Although there were only four people in the room, it was crowded with confusion, tears, and panic. Quickly, efficiently, Rand and Selegue worked to dispose of the situation, since father and daughter were both unable. The valet guided the distraught Brum-mell to a  chair, speaking in a soft undertone. Rand held Rosalie’s trembling form against his, letting her draw from his strength and stability. His sensitive fingers curved around the vulnerable back of her neck in a calming touch.

“Rose. There’s no need for this,” he said, sounding so utterly practical and in control that it helped to dispel the queer aura of unreality clouding her mind. “Take a few deep breaths and relax.” Rosalie listened to him and obeyed automatically, forcing deep gulps of air in and out of her mouth as she stared at Brummell’s hunched figure.  As  soon  as  her  trembling  lessened,  Rand dragged her from the room, pausing only a moment at the door to deliver a low-voiced comment.

“I’ll be back to straighten out this mess in a day or two. If you two have distressed her unnecessarily—”

“I assure you, this was entirely unexpected,” Selegue interrupted apologetically before bending to speak to the  Beau.  Brummell  was  muttering  brokenly  about Lucy, lost in his own world. His head was clasped in his hands, his elbows braced on his knees as he stared at the floor and began to weep. Rand cast the pair of them a dark look before pulling Rosalie’s arm through his. She followed him blindly, stumbling a little over the hem of her skirts. She was dazed at what had just taken  place,  her  mind  completely  occupied  with replaying the scene over and over again. Everything she had  taken  for  granted,  the  person  she  was  and  the background she bad come from, had suddenly been wrenched away from her. It could not be true . . . none of it could, for Amille would surely have told her about it! How could Amille not be her mother? How could George Brummell be her father? It was all some trick of coincidence!

The carriage that would take them to a local inn was outside the building, the French driver leaning against the vehicle as he turned the page of a daily periodical. “Allons,” Rand said tersely, and the man looked at

Rosalie with vague alarm before leaping to his seat with alacrity.  Inside  the  carriage,  Rosalie  felt  a  wave  of sickness lurch through her body. She held a hand to her middle and closed her eyes, her lungs feeling as if they had shrunk to a condition of airlessness. As she fought to draw a breath, her chest tightening, she looked at Rand in panic. She was being methodically crushed to death  by  the  garments  that  bound  her.  Muttering  a curse, he drew her halfway onto his lap and worked at the tiny fastenings of her gown. “Damned corset,” he said, buttons flying as a result of his efforts. “The last time, the very last, that I ever let you wear one.” As the cords loosened and her waist expanded, Rosalie inhaled with relief, her head swimming dizzily. Rand also took a breath, realizing that he had unconsciously held it until  she  had  been  freed  from  the  laces.  Gently  his fingers slipped under her chemise and stroked the redscored  flesh  of  her  back,  soothing  the  delicate  and ravaged skin. Gradually her illness began to subside. “Thank  you,”  she  whispered,  and  then  burst  into

fresh  tears  when  she  had  garnered  the  strength. Clutching the sleeve of his coat in a death grip, she stared at him with a tormented expression, her eyes brilliant and wet. “They think . . . that Maman isn’t my . . .

real mother—”

“I   know,”   he   murmured   soothingly.   “Breathe deeply—”

“Listen to me—it’s not true! He is not my father! I’m Rosalie Belleau . . . you believe it, don’t you?”

As her words broke into sobs, Rand hesitated uncomfortably and then cradled her against his chest, his mouth tender with sympathy. He felt peculiarly helpless. The other times he had been faced with women’s tears, they had been an artifice and not the product of genuine  misery.  No  woman  had  ever  needed  him simply for comfort, and he was not used to such a demand being made of him.

Rosalie pressed her wet face to his shoulder, her nails curling into the lapels of his coat like kitten claws. As Rand field her small form against his, he felt part of her pain, an odd tugging at his heart. This wish to soothe, to offer refuge, was brand new, gleaming brightly as a candle flame, and without questioning it further, he sought to warm her.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, his hand stroking her back in a gentle, repetitive motion. “I’m here. It’s all right.”

“Rand, what am I going to do?”

“Relax for now. We’ll talk about it later,” he said, and she subsided against him, accepting his touch as if it were her due.

As time spun on steadily and her weeping faded, Rosalie felt a fragile trust crystallize between them. An invisible web clung tenuously from one heart to another, a bond so frail that it could be destroyed with one easy  blow.  Rosalie  came  to  her  senses  gradually, becoming conscious of how intimately he held her, how the  warm  strength  of  his  body  enveloped  her,  his masculine scent pleasant to inhale, his breathing even and steady as it disturbed the curls at her forehead. She knew that she should move away from him. Surely by now Rand knew that she had recovered herself enough to move to the other seat. But Rosalie did not want to move at all. His body was solid and hard, yet strangely comfortable. Don’t let go, she pleaded silently, closing her eyes tightly.

He did not say a word during the short journey to the inn, allowing her to remain in his lap. Both of them were  fully  conscious,  wondering  what  the  other thought, sharing in the mystery of an attraction that neither of them understood.

I swore I wouldn’t touch her. I wish he would kiss me. I wish I didn’t want her.

Then, as they both had dreaded, the carriage swayed to a halt. Avoiding his eyes, Rosalie unpeeled herself from the warmth of his body slowly, her limbs stiff.

“My dress . . .” she said, and he handed her his coat. Wearily Rosalie trod through the front door and up the narrow stairs that led to the suite, pausing as Rand unlocked the door.

“Get into a robe,” he said, pushing her inside. “I’ll order up a bath and some dinner.”

“I’m not hungry—”

“Lock the door behind me.”

“All  right,”  she  said,  her  voice  nearly  inaudible. “Whatever you say.”

“You  don’t  have  to  be  so  agreeable,”  Rand  said, amused, in spite of the situation, at her uncharacteristic docility.

Although her eyes were still lowered to the floor, Rosalie  managed  to  summon  a  brief  and  tremulous smile. She felt unbearably alone. This was her problem; this  entanglement  was  centered  around  her.  It  had nothing to do with Rand, and she could not allow him to assume all of her burdens.

Rand’s gaze was caressing as it rested on her downbent head. “Close the door, rose épineuse,” he said, and

was gone.

Thorny rose. His voice, the softness of his accent, had fallen on her ears like a slow stroke.

Bewildered, she slipped his coat from her shoulders. It was scented of him, and she inhaled the subtle male fragrance of sandalwood as she carried it to his bedchamber. Had she imagined the possessiveness in his manner, the caress of his voice? Was she so unnerved that her imagination was coloring everything in deceptive hues?

When Rand returned he bullied her into downing a glass of cherry brandy, which burned pleasantly as it rilled  her  with  false  courage.  Her  energy  depleted, Rosalie found that she was ravenous at the sight of the simple fare set before them: thick-crusted bread, the soft sweetness of Camembert cheese, succulent fruit, and a bottle of wine. As she ate, she felt Rand’s approving eyes  rest  on  her,  and  as  soon  as  her  initial  hunger passed, Rosalie set down a piece of bread and met his gaze squarely.

“Better?” he inquired, ascertaining that her strength had returned.

“Much better.”

Rand’s attention flickered to the chambermaid, who was in the midst of emptying the last bucket of scalding water into the metal tub. It would take some time to cool enough to bathe in. Hurriedly the woman finished her task and fled from the room, reading the impatience in  his  tawny  eyes.  Rosalie’s  heart  began  to  pound nervously  as  she  realized  that  they  were  about  to discuss what had happened, and all that she had eaten seemed to rise threateningly to the base of her throat.

“I don’t think I’m ready for this,” she said, and an agitated laugh stuck in her throat. “I don’t think I’ll ever be.”

“All we have in front of us,” Rand replied reassuringly, “are a few pieces of circumstantial evidence. Nothing’s been proven—”

“But what about the pin?”

“It’s not all that distinctive. The initial B and the motif of a leaf pattern are nothing unusual. It could be pure coincidence.”

“And my . . . my mother’s name? What if she really had been Lucy Doncaster’s governess?”

“That  doesn’t  necessarily  mean  you  were  Lucy’s illegitimate daughter, no matter how much of a resemblance  there  might  be.  It’s  possible  that  this  whole situation is a Brummellian tale that has gotten out of hand. As you’ve already gathered, the Beau is not the most reliable source of information. He is romantic, he’s fanciful.  He’s  been  weakened  by  a  recent  ordeal.  I would sooner trust a London wine merchant not to water  the  claret  than  to  take  Brummell’s  word  for anything.”

Rosalie  sighed,  at  once  grateful  for  his  rational skepticism  and  unconvinced  by  it.  “Besides,”  Rand continued, “there is no motive for keeping your . . , the existence of such a child secret. Lucy Doncaster had several   options   more   feasible   than   giving   this hypothetical baby to her governess to raise. Her first reaction,  I  suspect,  would  have  been  to  approach Brummell with the news and garner his support. Failing that, she could have married the Earl of Rotherham and pretended the infant was premature.”

“Why  do  you  seem  to  know  so  much  about  it?” Rosalie could not resist asking dryly, and Rand smiled at her.

“Not from personal experience. But it is hardly an unprecedented dilemma.”

She nodded and chewed on a crust of bread meditatively, finally shaking her head and frowning. “I have a bad feeling about all of it,” she said.

“The only way to refute or prove anything is through Amille Courtois Belleau.”

“No.” Before Rand could say anything, Rosalie spoke in a vehement rush. “She has been my mother for the past twenty years. If any of this were true, she had her reasons for keeping it from me, and I’ll abide by them. If I can’t trust her judgment, the judgment of a woman who has fed and clothed and cared for me my entire life, then I can’t believe in anyone or anything.”

He stared at her in a perplexed manner.

“But  how  could  you  not  want  to  know?  What  if Brummell were your father—”

“I would gain nothing, and think of what it would do to Amille. Don’t you see? George Brummell is incapable and, I suspect, unwilling to be a father to anyone.” Her expression darkened with hurt. “He didn’t exactly open his arms to me this afternoon.”

Rand  bit  off  an  agreeing  reply  and  searched  for something to offer in solace. “He was shocked.” “He is too vain to want a child. He is a dandy, and it’s

common knowledge that men like him resent growing old. They don’t want reminders of their age.” Rosalie’s expression became haunted as she continued. “And as for Lucy  . . .  if she was my natural mother, I don’t know or care why  .  .  . why she wouldn’t want me. Amille did, and that’s what matters.”

Rand nodded slowly, sensing that now was not the time to try to change Rosalie’s mind. She was tired and she was not ready to be honest with herself. He knew her well enough to be certain that she did care about her past and that she wanted desperately to know more about Lucy Doncaster. But Rosalie was afraid of the secrets that the past held, and it would take time to build her courage.

“Then we’ll let the subject rest for now.”

“You don’t agree with my decision,” Rosalie said, her eyes questioning as they searched his face. She couldn’t tell what he thought. He lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug.

“It’s not my right to tell you what to do.” It was her right, Rand mused, to approach her past in any manner she cared to. God knew that he hadn’t been eager to deal with his own!

His comment suddenly amused Rosalie. “May I ask what prompted this change of policy?” Deciding not to reply, Rand smiled, looking lazy and

oddly content. The sky was dark outside but the room was filled with hazy candlelight. The glow of the flames picked up the gold in his tousled hair and his eyes, and gleamed across the darkness of his face with a metallic sheen. Rosalie was momentarily engrossed in his movements as he stretched his arms back and locked them behind  his  head,  his  muscles  swelling  and  then smoothing under the whiteness of his sbirt. What a strange sight he was with his gentleman’s attire and his swarthy skin. It was an incongruous combination, but oddly attractive nevertheless.

As Rosalie looked at him with inquiring sweetness, Rand felt an aching hollowness gather in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to hold her again, he wanted to taste and touch her, and he realized that he had run out of pretenses to lure her into his arms. What recourse was left? He looked at her in hungry contemplation and felt  some  part  of  himself  give  way  to  a  stronger demand.

“Rose . . . what would you do if I asked you to come over here?” he asked quietly, his intent stare urging her to trust him.

Rosalie blinked in immediate confusion, wondering if she had heard him correctly. “I . . .  I don’t know,” she said, her forehead creasing. “I suppose it would depend on why—”

“You know why.” His voice was softer now, more coaxing. A long pause ensued before he spoke again. “Come here.”

It was impossible not to obey. As if she were being drawn  by  an  invisible  rope,  Rosalie  stood  up  and walked  around  the  table  to  him,  stopping  as  she reached his chair. He wants to kiss me, she thought distractedly, and the delight and dismay of it tumbled inside her chest like a pair of hard-thrown dice.

They stared at each other, hypnotized.

“Why do you have to be so beautiful?” Rand whis pered.  Her  blue  eyes  were  dark  with  wonder  and disquiet as they met his. Still she stood by him, every instinct clamoring for her to stay.

“Don’t give me a reason to—” she began to warn, but Rand interrupted her huskily.

“I will never hurt you again, Rose. I will never do anything you don’t want. You must know by now that my word is good.”

She nodded slowly, suppressing a tiny shiver at the honey-soft way he spoke.

“I believe you.”

“Then come closer.”

The  air  was  fraught  with  suspense.  After  several moments of inner debate she moved hesitantly to sit down  on  his  thigh,  feeling  the  hard  muscles  flex beneath  her  as  he  shifted  to  accommodate  her.  His hands settled at her waist, their pressure light and firm, a steady influence that served to keep her secure, still, close. Suddenly trembling with the awareness of what she was doing, Rosalie extended her hands and placed them on his shoulders. Her fingers spread over their breadth and strength, her thumbs detecting a strong pulse  through  the  thin  material  of  his  shirt  as  they pressed into the shallow hollows beneath his collarbone. She was nervous. A quick impulse to pull away from  him  seized  her,  but  something  caused  her  to remain. Perhaps it was the curiosity tbat pulsed inside of her, or the odd, waiting look in his gold-green eyes . . . perhaps the insane feeling that he deserved the right to hold her in this way. His fingertips rested on her body with gentle lightness, promising magic.

“I’ve tried to take kisses from you before,” Rand said huskily, drawing her further between his spread knees, “but you would not yield to me.”

“You were different then,” she whispered, thinking of how his mouth had crushed hers. “I remember—” “Don’t.”  Rand’s  gaze  was  edged  with  bleakness.

“Don’t remember anymore. Let me replace your memories.”

The  stillness  stretched  between  them,  surrounded them,  seemed  to  press  her  slowly  toward  him.  His words, his gaze, the strange new leniency about his mouth, all of it tempted her beyond reason.

Slowly Rosalie lowered her head, finding his mouth with her own, shivering slightly as they first touched. His lips were warm, firm, undemanding. She knew that it was an inexpert kiss, for she did not know what to do except to press her mouth against his . . . surely a man of his experience would not be satisfied by her unworldliness. But when she lifted her head with a shaky breath, Rosalie saw that Rand had also been affected. His gaze was soft and hot with desire, his chest rising and falling a degree more quickly than before. Underneath her hands, his pulse had increased in strength. The silence was broken only by the faint sputter of a candle flame.

Rand was unaccountably touched by the innocence of the chaste caress. As Rosalie watched him with the wary courage of a kitten, he fought hard to tamp down the violent strength of his response to her, and he won the inner battle by only a hair.

“Is that what you  .  .  .  ?” she breathed, her hands tightening an inch or two closer around his neck, her body tingling as the tender surface of her inner arms brushed his skin. “Was that all right?”

Rand longed wildly in that moment to drag her into his bedroom. The feel of her as she perched on his lap was unbearably tempting, like a kitten begging to be cuddled. She was so soft and feminine, so easy to hold . . The insistent pressure of need in his body increased, and he lashed down his impatience ruthlessly. “Yes,” he rasped, a sultry glow emphasizing the gold

in his eyes. Then he smiled, his teeth a brilliant white against the copper of his skin. “But too fast.”

Rosalie smiled as well, shaking her head slightly as she looked at him. Leaning forward until their noses nearly touched, she felt his muscles tighten into unyielding hardness.

“Let me try again,” she offered, and tentatively she sought the tender fire of his lips once more. Now Rand allowed himself to respond with careful eagerness.

“Open your mouth,” he murmured, his large hands coming up to frame her face. Uncertainly she obeyed, finding that as her lips parted they were held open by the increasing pressure of his kiss. His tongue touched hers; in confusion she tried to jerk her head back, and he followed her movement, their lips still fused. Slowly Rosalie subsided, an incredible, yearning heat suffusing her body as his mouth slanted over hers, demanding access,  finding  it,  rewarding  her  with  undreamed-of pleasure. She felt marauded and cherished at the same time. Rosalie sank down into his lap, her body becoming boneless, sinuous, pressing against him of its own accord.  The  boldness  of  his  masculinity  throbbed against  her, and  she  felt an  answering  pulse  in  her midriff as she yielded to his embrace. In Rand’s arms was a world of luxurious sensation that she had never dreamed of. Here was safety  .  . . here were warmth, light, and color . . . here was enchantment that nothing could dispel. Their mouths moved together deeply, and a tremor flitted through Rosalie’s veins in response to the barely restrained urgency of his kiss. Rand cradled her head in one large hand, his other fumbling blindly with the belt of her robe. As she felt the slight tugging, Rosalie stiffened and turned her face away from his. “Stop,” she gasped, her senses groggy with arousal, blinking as if she had just risen from a deep slumber. She could hardly remember who she was. “I’ve no wish to lead you on a fruitless . . . Rand, I don’t want . . .” There was not one trace of apology in the fever-bright

green of his eyes, only a wealth of need.

“I  understand,”  Rand  said  hoarsely,  and  then  he couldn’t help but smile wryly at the strained sound of his own voice.

“I’m sorry,” she said, making a move to get off his lap, and he kept her there by tightening the circle of his arms.

“Rosalie . . .” The way he said her name caused her ears to burn. “Little siren, you’ve lured me between Scylla and Charybdis. It doesn’t matter if I crash against the sharp rocks or sink into a bottomless whirlpool. Either way, my fate is sealed. I want you. And the curse of it is that I only want you if you’re willing.” She moistened her lips nervously, feeling restless and

empty, rather as if she were the one being drawn into a whirlpool. Reluctantly she searched for an alternative to offer him. “Maybe someone else—”

“There could be no one else,” Rand said honestly, flatly. Their encounter in London had been an equal exchange. He had taken her virginity, she had taken his freedom. He had no desire for any other woman.

Rosalie stared at him unhappily. Although she was relieved by his refusal to go to another woman to ease his needs, she was conscious of her own limitations. She couldn’t help thinking suddenly of the discomfort, the fear she had experienced in his bed.

His mouth became twisted with a bitter wistfulness. “Do you think I don’t understand how it was for you?” he asked in a haunted voice. “Don’t let the memory rule you, Rosalie. You have no idea of what it could be like.” “Please,” she moaned, her eyes becoming damp, “it’s not  a  question  of  what  I  fear  or  remember.  It’s  a question of independence. I don’t want to need you. Please let me go.”

Instantly he let go of her as the last glow of arousal faded reluctantly from his loins. Rand walked over to the bathwater and tested it with his fingers. “Go ahead with your bath,” he said, sounding vaguely weary. “Call me when you’re out.”

“Rand . . .  we can’t leave it like this. Aren’t we going to talk about—”

“Not now,” Rand said tersely, walking toward his bedroom door. His unsatisfied desire was slowly transforming  into  a  deep-rooted  frustration  that  nothing could ease. One more minute around her, and he would undoubtedly regret what it would prompt him to say and do.

“He’s  not  feeling  well,”  Selegue  offered  apologetically.

“Because of him,” Rand said softly, “I’ve never had a worse night’s sleep. I’m not feeling well myself. Let me in.”

The door to Brummell’s apartments was swung wide, and  Rand  strode  into  the  drawing  room.  The  Beau reclined  in  a  built-in  cushioned  nook,  fingering  an object which Rand instantly recognized as the gold pin, still  fastened onto  Rosalie’s  velvet  ribbon.  He  didn’t appear to be surprised at Rand’s presence.

“Amazing,” Brummell murmured dolefully. “Prinny and I each sired a daughter in 1796. His Charlotte and my Rosalie would most likely have been fast friends, had my own relationship been—”

“If  Rosalie  is  your  daughter,”  Rand  interrupted sharply, “I’d say she’s been far better off away from the lot of you.”

“There’s no doubt that she is mine. She’s the living image of Lucy, and I fancy I saw a little of myself in her.”

“Not much.”

“Enough,”  Brummell  insisted,  and  Rand  became increasingly annoyed as the other man continued to stake a claim to Rosalie. For now, whether she wanted to or not, Rosalie belonged to Rand himself, not to an aging fop whose name spelled certain trouble for her. “Aren’t you going to ask how she is?” Rand inquired

with unnatural calm.

The romantic aura of loneliness dropped from the Beau’s facade as he smiled with anticipation. “Yes, do tell. Come to think of it, why didn’t you bring her?”

“She’s confused. She’s unhappy. She doesn’t know who she is, and she’s afraid to find out. And if you care a  whit  for  anything  besides  the  condition  of  your cravat, Brummell, you’ll erase every trace of yesterday afternoon from your mind.”

“Dear man, have you gone spoony? She’s my daughter! I have no family, Berkeley, at least none that will admit connection to me. She’s all I have. And there is an entire heritage I must tell her about, the legends I have left behind, the—”

“Accepting your name would ruin her,” Rand said bluntly.  “You  left  England  with  scores  of  creditors snapping and sniffing over the pittance you left behind. What would she inherit from you?—a legendary debt and a lengthy sojourn in debtors’ prison while you cool your immaculately polished heels in France.”

“I suppose it is far better for me to leave her in your hands, sir! Far better for her to be your hummingbird, and then to be cast off to some other pup when you’ve tired of her. You forget that I have previous knowledge of your reputation, Berkeley. You use the ladies lightly, and then you cast them aside like soiled gloves.” “I wouldn’t call them ladies,” Rand replied, and his expression became inscrutable. “And I would not cast a waif out into the street. I’ll take care of Miss Belleau—” “Brummell.”

“Belleau,”  Rand  stressed  gently,  meaningfully,  “if your neck means anything to you. For her sake, not yours or mine. I know about the flood of visitors you receive, and moreover, about your fondness for gossip and sad tales. But this will be a secret you carry to your grave,  or  else  I  will  consider  your  loose  tongue  an invitation to hasten your demise.”

For  a  moment  Brummell  appeared  to  be  suitably impressed by the words, for he was one to religiously avoid  the  threat  of  physical  confrontation.  Then  he managed to put on a show of unconcern.

“Picturesque words,” he scoffed.

A  dangerous  gleam  shone  in  Rand’s  eyes.  “Don’t forget a single one of them.”

“Does  my  daughter  agree  with  you?”  the  Beau inquired stiffly.

“She doesn’t know I’m here.” Rand began to leave, and then stopped as if remembering something. “As of now, only four people know of the possibility of her connection to you. If the rumor ever gets out, it will spread like wildfire, and I’ll know that it wasn’t started by me or my . . . hummingbird.” He emphasized the last word with light sarcasm. “I would advise both you and your valet to hold your tongues.”

“Selegue,  show  our  visitor  out,”  Brummell  commanded, striving to attain an imperious tone.

“I know the way,” Rand assured him, but hesitated before he left. “One more thing, Brummell. The pin. I want it back, in the event that Miss Belleau decides she would like to have it.”

The Beau suddenly flushed in distress, shaking his head and meeting Rand’s eyes directly. “I can’t give it to you.”

“It’s not yours to withhold. The pin was given to her by her mother.”

“My God, man . . .” Brummell said slowly, the first real traces of emotion lacing through his voice, “. . . are you  really  as  heartless  as  your  reputation  would indicate?  She’s  my  daughter.  I’ll  go  to  my  grave believing it, and from all appearances I’ll go without ever having known her. The pin is the only proof, the only sign that I have of her existence.”

Rand  went  through  a  brief  inner  debate  before nodding reluctantly.

Once they had returned to Lothaire, Rosalie found her dilemma growing worse daily, for she was trapped in  a  situation  that  she  had  never  anticipated.  Confronted with two unacceptable alternatives, either to have Rand or not to have him, she tried instead to find a middle ground. That proved to be impossible.

She  had  decided  at  first  to  treat  him  with  casual friendliness, studiedly ignoring any spark of the sexual awareness between them. The ploy failed because any hint of amiability between them seemed destined to turn rapidly into intimacy. A simple exchange of smiles turned into a long look of shared desire; a touch of the hands threatened to become a much warmer embrace. She  thought  all  of  the  time  about  kissing  him,  and wound up blushing guiltily whenever their eyes met. Finally Rosalie resorted to her old antagonism, which was an even worse tactic. The arguments, the sharp, fast  exchanges  they  engaged  in  so  readily,  held  a powerful undercurrent of excitement. In those moments they wanted each other the most, and so Rosalie began to feel helpless against the oncoming tide of her feelings for him.

But  what  would  happen  after  she  gave  herself  to him? Rosalie was afraid that the old saying was true, that what attracted a man in a woman rarely bound him to her. She did not want to touch heaven and then settle for less; much better never to know what she could not have. Rand did not make the situation any easier. At times he looked at her so intently that she flushed in pleasure and confusion; how heady it was to be desired by such a man. She had not allowed herself the right to feel  possessive  toward  him,  but  when  they  walked down the streets of Havre, pausing to look at the gaudy merchandise displayed in the store windows, Rosalie was aware that many envious eyes were on her. Rand, with his tall, well-built form and exotic coloring, was a highly visible prize.

Helpfully Rand left the Lothaire during the moments when the closeness became unbearable. Rosalie made the disagreeable discovery that she spent most of the time that they were apart wondering when he would return.  Steadfastly  she  refused  to  mention  their oncoming departure from France, even though it was obvious  that  bis  business  affairs  would  be  resolved soon. A new life in London, new employment, being able to see and talk to Amille when she returned—these things  should  have  given  Rosalie  pleasure  to  think about. She knew that Rand cared enough for her in his own way to see that she would be established in a good situation, perhaps as companion to a kindly widow, or nanny to young children of an agreeable family.

But Rosalie found no gladness in anticipating the end of  their  stay  in  France.  To       be  strictly  truthful,  she wondered  how  she  would  bear  never  seeing  Rand again. When she was old and gray-haired she would still be able to cast her mind back to the time when the not-yet Earl of Berkeley had wanted her passionately, had  danced  alone  with  her  in  a  little  ballroom  and kissed her once with the warmth of a blazing noontime sun.  She  would  live  the  memories  over  and  over, keeping them worn bright with use.

On  the  dreaded  day  when  the  American  cotton finally arrived at port, Rosalie sipped her chocolate and watched Rand shave. After becoming accustomed to the small intimacies of living together, such as helping with dress fastenings and the tying of cravats, Rosalie’s habit of creeping into his room to watch him perform the morning ritual of shaving caused little comment from Rand. After their first week in Havre, Rosalie had admitted to herself that she enjoyed looking at him so casually  dressed  in  the  wine-shaded  robe:  the  long, powerful muscles of his calves, the light golden skin at the back of his neck, the sparse, glinting fur visible at the part of his chest that the robe didn’t cover. She had never had the occasion to persue the body of a man with such leisure before, and Rand v/as undoubtedly a prime example of what was most desirable in a man. He did not have the slender, elegant physique of many of the admired and celebrated bucks; instead, he was tall  and  substantially  built,  well-conditioned  from riding and hunting. His body was hard, muscular and compact, unaltered by pads or stays. Rosalie had come to find his lack of artifice attractive, more so than the carefully curled locks, the reedlike slimness, and the refined shapes of more fashionable men. Surely, she thought, no woman in her right mind would disagree.

“Rand?” she questioned as he scraped the last trace of soap from his face.

“Yes?”

“What happens if the shipment is good?” “Berkeley  Shipping  will  probably  win  the  silk

manufacturing  contract  over  East  India,  giving  us  a good portion of a valuable market. What else? You and I go home. From my grandfather I receive praise for a job well done, for proving myself capable of handling the family affairs, and my share of the inheritance will be declared secure.”

“What if it isn’t?”

“I engage in an ignominious battle, pointing fingers and resorting to pleading and threats, developing tremendous headaches, and losing my appetite. And you and I remain here until the problem is resolved.” Rosalie squelched the traitorous hope that she would be given a few weeks’ reprieve. For Rand’s sake she would hope that the cotton bales were without flaw. As he hunted on the washstand for a fresh towel,

Rosalie stood up from the chair she had been leaning against and walked over to him. Seeing her approach from the vantage of the mirror, Rand turned around and looked down at her with a question in his hazel eyes. Without her slippers on, her head came to a spot well below his chin. It always surprised him, when they were close, how small she was. His heart skipped a beat as she reached up to his face with her fingertips. Gently Rosalie wiped away a smudge of soap from the underside of his jaw with her thumb and smiled at him. “You missed it,” she stated unnecessarily, and then she stood on her toes to press a lightning-quick kiss to his smooth-shaven cheek. He was utterly still, his expression unfathomable. “Good luck, Monsieur Berkeley. Don’t let a few américains get the better of you.” “My problem isn’t an américain,” Rand said, and his

mouth turned up at the corners in a smile that would have enchanted a heart of stone. “It’s a little anglaise who  shouldn’t  come  into  gentlemen’s  bedrooms  to watch them shave.”

“What  gentleman?”  Rosalie  inquired,  her  smile  almost saucy, and Rand reluctantly grinned as he motioned her out of the room with a nod of his head.

The  early-morning  commotion  had  begun  at  the dock, but this time Rand’s attitude was unconcerned. “It’s  fine,”  were  the  first  words  Captain  Jasper  had uttered upon their meeting. As the cotton and other goods were being inspected by customs agents, Rand thrust his hands in his pockets and watched the process with something close to nonchalance. His eyes followed the stout and active form of Willy Jasper as the older man gave brief directions to the crew of Lady Cat during unloading. The men worked together like a well-oiled machine, so accustomed was each to his function in the procedure of docking and unloading. As Jasper felt the touch of Rand’s gaze, he turned around and looked at him thoughtfully, as if he were in the midst of making a decision about a particular matter.

“Captain,” Rand said, inquiry threading his tone, and Jasper walked toward him with a slow seaman’s stride.

“If you have a minute, I’d like to speak with you, sir,”

the captain said, his gray eyes matching the soft steel color of his hair. Rand inclined his head curiously and Jasper hesitated once more. “It’s none of my concern,” he said, “except that you are a good employer and a fair man . . . and I suspect we’ll be doing business together well on into the future. You do not strike me as the sort who likes to hear only tidings of—”

“Jasper,” Rand interrupted, his white teeth flashing in a quick smile of amusement, “you don’t have to beat around it. Is there something you want to say?”

Silently the older man nodded and reached inside his coat to pull out a folded sheet of newspaper. It was a section from a recent issue of the Times, the largest and most  widely  read  of  all  the  London  papers.  It  was advanced far beyond its European contemporaries, its only  equal  being  the  Messenger,  an  English  paper produced in Paris. Rand scanned it absently, one large hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck to ease the tautness of the muscles there. Then, under the column labeled “France,” the words leapt out at him:

An astonishing rumor has come to our attention concerning George Brummell, Esq., currently residing  in  Calais.  The  recent  report  involves  the existence in France of a young Miss Belleau who claims to be the illegitimate daughter of the former resident   of   London.   Curiosity   is   rampant concerning  the  possibility  of  this  famed  gentleman’s offspring. Our sources cannot be confirmed.

Rand  felt  his  belly  tighten  with  anger.  Slowly  he raised  a  carefully  blank  expression  to  meet  Jasper’s scrutiny. “Interesting,” he commented. “What has it to do with me?”

“What the paper didn’t state,” Jasper said cautiously, “is that the prevalent rumors link your name with this woman. They say that the reason for your sojourn in France is not business, but the fact that she is your . . . your . . .” It was not necessary to finish the sentence. Rand knew that Jasper traveled in high enough circles so that his information was probably accurate. And if so, Rosalie’s name was being bandied about at every ball, every breakfast, every hunt, every street corner in England.

He swore fluently, the string of soft curses heard every day in a London street but uttered with such an intensity of feeling that Jasper fairly blushed. “Brummell,” Rand muttered, “when I get to you I’ll

gag you with your own cravat.”

“You don’t deny it, then?” the captain asked. Rand’s mouth twisted in disgust. “Does it matter?

The  damnable  thing  about  rumors  is  that  whether they’re  confirmed  or  denied,  they  proliferate  like weeds.”

“True.” Jasper was about to add something when he spied a fraying hemp rope being used to lower one of the small, heavy crates of porcelain. “Excuse me, I must attend to something.”

Rand barely acknowledged the captain’s departure as he scowled at the dock. He would be damned if he would take Rosalie home before he knew what kind of reception she would have. The thought of what she could be subjected to made his hair curl.

Brummell’s  daughter.  To  the  sophisticated  set  of London she would be a wonder, a novelty, a curiosity, a prize. She would become a celebrity among the wilder circles of London, toasted and feted, exposed to all the seaminess the jaded elite had to offer. To the elite, the art of corrupting the spirit was not only a game but also a subtle art. They would all want her, they would try to lure or steal her away from him, tempting, taunting, breaking  the  thin  silken  bonds  that  Rand  had  so carefully tied around her. She would be wooed and courted by every buck in sight, who would desire her as  a  mistress  because  of  her  beauty  and  her  famed father. The thought of her being drawn away from him so  insidiously  made  Rand’s  jaw  harden  in  anger, aroused an instinct to protect what was his. He would not allow them to touch her.

A previously unconsidered thought raced across his mind. What if he gave her his name?

People would be more loath to take advantage of a woman  under  the  shield  of  the  Berkeley  name  and power, no matter who her father was. And if Brummell’s  angry  creditors  dared  to  approach  her,  Rand would have a legitimate claim and legal means to deal with them himself. Marriage. The thought had never appealed to him before now, but it suddenly presented itself as the perfect solution to his problems. He had always  scorned  the  idea  of  being  confined  by  the matrimonial bond, but the prospect of being tied to Rosalie held a certain appeal. He knew far more about her than he could ever have the opportunity to discover about  some  simpering  debutante  during  a  carefully supervised  courtship.  Although  Rosalie  was  a  lively woman with a marked willingness to argue with him, she could also be very companionable. She was young and  beautiful,  and  there  was  no  question  as  to  her innocence.  Before  they  had  met  she  had  been  untouched  by  any  other  man—that  much  had  been proved.

And most important, if she were his wife, he could have her anytime he wanted.

Putting the shoe on the other foot, Rand considered what her life would be like as Lady Berkeley. He knew he was one of the most desired matrimonial catches in London because of his title and wealth. Surely Rosalie could have no objection to the home and the living he would provide for her. But aside from that, could she learn to be happy with him as a husband? He had started their relationship off in the worst imaginable way, yet he would not demand any forgiveness that she could not give, only try to make amends. Disgruntled, he stared distantly into the sky, wondering exactly how she felt about him. It was fairly obvious that on some level she had developed a kind of fondness for him. It seemed  to  Rand  that  that  was  enough  to  begin  a marriage with. Rosalie could learn to be happy with him, especially during the endless hours they would spend in his bed. Although she did not know it yet, Rosalie was a woman who needed to be loved long and well, and Rand had no doubt that he could satisfy her in that respect if not in any other.

Rosalie flew to the door as soon as she heard the key turn in the lock.

“What happened?” she demanded, flinging the door wide, and Rand caught it deftly with one hand. There was a vaguely triumphant air about him as he looked down at her with an intricately blended gaze of gold and jade.

“You can offer me your congratulations,” he said, and Rosalie  laughed  in  delight.  Before  she  had  the opportunity to say a word, Rand closed the door and pulled  her  into  his  arms  to  kiss  her.  Rosalie  was immediately paralyzed, her lips soft with astonishment, and  he  took  advantage  of  her  vulnerability  without hesitation. His mouth was searching, urgent, knowing, even more intoxicating than she had remembered. As the warmth of his touch suffused her, Rosalie stumbled closer, to meld herself against his hard body. Fire licked smoothly along her nerves in instant reaction to him, and a soft sound came from Rand’s throat as he sensed her surrender.

Rosalie became oblivious of everything but the searing contact between their bodies, the hungry clasp of flesh to flesh. She was consumed like tinder fed to a flame, feeling hot and light, weightless. Their passion was new, desperate, too long denied. His hand slid upward along her side, searching for her body through tbe  fine  material  of  her  gown,  cupping  her  breast delicately. Her knees weakened at the sensation and she leaned against him, letting the hard muscles of his legs take  her  weight.  Somewhere  in  the  back  of  Rand’s quickly evaporating mind the thought intruded that he was not going to be able to stop. He had to get control of himself. He lifted his head, bis breath quick, and she made a slight gasp of protest as the loss of his mouth.

“We  have  to  talk,”  Rand  said  thickly,  his  thumb making a regretfully brief search of a tender nipple. Rosalie shivered and then nodded, her face flushed and her body aching for more of his touch. He let her rest against him until her legs had strengthened, and then she moved away to sit down, feeling peculiarly languid and confused.

“About going home?” she asked.

“Precisely. There is something I’d like to do first.” He paused before asking slowly, “Would you mind it if our return was delayed another week?”

Rosalie took an uneven breath and lowered her eyes so that he would not see the transparent gleam of relief. Another  week,  she  thought  with  an  overload  of thankfulness. Another week with Rand.

“That  depends,”  she  said  carefully.  “Why  do  you want to delay it?”

Rand paused in a split second of indecision, feeling a quick sting of guilt. He had already decided not to tell her about the report in the Times until he could make the  most  use  of  it.  He  would  buy  enough  time  to beguile her into accepting his proposal. If she proved to be particularly obstinate, he would use the newspaper article to convince her that she needed the protection of his name.

“I was speaking this morning with a French naval architect about the Prinzessin Charlotte, a double-hulled steamboat  which  carries  passengers  on  the  Elbe  in Germany.”

“A steamboat? Why would you be interested—?” “Right now steam is used only as auxiliary power for passenger  vessels  like  the  Charlotte.  Only  for  short

inland runs. But when they are developed more, it’s going to change the entire shipping business. They’ll take the place of cargo freighters, and they’ll cut the time from trade routes significantly.”

“And you want to talk more about it with this naval architect?”

“I want to talk more about it with someone in Paris, a former apprentice of Robert Fulton. When Fulton lived in Paris he built a steamboat that went up the Seine, and he left behind a few burgeoning experts in steam navigation.”

Rosalie frowned. She was hardly concerned about Fulton,  steamships,  or  trade.  What  occupied  her thoughts was the prospect of Rand leaving her alone for a week while he went to Paris.

“How soon are you going to leave?” she managed to ask quietly.

Rand smiled at her. “That depends on how much you intend to pack.”

“How much I . . .” she repeated, dumbfounded, and his smile deepened.

“Unless you don’t want to go.”

Rosalie recovered quickly and masked her elation by adopting  an  undecided  expression.  “Will  it  be  very boring, talking to some old man about ships?”

She looked so much like a little French coquette that Rand had to smother an impulse to snatch her up and kiss her until she was senseless.

“Boring?”  he  questioned  thoughtfully.  “Have  you ever sailed up the Seine in a full-rigged freighter? Have you  ever  gone  to  the  Maison  d’Or  and  whispered behind your fan as the dandies strolled by? Seen a play at the Comédie Francaise? Have you ever gone dancing in Paris until the night ends and dawn begins?”

“No.”  Her  gaze  was  filled  with  excitement  and longing.

“Then you won’t be bored. Go and pack.” Randgrinned as she scampered off to her room. He

was beginning to understand how to deal with Rosalie Belleau-Brummell. A good thing that she was proving to be so temptable.

Paris was unimaginable to someone like Rosalie, who had been sheltered all of her life from the kinds of sights and activities that proliferated there. Every narrow,  poorly  paved  street  seemed  to  run  riot  with energy and glee, with the colors and shapes of fantastic art, with the music from the theaters and the loud talk of the radical intellectuals who frequented the cafes. To those who wished to act and speak as they pleased, Paris was the City of Light. For twenty-four francs Rand had hired a carriage to take them to the Hotel de Ville, a noble structure that had stood on the Right Bank since the sixteenth century.

Rosalie tried to prevent herself from hanging out of the  carriage  window  in  an  unseemly  way  as  Rand pointed  out  the  strange  and  delightful  scenes  they passed:  the  open-air  summer  restaurants,  the  huge mass of the uncompleted Arc de Triomphe, the Tuileries  Gardens,  and  the  Palais  Royal,  wbere  numerous small shops beckoned to the passing tourists. Across the Seine reposed the dwellings of the secluded aristocracy along the Right Bank. Every part of the city was filled with the delicious smells of a multitude of the finest restaurants.

The first night in Paris, Rand took Rosalie dancing as he had promised, to a public ball that was crowded with the most varied assemblage conceivable. It was filled with gamblers, prostitutes, aristocrats, and elegant  ladies,  who  intermingled  as  if  the  sharp  class distinctions they usually sought to protect did not exist. There was an orchestra at either end of the dance hall. The music of the fiddle, clarinet and the cornet a piston floated out of the huge Gothic doors to the small garden walkways that were lit with colored paper lanterns. Inside, Rosalie went to the refreshment table after the first quadrille and eyed the drinks with dismay.

“Warm  March  beer,”  she  commented,  and  out  of nowhere  Rand  managed  to  produce  a  cup  of  tart lemonade. “You’re a magician,” she accused, laughing up at him and then downing half the drink in a few rapid swallows. She was careful not to let the pink liquid spot either her long gloves or the immaculate high-waisted,   puff-sleeved   gown   she   wore.   The daylight-blue gown was at first glance demure, but the neckline was cut so deeply that it riveted the attention of all who saw her. The fragile inset of Valenciennes lace did nothing to camouflage the alluring vale between her breasts.

“Be  careful,”  Rand  said,  picking  up  a  fresh  threecornered puff and eyeing it with interest. “You might come to find me indispensable.”

“Tonight I do,” Rosalie said, biting off the corner of the puff and allowing him to finish the rest of it. “You’re a better dancer than anyone else here.” She felt like she was flying when they moved together. She had felt the stares of many people on them as Rand had whirled her around the ballroom, and strangely she had not minded being regarded as his woman.

Rand smiled at her, wondering at her relaxed openness  with  him.  It  was  a  new  attitude,  one  which interested him greatly. It seemed that there had been a few changes in Rosalie since he had first brought her to France.

“A dancer is only as good as his partner.” “Not true,” she corrected, taking another refreshing

swallow  of  the  sugar-fruit-and-water  concoction.  “I know the extent of my capabilities. You enhance them greatly.”

“False modesty. Are you looking for more complimerits  from  me?”  Rand  accused  softly.  Their  gazes caught and melded together in an electric completeness, and then they became aware that the orchestras were playing the unmistakable accented rhythm of a waltz. “The first waltz,” he said, and took the lemonade from her to set it down on the table. “We’re obligated to dance again.”

“Really,” Rosalie responded dryly, and she allowed him to pull her into the center of the crush of couples before it became any more crowded.

“I must speak with Madame Mirabeau about your clothes,” Rand remarked, sliding an arm around her waist with the caution of utter propriety.

“My clothes?” Rosalie repeated, wrinkling her nose at him  in  a  flirtatious  manner  that  was  utterly  unlike herself.

“You’re only a fraction of an inch away from being underdressed,” he said, and as his gaze flickered to the plunging neckline of her gown it was obvious as to where he would have added the extra inch of material. “If you’d bother to look around, you’d see I’m the

most overdressed woman here.”

Rand made some noncommittal sound, having no desire to look at any other women. As he stared down at  her  and  smiled,  Rosalie  was  suddenly  consumed with a rush of feelings that threatened to suffocate her. Why  did  this  night  ever  have  to  end?  she  thought, caught   in   an   indescribably   painful   moment   of realization that no hour, no minute of her life would ever be this perfect again.

It seemed that they danced the entire night without stopping. Rosalie clung to each moment until it was wrenched from her, reveling in the cloud-woven hours as Rand turned the considerable amount of charm at his disposal completely toward her. One minute he would entice her into laughing out loud, and in the next he would look into her eyes with an enigmatic and steady gaze as he swept her around in wide, circling steps. Their  clasped  hands,  the  music,  the  privacy  of  an intimate glance—it was a sweet flash of fulfillment, too brief, elusive. She was caught between night and day in an  insubstantial  dream,  able  to  do  nothing  except follow where he led.

I’ve allowed it to happen, she thought, and her breath caught in her throat. I’ve brought it on myself. She had fallen in love with him. She loved a man she could never, never have, someone that perhaps no one could ever have. And worse yet was the knowledge that if it had  happened  despite  her  best  efforts  to  resist,  her flourishing love for Lord Randall Berkeley would likewise be impossible to dispel.