“That was the name of Lucy Doncaster’s governess.” “What are you saying?” Rosalie demanded unstead

ily.

“She must have . . . Lucy Doncaster might have born you in Europe after she fled England,” the valet replied gently. “It is quite likely that you are a product of the relationship of George Brummell and Lucy Doncaster. There  is  not  only  the  pin  to  consider,  but  also  the amazing likeness between you and her.”

Brummell clutched the pin in his fist, bending over and pressing it to his chest.

“No!” Rosalie felt indignant tears well up in her eyes. “My mother is Amille Courtois Belleau. My father was Georges  Belleau.  You’re  mistaken,  you’re  terribly wrong!”  She  stumbled  backward,  everything  in  the room looming toward her at odd angles. “Give me my pin,” she sobbed, and as she turned blindly she felt hard arms  close  securely  around  her.  “Rand,”  she  wept, pressing her face into his shoulder. “Rand, tell them . . .” “This cannot be possible,” Brummell rasped, hiding his face. “I cannot think, I cannot . . . For God’s sake, let me alone to think!”