During his relatively short lifetime Rand had had limitless experience with the fickle nature of women. Helene, his capricious mother, had developed the art of taunting those who loved her by giving them only  sporadic  affection.  Rand’s  only  form  of  selfprotection had been to adopt a facade of indifference, and now he was powerless to prevent the automatic defense from establishing itself as he met the coolness in Rosalie’s cerulean eyes. He could not guess what had brought about the change in her manner, but as an inner voice urged him to hold Rosalie tenderly and coax her to confide in him, his overwhelming impulse was to stare at her with a blank sort of civility. The barricades were there again.

“Have you been up long?” he asked.

Rosalie blinked, startled by his casual attitude. “No. Just a few minutes,” she replied, wondering uneasily what inward emotions moved him. It was chilling to suspect that perhaps his words of the night before had been  merely  a  common  form  of  love  play.  Did  he whisper such things to the women he slept with as a matter of routine? Ask him how he feels, a voice from her heart intruded on her racing thoughts. Tell him how you feel.

I  wouldn’t  dare,  Rosalie  told  herself  immediately, and she stared at him with a mute, poorly disguised appeal.

Rand’s  expression  held  an  element  of  the  same uneasiness.  He  could  not  risk  saying  anything  that would earn her scorn, and he certainly would not throw out a declaration or proposal without being far more certain of the reception he would receive.

“Does  the  idea  of  breakfast  appeal  to  you?”  he inquired.

Rosalie nodded unhappily. “Yes. I’m . . .  a little hungry-”

Suddenly Rand’s lips twitched with amusement, his tension  breaking  as  they  found  a  relatively  normal footing to meet on. “That’s understandable,” he said. “You’ve earned the right to a decent meal.”

“Don’t joke about it,” Rosalie said, scowling in quick response to his comment.

He  frowned  curiously,  finding  that  for  some  odd reason he was reassured by her sharpness. Perhaps her willingness  to  share  his  bed  the  night  before  had surprised her as much as him. If so, she was probably uncomfortable  with  the  knowledge  that  for  the  first time she had approached a man with desire. Uncomfortable, but not necessarily regretful.

“Conscience-stricken?”  he  inquired  mockingly,  and she wiped the betraying scowl from her expression. “No,” Rosalie replied, thinking that it probably would

have reflected more highly on her character had she been attacked by pangs of conscience. But instead, she reluctantly realized, she was not at all sorry they had made love, just that she had chosen the worst man possible to fall in love with.

“Good.” Rand looked at her for another long moment and then turned around to go back into his room. “I’ll ring for the maid,” he said over his shoulder.

“Fine,” Rosalie replied, fighting a mad urge to cry, or shout, or do anything that would relieve the gathering heaviness inside her chest. The power he had over her filled her with dread, for although she had fought to keep  her  independence,  her  struggles  had  been  for naught.  She  could  refuse  him  nothing,  for  now  she owned only half of herself. The other half was his. Rosalie could only guess at what game Rand had decided to play. After breakfast in a small cafe he took her  shopping,  brushing  aside  all  of  her  hastily  conceived objections. Momentarily it seemed that he had discarded  all  considerations  of  business,  contracts, steamboats, and trade in order to show her the sights and amusements of Paris. Apparently sensitive to the fact that she would balk at any signs of possessiveness from him, Rand kept the attitude of the day on an undemanding level. His manner was light, casual, and considerate, and helplessly she succumbed to the delight of being with him, unable to resist his smile, his gentleness. Occasionally she would catch a glimpse of their reflection in the shop windows, and it seemed each time that the image changed: bashful strangers a lover and his mistress. He purchased countless gifts for her—soft ribbons of satin and velvet, a flask of scent,   embroidered   gloves,   a   corded-silk   bonnet trimmed  with  feathers,  and  other  sundry  articles— until Rosalie began to laugh despite herself and begged him to stop.

When early evening approached he took her to the grand opera house of Paris, the Italian Theater. Rosalie was  dazzled  by  the  huge  building  of  marble,  gold, glass,  and  light.  A  huge  chandelier  hung  from  the center of the building, its heavy, glittering mass seeming  to  be  suspended  in  midair.  As  they  sat  in  a conservatively located box, Rosalie was absorbed in the rich, swelling strains of Don Juan and William Tell, and

in  the  ballet  danseurs  who  performed  the  story  of Sleeping Beauty with such magical precision that she held  her  breath  as  they  flew  through  the  air.  She exclaimed  over  their  grace  and  ephemeral  qualities even after the dance was over, until Rand wryly informed her that those selfsame ethereal creatures were at that very moment in the theater green room to greet the wealthier spectators who wished to spend the night with them.

Sometimes Rosalie bewildered him, for he had never met a woman of her tender years who was as outspoken, as spirited and pragmatic . . . and yet she had been sheltered to such a degree that she knew little of things that he had assumed were common knowledge. Her lack  of  worldliness  charmed  and  at  the  same  time bothered him greatly. Why had Amille Courtois chosen to raise her in such manner? What could she have been thinking  of?  Perhaps  knowing  that  Rosalie  was  not born to be a servant, she had encouraged the girl to escape  the  dreariness  of  her  life  through  dreams, novels, flights of fancy. As events had proved, it had been a disastrous decision, for there had been no one to protect Rosalie from the hazards of a greedy world that she knew too little about. Rand frowned as he watched Rosalie’s absorption in the artful presentations onstage.

She was too tempting, too vulnerable to men like him. At the first intermission Rosalie turned to speak to

him, her sapphire eyes extraordinarily beautiful as they gleamed with an odd light. He would never know what she  had  intended  to  say,  for  in  that  moment  two women approached their box, one of them so beautiful that Rosalie could hardly keep from staring at her in amazement. She appeared to be about the same age as Rand, her confidence and self-possession seeming to be quite  remarkably  well-developed.  Her  mouth  was etched and shaded in soft red, her cheeks glowing with the same vibrant hue. Her hair was such a pale gold that  it  shone  like  a  moonbeam,  her  eyes  a  delicate eggshell blue. Most remarkable of all was a magnificent bosom which nearly swelled out of her gleaming white gown, further emphasized by a necklace thickly encrusted with diamonds.

“Colette, what a find we have made,” the woman addressed her companion, and both of them stared at Rosalie  in  a  way  that  made  her  wonder  what  was wrong  with  her  appearance.  Rand  stiffened  at  the sound of the woman’s bell-like voice. Slowly he turned around   with   grimness   darkening   his   face,   his expressive  mouth  tightening  as  she  addressed  him. “Lord Berkeley, how pleasant to see you again.” The way she emphasized the word “pleasant,” Rosalie

noticed with annoyance, implied that it was far more of a pleasure to see Rand than was proper to admit in public.

“Lady  Ellesmere  and  Madame  Duprin,”  Rand  acknowledged them both reluctantly, standing to greet them. Lady Ellesmere, Rosalie gathered, was the beautiful gilt-haired woman. Her friend was not as attractive but matched her in sophistication.

“London has been languishing without you,” Lady Ellesmere said to Rand, her tone indescribably sweet and her eyes intent as they met his. She stood very close to him, her slim height making it easy for the pair to stand face-to-face. As she regarded him with familiarity, her gaze touched caressingly on his beautiful hair, his well-hewn features, his wide, firm mouth. Rosalie remained silent and plucked unconsciously at the gold banding on the sleeves of her apricot velvet gown, pain constricting her heart as she watched them together. She felt some of her naivete crumbling rapidly as she realized that there was a certain way in which two people  who  had  once  been  intimate  looked  at  each other.  It  was  evident  to  anyone  who  cared  to  look beneath the surface of banal conversation and urbane facades that Rand and Lady Ellesmere had been lovers in the past.

It was no surprise that Rand was a man of experience. But to look upon the lovely face of someone he had  known  just  as  he  had  known  Rosalie  herself, brought a killing sense of dejection to her soul. The thought of him holding this woman, kissing her, entwining with her, was much more than unpleasant. It was degrading, as if the sophisticated blond had somehow managed to taint every sweet memory that Rosalie had shared with Rand. You fool, she sneered at herself. You’ve come to think of yourself as the only woman in his life. But just as this woman shows that you are not the first, she also proves that you won’t be the last. If his desire for Lady Ellesmere had eventually abated, there was no shadow of a doubt in Rosalie’s mind that he would tire of her as well.

Suddenly  the  next  few  words  the  woman  spoke abolished Rosalie’s misery, drenching her with shock.

“Ah,” Lady Ellesmere drawled, focusing a light blue gaze  on  her,  “so  this  is  the  famous  Miss  Belleau.” Rosalie went still, her eyes widening. Rand shot Lady Ellesmere a killing glance, which the woman blithely ignored.

“Famous?” Rosalie repeated faintly.

“Why,  yes!  You’re  all  over  the  Times,  my  dear woman! Why, everyone in the civilized world knows that you claim to be the daughter of Beau Brummell.” Lady Ellesmere turned to Madame Duprin. “I must say, she doesn’t look like an adventuress. Perhaps her claim is true.”

Rosalie felt her face turn white and numb. She had neither the coordination nor the energy to look at Rand, focusing all of her efforts on subduing a surge of panic. “It is neither my intention nor my desire to claim George  Brummell  as  my  father,”  she  managed  to murmur quietly, pride enabling her to meet the woman’s gaze directly.

“I can’t quite see the resemblance,” Lady Ellesmere remarked thoughtfully, regarding Rosalie as if she were inspecting the work of a second-rate artist. “But perhaps you share more of an inward similarity. Do you find that you are excessively fastidious, as the Beau is? Or irreverent? Or—”

“Or fond of overspending?” Madame Duprin added, and giggled at the weak sally.

“When did you first discover  . . . ? “  The pair of women seemed to have taken a smooth and savage delight in plying her with pointed questions. Rosalie switched her gaze to Rand’s face, and what she saw there made it an effort not to burst into tears. He had known. He was not surprised at the information that she was in the papers. Somewhere deep in his clear hazel gaze was a plea for her not to abandon her trust in him, but she was too hurt to heed the silent words. “When will you be coming back to London, Lord

Berkeley?”  Lady  Ellesmere  inquired,  her  eyes  still fastened on Rosalie’s pale face.

“When Paris becomes tiring,” Rand gritted. “I do hope you’ll bring your . . . Miss Belleau when

you return. She would enjoy so many of our haunts—”

Rand  smiled  grimly.  “Clara,”  he  interrupted  her prattle  with  unnatural  softness,  “I  would  take  Miss Belleau straight to hell before giving her into the care of London society.”

Lady Ellesmere seemed not in the least upset by the profanity as she smiled with catlike contentment. “Are you certain that hell is more amusing than London, my lord?”

“I only know which one possesses a more wholesome atmosphere. Good night . . . ladies.” He stressed the last word lightly and proffered an arm for Rosalie to take. “I believe, Miss Belleau, that the performance is over.” Her hand was shaking as it slipped through the crook of his elbow,  yet  Rosalie  managed  to  give  both  of  the obnoxious  women  a  polite  nod  before  leaving.  Her voice was surprisingly steady as they made their way outside to the waiting barouche cabriolet.

“You had no right to keep it from me,” she murmured in a low tone.

“Rose, I was going to tell you—”

“Don’t bother to finish!” she whispered vehemently. “I know when you were going to tell me. At your own convenience. For your own advantage—”

“Rose—”

“I’m beginning to feel like the pawn in a game that everyone else is playing! No, don’t look at me like that. I don’t want to be coaxed into a good humor. I don’t want to cry or argue, or talk about it at all—I just want to be left alone to think!”

“And stew about it until it’s out of proportion.” “That’s my right. Just as it was my right to be told about  something  that  affected  me  so  directly!”  She groaned in escalating fury. “But to find out from one of your former . . . from a lightskirt who doesn’t even—” “My  former  what?”  he  asked  ominously.  “She’s  a

lightskirt, I’ll grant, but she’s not a former anything of mine.”

“I saw the way she—”

“Clara Ellesmere behaves that way with anyone fit to wear breeches.”

“And just how familiar is she with the contents of yours?”

Rosalie surprised even herself with the crude question. There was silence in the cabriolet as Rand stared at her and arched a dark eyebrow. Her cheeks burned as he began to smile slowly.

“There’s no need to be jealous, Rose.”

“I’m not jealous!” she snapped, but still the insufferably conceited smile remained on his face. “To be strictly truthful, over the past few years I’ve

had no lack of invitations to Clara’s bed. Unfortunately, of late I seem to have become rather discriminating.”

Rosalie looked down at her tightly clasped hands, part  of  her  anger  transforming  into  embarrassment, frustration, and yes, undeniable jealousy. Rand continued in a gentle, no-nonsense voice as she kept her eyes averted from him. “Petite, we’re going to have to get something  straight.  I’m  not  an  inexperienced  man, much as I would like to say you’ve been the only one. There’s a likely chance, a probability, that you’ll hear gossip . . .  or perhaps you’ll even make the acquaintance of someone I’ve been intimate with. Not one of them ever meant anything to me beyond an hour or two of pleasure, superficial pleasure at that. But you might as well tell me now if you plan to squabble about every one of them.”

“I  hardly  plan  to  squabble  about  women  I  never intend to meet,” Rosalie said frostily, slightly mollified by the way he referred to his former lovers as “them,” as if they were an indistinct group that had nothing to do with her. But then she wondered how soon she would be relegated to the category of “them,” and she asked herself  for  the  thousandth  time  how  she  had  been foolish enough to fall in love with him. “I don’t want to talk anymore,” she said stiffly. “Would you please allow me a few minutes of silence?”

“Only until we get back to the hotel,” he said, a scowl gathering on his handsome face as he contemplated the satisfaction he would get out of shaking her stubborn little body until her teeth rattled. “And only because it’s a matter not meant for the ears of curious coachmen.”

“Your  discretion  astounds  me,”  Rosalie  muttered, clamping her lips together and folding her arms as she settled down into the carriage seat. The vehicle rolled and bounced through the uneven streets of the city as she sifted through her tumbled emotions.

After  collecting  her  thoughts  somewhat,  Rosalie decided in a flash of complete honesty that she could not  blame  Rand  entirely  for  keeping  the  newspaper article a secret. With her silent and unconscious encouragement he had styled himself her protector, and as such he felt responsible for everything that affected her. In a way, she had almost given him the right to take such an action. But his protectiveness could not continue, that was obvious. He would not be there to shield her forever.

Grimacing slightly, she risked a quick glance at him. Every tautly drawn line of his posture betrayed his impatience. Rosalie had to suppress a small and unwanted smile from settling on her lips, knowing that he was annoyed with her for refusing to talk to him. But she needed time to puzzle out what she was going to say to him, what stance she was going to take, before he had a chance to twist everything around to suit his own purposes. It was far too easy for Rand to convince her of anything he wanted to. Sighing, Rosalie returned her gaze to the slender hands clasped in her lap. How much worse all of this would be if she had confessed her love for  him:  Rand  was  far  too  capable  of  using  it  to manipulate her.

The sunset was in full bloom as they walked into Rand’s room. After he helped her off with her pelisse and began to remove his own coat, Rosalie strode over to the window and looked outside at the sky.

“You knew I would want to know that the news was out,” she said, her gaze moving from one side of the street to the other.

“I had planned to tell you soon.”

“It is not up to you to shield me from things like this. I’m not a child”—her voice lowered in self-disgust— “although I’ve acted like one.”

“No—”

“Yes, I have,” Rosalie asserted, flushing with shame and self-reproach. “I’ve given all responsibility for my own well-being into your hands, when you already had enough to worry about. I came to France with you in order to avoid having to make difficult decisions . . . and  worse,  to  take  advantage  of  your  remorse.  I shouldn’t have come with you. I was perfectly capable of finding a job on my own. I didn’t need your help or your protection—”

“I wouldn’t have let you go off by yourself,” Rand interrupted. “Blame yourself if you like, Rose, but it’s a man’s world.”

“Nevertheless,  I  could  have  done  it  on  my  own instead of taking advantage of you,” she insisted stubbornly. “But it was far easier to tell myself I hated you and let you take care of things.”

“And do you hate me now?” Rand asked, watching her  turn  and  pace  across  the  room  in  a  distracted manner.  Suddenly  Rosalie  halted,  surprised  at  the question. So her feelings weren’t as transparent to him as she had feared. She met his eyes, finding in them a hard, watchful expression.

“Now?” she asked blankly. “No, of course not. There’s a difference between being angry with someone and . . .” She paused by a small table and trailed her fingers across the smooth surface, refusing to look at him. “Of course not. How can you even ask that?” she mumbled. Rand took a few steps closer to her.

“But what about when I . . . what about the first time? Have you forgotten what I did?” It seemed almost as if he were trying to reawaken her old animosity toward him.

Rosalie swallowed hard before answering. “I prefer

.  to think of last night as the first time.”

In the small fragment of time it had taken to utter the words,  Rosalie  unknowingly  slipped  past  his  inner barriers to a place no one had ever reached before. Rand’s heavy lashes lowered over soft hazel eyes as he struggled to subdue the sudden emotions that battered him. He could not remember a time when anyone had forgiven him for the wrongs he’d done, no matter how great or small the transgression. The general assumption had always been that he would not have cared a whit for anyone’s forgiveness, and he had reinforced the attitude by being too proud to ask for it. “Rand?” Rosalie asked, keeping her face averted from

him.

“What?” he responded evenly, endeavoring to reassemble his faltering control.

“What  did  you  mean  in  the  cabriolet  .  .  .  about wanting to say that I had been the only one?” There  was  a  long  silence,  during  which  Rosalie

waited for his answer and fidgeted with the tassel that pulled back the window draperies.

“You deserve someone with an irreproachable past,” he finally replied curtly. “Someone . . . untainted.”

Her fingers ceased their restless twining in the tassel cords, stilling as she was suffused with slow, tender warmth. She had once dreamed of a chivalrous knight, a man without flaws who could bring her steadfast and perfect love. And now all she wanted was Rand, with his  tarnished  past,  his  easy  charm,  his  strength,  his flashing moments of bitter despair and elemental passion.  She  would  prefer  him  over  anyone  else— especially over some unfledged boy.

“A  callow  youth,”  she  mused  out  loud,  and  then smiled. “Innocent, graceless with immaturity. Perhaps I should long for his ill-executed caresses, his awkward kisses, but surprisingly I don’t.” She turned around to face him. “And for that matter, I doubt the irreproachable lad would care to taint himself with the bastard daughter of—”

“Shut up.” Rand’s chest rose and fell unsteadily as he looked at her in the newborn twilight. The weak rays of the dying sun touched feebly on her glossy sable hair, the sweet curve of her lips, the vibrant beauty of a face that would haunt his dreams forever, no matter what fate befell his future. “Any man would want you,” he said  thickly.  “Any  man  sane  or  raving,  green  as  a pasture or wizened with age.”

“Don’t . . .” Rosalie breathed, her heartbeat doubling as she saw the look in his eyes. Then she smiled selfconsciously and strove for a more normal tone. “Don’t even try to pacify me. I’m still furious with you. And . . . you might as well know that I’m sleeping in my room tonight.” She had to start thinking of some way to break the hold he had on her.

“Do you think you can run away from me?” “No, I’m not running away.” She gave a determined shake of her head to emphasize her words. “Not any longer. I’m going to find out if the rumors are true, Rand—I have to know who I am, and if he really is my father. I should have written to Maman . . . to Amille . . . the moment George Brummell started all of this.” “We’ll be back in England soon. I’ll take you to see

her as soon as we arrive.”

“I’m going to find a position as soon as we arrive,” Rosalie corrected. “And then I’ll go to see her alone.”

His jaw was set with resolution as their gazes locked together.

“I hadn’t planned to have this discussion now,” Rand said, his voice taking on an uncompromising edge. “But I doubt we’ll find an appropriate time in any case.”

“A discussion about what?”

“Rose,  why  don’t  you  sit  down?”  Rand  suddenly looked self-mocking as he continued. “Having no experience with this sort of thing, I have little idea of how long it will take.”

“I don’t want to sit down.”

Her eyes widened as he walked toward her, taking her cool hands into his large warm ones and drawing her close to his body. The crisp, masculine fragrance of sandalwood soap caressed her senses as she looked up at him with rapidly growing uncertainty.

“Rosalie.” He stared down at her with translucent gold-and-green eyes. As if tempted beyond his ability to resist, he lifted a hand to stroke the soft smoothness of her cheek with long fingers. “I know you value your independence. I know you’ve had precious little of it. But there are other needs of yours, just as there are needs of mine that . . . that are more important than independence.”

“What are you trying to say?” she asked carefully. He took a deep breath, his expression containing an odd, hungry quality.

“I can’t let you live alone in London.”

Instinctively  she  placed  a  restraining  hand  on  his chest, her palm curving to the solid, muscled surface. “I know you must feel an obligation to protect me,” she  said  softly,  “but  I  can  deal  with  everything  by myself. I have a fair idea of what to expect—” “You  have  no  idea  of  what  to  expect!  My  God, Rosalie, leaving aside all of the idiocy engendered by the rumors about Brummell, do you know what you would  face?  Do  you  realize  the  kind  of  men,  the quantity o f  men who will come sniffing after you like

dogs in July? Do you know—?”

“What  exactly  is  the  point  of  this?”  Rosalie  interrupted, her cheeks burning at his words. “The point,” Rand said slowly, “is that I want you to

be my wife.”

She couldn’t believe he had said it. Her heart began to thud heavily, her mouth going dry with shock. She wanted to fall to his feet and weep with the agony of wanting him but not being able to accept him. Letting out a wavering breath, she cast her eyes downward as tears threatened to overflow onto her cheeks. She could not allow herself even to contemplate marriage to a man who might want her now but would surely scorn her later. For the moment, he found her entertaining, but what guarantee was there that he would not tire of her?  At  her  silence  Rand  frowned,  seeming  to  feel called upon to list more reasons why the union was a desirable one, not admitting even to himself why he truly wanted her.

“It’s obvious that we’re not incompatible. And I’ve decided that I’ve waited long enough to marry. It’s time I took a wife and produced some heirs . . . you and I would have attractive children—”

“We agreed,” she  said,  her  voice shuddering  with unspent emotion, “that you would help me find employment after you accomplished what you set out to do in France.”

“That  was  a  lifetime  ago.  That  was  two  different people ago. And besides, I’ve just offered you a position.”

“You said you would help me find something acceptable.”

As  it  became  obvious  that  she  was  not  going  to accept his proposal easily, Rand’s tension wound like tight springs in his body. By God, if she had decided to meet him with unreasonable stubbornness, she had no idea of what lengths he would go to in order to make her marry him!

“What is so unacceptable to you about becoming my wife?” he demanded. “God knows enough women have vied for the position—why is it my lot that the first one I offer for finds it so distasteful?”

“I don’t find it distasteful,” she said, her eyes downcast. “If you continue to desire me even after we return, then . . . then perhaps we can arrange to see each other until you no longer want to . . . but I won’t be your wife, and I won’t be kept by you.”

“Oh,  wonderful,”  Rand  interrupted  savagely,  now wanting to choke her. “You’re offering to meet me on the sly, possibly on your days off, or, God help me, on Sundays. And what do you plan for me to do after you’re set up as some brat’s governess or old woman’s companion?  Leave  a  note  at  the  back  door  of  the kitchen when I want to spend some time with you? Exchange pleasantries with the footmen in the servants’ hallway  while  I  wait  for  you?  Like you  were  some servant—”

“I am a servant,” Rosalie said with artificial calmness. “You aren’t.  You were not meant for that.” “Stop it!” she said, and then pulled a hand free to

cover her eyes with trembling fingers, knowing that she could never be happy again. Love had trapped her. She could hardly bear the thought of living without him, but it would be equally impossible for her to marry him and  then  watch  his  interest  dwindle.  Any  affection Rand had for her would not come close to matching the measure  of  her  feelings  for  him,  and  such  an unbalanced situation would lead to his becoming bored with her. The picture that thought presented, of being lodged in a lonely country house while Rand amused himself in the city, left her appalled. And being his mistress was hardly preferable, for after he tired of her she would have little choice but to find another man to support her in a similar fashion. “Just let me go,” she whispered.

The four words were all that was necessary to cause Rand’s temper to explode. Somewhere inside flickered the ugly thought that she was taunting him with his own need of her. The more he had of her, the more he wanted . . . and the more he wanted, the less she was willing to give. She stood before him, within reach and maddeningly unattainable, and he could not stand it any longer.

“Look  at  me,  damn  you,”  he  rasped,  pulling  her hands down by her sides and jerking her up against his body until they were nearly nose to nose. He glared down into her reddening eyes as if he could see into her soul. “I don’t care why you don’t want to be my wife. It doesn’t matter, because you know inside that you’re mine, and no matter how you try, you can’t change it.” His large hands were tight around her wrists, and she could feel the anger in him coursing like a violent river. “Rand, stop!” For the first time since they had met, Rosalie was almost frightened by him, for he seemed to have let go of his control. Her heart began to patter in an erratic tempo.

“I  don’t  think  you  really  give  a  damn  about  the money,” he continued hoarsely, “or even the security I could give you . . . but I do know one thing you want from me.” His hands slid down to her buttocks and urged her firmly against his hips, not allowing her to wriggle free. She gasped as the hard, powerful outline of his manhood pressed insistently between her legs. “I heard you cry out my name last night,” he said, his breath  filling  her  mouth  with  delicious  heat.  The warmth, the potency of his aroused flesh struck her with the force of lightning. “I remember every little sound you made,” Rand said huskily. “The first time, when you discovered what it was like to be pleasured by a man . . . the second time, when you learned how to move underneath me  .  .  . the third  .  .  .” Weakly she shook her head, and he bent to kiss her with deceptive leisure, forcing her lips apart to allow the erotic stroke of his tongue. “You’ll marry me if I have to tempt, bully, and seduce you into it. You can’t pretend you don’t want me, not when your needs are so obvious. Say you’re mine . . . say it.”

“You don’t understand—” she began, and her words were muffled as he kissed her again, more thoroughly, more desperately. Her entire body started to glow with an unquenchable fire, but still she tried to strain away from him. She gasped for air as Rand lifted his head and stared down at her, his dark face unreadable except for the desire that burned so brightly in his topaz eyes. “Tell me,” he said huskily, and lowered his mouth to

hers once more, craving the softness of her lips as if he were addicted to her. This kiss was gentle, sensitive, allowing her to respond to the artful coaxing. Rosalie’s world was cloudy and blurred, everything fading away except his mouth, his hands, the large strong body that offered all the shelter, all the pleasure that she could ever want. Her body was charged with an unfamiliar energy, her response to him quick and surging, her nerves dancing as if her entire system had gone berserk. She was consumed with love and the insanity of her passion for him . . . oh, how she wanted him, how she longed for him. Avidly his hand trailed up her body to the swell of flesh at the top of her bodice, and with a quick, savage motion he pulled down the top of her gown. Rosalie’s moan was muffled under his mouth as he  pushed  aside  her  chemise,  as  his  hand  curved around a warm, naked breast and effortlessly wrought a response from her traitorous body. His fingers played delicately with the tender peaks of her breasts, teasing, searching, encouraging her flesh to waken to his touch until she felt it down to her toes. Her response to him was as undeflectable as a bolt of lightning, for in his arms she was a stranger to herself. Suddenly she was no longer fighting to pull away from him, but to free her hands from the offending sleeves of her gown.

Rand felt the crackling heat of her immediate arousal and he broke the kiss reluctantly, his breath coming hard and fast as he pulled one of her hands and then the other from the soft velvet material. His fingertips traced upward to her bare shoulders as he felt her press against him, yet he held his mouth out of reach from hers. His face looked in the gathering darkness like it had been molded out of copper.

“Rand,” she whispered, trembling with the knowledge that she could not withstand him. “I’m yours . . .” She flushed and then ignored all the promptings of reason as she held on to him, suddenly weak with need. “I want you. I am yours.”

Although  her  words  caused  his  desire  to  reach feverish proportions, Rand seemed to relax slightly.

“You’ll be my wife?” he demanded unsteadily, and her eyes met his directly. Rosalie could not answer. She would not be coerced into agreeing, no matter what kind of temptation he offered. “Rose?” he prompted in a hard voice.

“I do want to make love with you,” she said, letting his question remain unanswered as she sought to draw his attention to other matters. As her blue-prismed gaze fused with his, Rosalie tentatively began to explore the splendidly masculine body, her fingers sliding over the steely surface of his chest, the hard, tapering line of his waist. He was magnificent, the kind of man that all women secretly dreamed of being possessed by. “You make me feel things I’ve never even imagined,” Rosalie said, the sound of her voice silky as it rippled against his ears. “I want to give you the same pleasure. Tell me .  is what we share special? Is it common to feel like this? And if it isn’t, how long will it hold you to me?” Rand’s belly tightened as he stood there quietly, a

self-restrained  captive  under  her  hands.  No,  it  isn’t common—it’s  something  out  of  my  wildest  dreams,  he thought. But the words dissolved somewhere in the pit of his stomach. The painful mixture of emotions— hurt, desperation,  aggression—began  to  crumble  as  she touched him. The thought of a small woman holding such power over him caused him to flinch in denial, but as always, his need of her overcame everything else.

Slowly her hand drifted over his aroused manhood, delicately examining, her fingers tingling as she succumbed to the heady experience of touching him so intimately. Her fingertips stroked lightly over the bold, burgeoning shape of him, and then rested there for a moment  as  she  tested  the  masculine  firmness  and scorching heat that burned through the barrier of his trousers. In wonder Rosalie looked up at him, seeing his eyes darken to velvet green, his jaw clench as if she inflicted a pain too great to bear. Then Rand could no longer endure the touch of the shy temptress. Gripping her wrist with a smothered sound, he held it away from his body, his eyes closing briefly. “God, tonight won’t be enough,” he said, and his voice was threaded with desire and despair. “It will never be enough.” Scooping her up easily in his arms, he carried Rosalie to the bed as she fumbled helplessly with the clothes that bound him . . . the cravat, the buttons, the coat.

After  settling  her  on  the  mattress,  Rand  pulled  the crumpled gown and chemise over her hips and tossed them to the floor. Every nerve in Rosalie’s body rioted with excitement as he removed her thin slippers and rolled down the fragile net of her stockings, his warm fingers lingering on the tender flesh behind her knees, along the inner curves of her thighs. She breathed his name  with  a  shivering  sigh  as  his  cravat  loosened beneath the eager questing of her hands, and then one by one she clumsily undid the buttons of his snowy white shirt. Rand remained still, allowing her to perform the small tasks, though it would have been much faster if he undressed himself. Nothing mattered but this moment . . . the privacy, the intimacy of discovering each other, the suspense and the fear of last-minute denial.

Slowly Rosalie spread the edges of his shirt apart, her fingertips drifting across the wide expanse of his chest and leaving trails of exquisite sensation wherever they touched. Intrigued by the silky, crisp fleece that was revealed as the shirt gaped open, she leaned closer and splayed her hands across the hard, sculptured contours of his chest, her palms absorbing the heavy thud of his heartbeat. Rand caught his breath and then pulled his shirt off with increasing haste, the deeply toned proportions of his shoulders flexing as he moved. Her eyes flickered over his large half-naked form as he bent to unstrap the legs of his trousers and pull off his boots. He was so beautiful, so tawny and male and perfectly made,  that  Rosalie  suddenly  experienced  a  flash  of uncertainty. Instantly aware of her small movement to draw  her  knees  up  protectively  and  shield  her  unclothed body, Rand paused in the act of unfastening his trousers and leaned over her with a low murmur.

“Last night seems like a century ago.”

“Yes.” She stared up into the golden glimmer of his eyes as he pressed her back against the pillows. Rand braced his forearms on either side of her head, the solid network of muscle and sinew effectively caging her. How could they have known each other for such a short time? she wondered giddily. How could he have taken over  her  life  so  easily,  plundered  her  emotions  so effortlessly?

“You think I’ve waited for you only a few weeks,” Rand said, as if he had read her mind. His lips brushed against hers with the lightest of touches, savoring the taste of her, “but you’re wrong. I’ve waited years for you.” A small gasp left her lips as she felt the electric shock of his chest and steely midriff pressing into the bare tenderness of her breasts. He could easily have crushed her, yet he took care to make certain that he gave her nothing more than a satisfying weight to bear. “Before this night is over you’re going to know exactly how much I want you,” Rand murmured, fully aware of how the light furring of his chest caused the soft peaks of  her  breasts  to  contract  in  tingling  arousal.  “And you’re going to wear the mark of my ownership, just as I wear yours . . .” Rosalie closed her eyes, floating in a mist of voluptuous sensation as his soft, erotic purr continued to caress her ears. “. . . so that whenever our eyes  meet,  even  in  the  most  staid  and  proper  of circumstances, you’ll remember the things we’ve done, the things I can make you feel, and you’ll despair of the few hours we’ll have to wait before we’re in bed again.” Before she could utter even a word, he sought her lips passionately, urging her mouth to open to his so that any thought of protest or apprehension flew dizzily from her head. The stunning wonder of the kiss flowed over her in a sleek, roaring current, and she lifted her arms around his neck, craving the damp heat of his mouth,  seeking  his  nearness as  if  he were  her  only salvation.

She would forever remember that night of lovemaking  as  one  of  the  most  tormenting  experiences  of pleasure she would ever endure. It gradually became clear that he intended not to satisfy her desires quickly but to arouse them to an excruciating pitch, to leave her suspended in a state of eager frustration and then to drive  her  even  higher.  As  she  whispered  his  name pleadingly, she felt the faint brush of his teeth against the tautness of her breast, and though the light nip seemed  to  be  accidental,  her  entire  body  jerked  in reaction. Farther down on her midriff she felt his teeth catch oh-so-gently at her skin again, and this time his hands were there to restrain her startled quiver.

“What are you trying to do to me?” she moaned, and was met only with his silence as he let his mouth drift across the softness of her stomach. His tongue dipped into the shallow depression of her navel, causing her to draw  her  knees  up  slightly  in  a  response  of  selfprotection. Suddenly his hands were parting her thighs, his warm, silken mouth beginning to travel below her navel, and as Rosalie realized what he intended to do, she began to struggle in alarm, a queer shock running through her.

“Rand, don’t! You can’t possibly mean to  .  .  . oh,

Rand …”

Immediately he perceived the cause of her distress. Lifting his head from her abdomen, Rand gathered her into  his  arms  to  subdue  her  agitation,  his  mouth suddenly curving with a mixture of dismay and tender amusement.

“Rosalie,”  he  said,  his  mouth  searching  gently through  the  curls  that  lay  damply  on  her  forehead, “you’re so lovely  . . .  I didn’t mean to frighten you. Petite fleur, I only want to give you pleasure. Let me—”

“No,” she said in a sobbing breath.

“Sweet, there’s nothing wrong about—”

“Rand, I wouldn’t be able to face you afterward . . . knowing  that  you  had  .  .  .”  Her  face  flamed  with embarrassment, and Rand chuckled softly.

“What an innocent you are, Rose.” His hand traveled down the smooth line of her thigh to her buttocks, and he hesitated before relenting unwillingly. “For now you win . . . but someday there won’t be an inch of your body that I haven’t tasted.” His voice was smothered as he kissed her throat, his hands wandering possessively over her skin. As Rosalie became aware of their naked flesh pressing together, it seemed that she was bathed in fire. She lifted her lips to his, blindly seeking until she felt the velvet press of his kiss once more. Their mouths moved together differently than before, in a faint  but  unmistakable  rhythm.  “Little  witch,”  Rand muttered, his voice muffled against her lips, “let’s see how  curious  you  are  now.”  He  took  her  hand  and pulled it down to his hips, placing her fingers against his  toughly  muscled  abdomen  in  an  invitation  to explore.

Quivering, Rosalie took up the challenge and let her fingers slip from his smooth, flat stomach to his manhood. She felt awkward, clumsy, and shy, but overwhelming curiosity prompted her to explore him as intimately as he had touched her. He was full and hot, and  surprisingly  silky,  and  gradually  her  hesitancy disappeared as she stroked the demanding hardness and heard his breathing rasp in his chest.

“Rand?” she whispered,  in wonder that her touch could affect him so, and he shook his head slightly. “I want you too much. No more,” he groaned, and

then  her  knees  separated  to  accommodate  his  large body as he settled between her legs. A dizzying, profound gratification surged through her as he entered her slowly, the compacted muscles of his arms flexing. Rosalie  felt  a  slight  strain  as  her  body  stretched  to welcome him, and then she shuddered with the overwhelming sense of completeness that they had shared once before. He thrust into her with a low growl of need,  his  movements  urgent,  the  rhythm  of  wings beating  on  warm  air,  sweeping  her  aloft  until  the culmination  of  their  passion  became  a  resplendent moment of perfection, too pure, too stark to bear for longer than a moment. Then, as she fell, his arms were there to hold her, his body there to shelter her from all that dared to encroach upon the fantasies that saturated the ebony night.

Rand was gone when she woke the next morning, and Rosalie found the tersely worded note that he had left on the table as she went to ring for the chambermaid to bring a small breakfast. His absence drew out until early afternoon as he attended to various business matters, leaving her to read and amuse herself in the hotel room. After a few hours Rosalie began to regard her luxurious surroundings with distaste, feeling like a bird imprisoned in an attractive but small cage. My life is fast becoming structured around him, she

told herself grimly, and then she wondered what she was going to do when he was no longer there for her to dote on.

Rand returned much later with a weary scowl grac ing his features, and Rosalie managed to surmount her preoccupation with the personal issues that faced them in order to ask how his meetings had fared. “I’ve spent the entire day negotiating with idiots,” he

informed her, dropping into a chair with a sigh of relief. “Quotas, embargoes, restrictions . . . Don’t ask me about the future of Anglo-French trade, because if it depends on men of the ilk I’ve just associated with, the outlook is gloomy.”

“But don’t the French want to build back the economy by trading with the English?”

“They’re in a vulnerable position due to Napoleon’s previous policies. They don’t want to become indebted to England, and they resent us for all that happened during the war—to the point of refusing any sort of compromise.”

“Do you really blame them?” Rosalie asked, and he smiled lazily.

“No. Their attitude is entirely understandable—just not convenient for me. What’s that on the table?”

“Cold meat, sandwiches, cake, fruit, and wine. Out of a lack of anything else to do, I ordered lunch.” “I regret having to leave you here, but the parts of Paris I had to visit today weren’t places for a woman to frequent.”

“I understand,” she said, and as they looked at each other,  a  long  and  intimate  silence  filled  the  room. Rosalie blushed deeply as she met his gaze, knowing that he was thinking of the night before, and she had a fairly good idea of which moments in particular were foremost in his mind.

“Bread,  wine,  and  Rose,”  Rand  commented,  the shadowed look in his eyes replaced by the twinkle of a smile. “Dare I hope for this kind of welcome even after the marriage?”

Rosalie did not return the smile. She caught at her bottom  lip  with  even  white  teeth,  hesitating  several seconds before plunging into the matter that had to be discussed.

“Rand,”  she  said,  finding  it  an  effort  to  drag  the words up from her heart and through her lips, “I didn’t agree to anything last night.”

“Except that you’re mine,” he reminded her steadily, his gaze unflinching.

“I said that in a very . . . emotional moment. But even so, what I said did not constitute an acceptance of your idea.”

“It was not an idea,” Rand said, the warmth leaving his eyes rapidly, to be replaced by wariness. “It was a proposal. You didn’t accept it outright, true. But you implied acceptance, and I’m willing to take that as a binding promise.”

“Why?” she asked desperately. “If it’s just a matter of convenience, I guarantee you can find someone in a quarter of an hour who would be willing to marry you, probably someone of higher birth and more suitable temperament. If it’s because of any sense of duty on your part to save me from having a poor reputation, I need not point out that it’s a hopeless cause.” “God in heaven, why are you so eager to run from

me?”  Rand  demanded,  his  voice  tautly  laced  with impatience. “You have no employment, no money, no references, no family, no fiancé, no friends who are in any position to help you. I spent the majority of last night demonstrating some of the more attractive benefits of a marriage between us, and still you shrink from it . . . from me . . .  as if I had made you the basest offer.

Are you still bent on wringing remorse from me for having forced your virginity? Are you—?” “No! That has no part in anything between us now,”

Rosalie said, her eyes bright and so dark a blue that they shone with almost violet light. Finally she found the impetus to speak freely, and her words tumbled over  themselves.  “I  don’t  deny  our  physical  compatibility—but  even  in  my  admitted  inexperience  I know that marriages crumble on so small and flimsy a foundation. Do you really think a marriage between you and me would bring any lasting happiness? Are you prepared to keep a vow of fidelity to me? I don’t think so. So far, your commitment to me has lasted for a few weeks, but I have no proof that you will not find someone you prefer over me tomorrow. I can’t predict what kind of father you would be, but I do know the kind of examples that were set for you when you were younger, and I doubt that you—”

“You bitch,” Rand whispered, his eyes going cold, and Rosalie’s voice faltered a little before she spoke again. The words had to be said, for this was the only way she could think of to put him off.

“You’re  starting  to  assume  responsibility  for  your actions, for the interests of your family, the shipping company, the Berkeley properties. You’ve made a good beginning,  but  how  far  will  it  extend?  What  will happen on the morning when you wake up next to your wife and decide that all of your responsibilities weigh too  heavily  on  your  shoulders  and  that  you  would prefer to game and roam through London and make love to a pretty stage actress?”

“So you think you know what kind of man I am,” Rand  said,  and  Rosalie was  suddenly  chilled  to  the bone at his icy expression. He looked like a stranger. “As well as believing in my eventual infidelity, you’ve also implied that I’m a likely candidate for abusing my children, and predicted that I’ll let my inheritance and family go to the devil.”

“Don’t put it like that.”

“In this case the burden of proof would seem to rest on the passage of time, but unfortunately, time is the missing element, isn’t it? I want you now or not at all. My loss, I suppose, that you don’t consider me a risk worth taking.”

“I can’t. It’s a matter of survival,” she said quietly, beseechingly, and he stood up as if he couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her.

“Then  so  be  it.  You  won’t  have  to  tolerate  my proposals  or  my  touch  any  longer.  I’ll  stick  to  our original agreement. I’ll recommend you for a respectable position, and then you can rejoice in never having to see me again. In the meantime, I’m going to be out for a while.” He strode to the doorway and paused to rake his eyes up and down her slender, straight form. “Something tells me you’ll adapt very well to the art of surviving alone in London,” he said silkily, each word driving into her like a sharp arrow. “If you find that wiping children’s noses or reading to old crones is not to your taste, you have one particular talent that is guaranteed to earn you a fortune.”

As the door closed, Rosalie clenched her fists and held them up to her mouth. She was frozen in place for several minutes, her mind racing and her heart throbbing with regret. Her ploy had worked only too well. She had hurt Rand terribly, but she could not allow herself to be sorry for what she had said.

Needing something to settle her nerves, Rosalie went to the small table which bore the weight of an untouched lunch and an octagonal wine cooler. Uncorking the bottle of wine with an easy twist of her wrist, she poured a hefty amount of it into a crystal glass. Raising the sparkling crystal in a mocking gesture, she made a toast. “To the future,” she said sardonically, and swallowed the wine with her unshed tears. The unsettled jangling of her nerves began to calm down after several more swallows, the shaking of her hands easing even if the  aching  of  her  heart  did  not.  Giving  in  to  the weakness of her knees, Rosalie sat down in an embroidered chair and poured more wine into her glass. If only the sweet distillation could bring permanent forgetfulness, she mused, grateful for the temporary peace it provided.

How much better off she had been with her wistful dreams of youth. Now she would have to live with bittersweet memories that would cause her to die a little each time she relived them. Was it preferable to be ignorant of what she could never have, or to have had a few  bright,  painfully  clear  moments  of  it?  Sighing, Rosalie tilted her head and drained the last measure of liquid  in  her  glass  before  filling  it  one  final  time. Wearily she loosened the tiny ruff at the neck of her gown and then relaxed in the chair with the sorrowful resignation of a condemned woman. Reflectively she stared  around  the  room  as  the  glowing  afternoon sunlight painted the walls. She loved France . . . she had known the greatest happiness of her life in this country, a  place  where  all  that  was  turbulent,  peaceful, sophisticated, and simple, somehow fit together in an understandable scheme. And she could never forget the weeks of paradise at the Lothaire or drive them out of her thoughts. Numbly Rosalie set down the halfempty glass as she contemplated her return to England. How was she going to endure hearing the gossip about Rand, wondering how he was, wanting to be close to him, remembering his passion, his smiles, his pain? She shuddered and moved to the window, her feet

dragging across the carpet. The day was cooling rapidly, and a thin, icy draft of air curled around her body in a  serpentine  pattern.  Vaguely  surprised  at  the  swift arrival of lassitude, she closed the window and then shut her eyes for a moment, all of her energy expended after the simple action. Then she raised a hand to her midriff  as  she  became  aware  that  her  stomach  was churning.

“Rosalie . . . you idiot,” she scolded herself, thinking miserably that almost three glasses of red wine had been two too many. Staggering over to the chamber pot, she opened the cabinet that housed it and waited only a few seconds before nausea took hold of her and her body purged itself of the vile fluid. She had never felt so cold, so tired, so incredibly ill. The water from the porcelain pitcher on the silkwood stand tasted sweet and blessedly clean as she rinsed her mouth out, but it did nothing to alleviate the sensation that her blood had been frozen in her veins. It was becoming immediately clear that this was no simple case of overindulgence. Something was terribly wrong. She had to get help. Staggering over to the maid’s bell, Rosalie pulled on it three times before she was forced to stop and clasp her head. It was sheer luck that a young chambermaid was passing by at that moment, for almost immediately a light rap sounded at the door.

“Come  in,”  Rosalie  said  weakly,  leaning  against a damask-covered wall. “I mean, entrez. . .” She squinted at the maid, who kept lurching in and out of focus. “Listen here,” she said desperately, “something is wrong with me. I’ve had some bad wine, or  .  .  .” Oh, God, hadn’t  she  read  countless  stories  in  the  newspapers about  thieves  drugging  hotel  guests  before  robbing them clean? “The wine . . .” she murmured again, and then realized that the tiny maid did not understand English.  ”Aidez-moi,”  she  managed  to  say,  and  the young dark-haired girl began to chatter excessively as she gestured toward the bed and took Rosalie’s arm. “Don’t leave me,” Rosalie managed to gasp, afraid that if she had been drugged, someone was waiting for her to fall unconscious. She did not know which language she had spoken in, but she tried to say it again and failed.

Rapidly an opaque cloud was rolling over her; with each second it obscured a larger portion of her vision, until she was blinded. She thought of Rand and tried to form his name, and failing that, she submitted to the suffocating cloud. As the maid urged her gently away from the wall, Rosalie felt the floor dissolve beneath her feet,  and  with  a  moan  she  fell  helplessly  into  a bottomless hole. In the blackness she continued to sink, the ice that collected on her arms and legs serving as added weight to make the pace of her endless descent faster. Only one thought occupied her mind before the darkness swallowed her whole, and it was that she had plummeted too deeply ever to reach the surface again.