“Very much like what I do upon canvas, I think,” Theodosia said. “Where does Cousin Winnie think you are today?”
“I told Mother I’m posing for one of your little paintings.”
Theodosia primarily painted portraits. All miniatures. The sort one might carry about as a keepsake. Lately, she’d been experimenting with creating landscapes the size of a book, excited to be expanding to art of a much larger size. Rosalind thought there was little difference between a miniature and a tiny landscape, but she knew little about art. “It was the only excuse I could come up with that might take hours. You can say if she asks that you couldn’t get my hair quite right.”
“Yes, we can’t have her know you’re visiting a man who owns a bakery. She might suspect you of doing more than kneading dough with Mr. Pennyfoil. As would anyone else who becomes aware of your friendship with him. Honestly, Rosalind, Cousin Winnie might make you wed Pennyfoil if she finds out. I don’t think she’ll even care that he’s beneath you.”
“Then I cannot allow her to find out. Mr. Pennyfoil is only a friend. He ismyMadame Dupree.”
“It hasn’t been so long since there was talk about Romy and her dresses. I’m not sure anyone quite believes she isn’t a modiste, though no one dares say a word now that she’s the Duchess of Granby.”
“But I’m much less important than the daughter of a duke,” Rosalind said. “I doubt anyone is interested in me enough to bother to talk.”
“I fear you underestimate the gossips in general.” Her cousin nearly ran into a passing gentleman, his hands full of packages. She sidestepped, nearly pushing Rosalind into the street.
“Why on earth aren’t you wearing your spectacles?” she hissed at Theodosia, pulling her skirts away from a puddle of water.
“You know why. Blythe could appear at any moment.”
“He’s unlikely to be at Thrumbadge’s. He doesn’t strike me as the sort to read.” The Earl of Blythe was the object of her cousin’s affections, a golden-haired god of a gentleman. Every young lady this season had set her cap for Blythe, though he didn’t show a marked preference for any of them, including Theodosia, who had hopes Blythe would one day offer for her.
Rosalind thought her cousin would wait forever.
Blythe enjoyed the wealth of feminine attention far too much to marry. Another rake among the hundreds littering London society. Romy was terrified Theodosia would ruin herself over Blythe because she had made a complete cake of herself over him at Granby’s house party, practically begging to be compromised.
Rosalind had promised her cousin she would watch out for Theodosia and keep her from doing anything stupid. A monumental task.
“He reads.” A wistful look entered Theodosia’s eyes. “Blytheadorespoetry. He spent an entire hour reading to me once. He’s very romantic.”
Ugh.
Rosalind refrained from rolling her eyes. At this distance, Theodosia would have no trouble seeing her expression. “Is that why you agreed to accompany me today? So you could purchase him a book of poetry for his birthday?”
A small, secretive smile crossed her cousin’s lips. “No, I’ve something else in mind as a gift. Far better than a book of poetry.”
“You realize, Theo, how improper it is to give Blythe a gift.Anygift.”
Theodosia shrugged. “I think your negative mood toward Blythe is reflective of your attitude toward Lord Torrington.”
Rosalind slowed her steps. She spent quite a bit of time trying not to think of Torrington though it was because of him she was headed to Thrumbadge’s. “What would Torrington have to do with Blythe? Or anything else?”
“Just an assumption.”
“Well, it is an incorrect one. Mother arranged for our introduction at Granby’s party. Our complete lack of interest in each other was readily apparent. We are barely acquainted.” A warming sensation spread across her breasts and mid-section as she remembered the feel of his mouth on hers. That ridiculous curl laced with silver falling over his cheek as he looked down at her. How badly she wanted to twist the curl around her finger. “We’ve had a total of two conversations, and both were equally unpleasant.”
Theodosia shot her a dubious look. “Romy saw you together at the Ralston ball.”
“Torrington was merely being polite. Mother asked him to escort me to the refreshment table, and neither of us could refuse without causing a scene.” He’d thrust a glass of lemonade into Rosalind’s hand while simultaneously teasing her with the existence of a rare and highly sought-after French cookbook. Then Torrington and his broadunpaddedshoulders had disappeared in the crowd without another word. Rosalind had spent the time since the Ralston ball looking for the blasted cookbook, unable to think of anything else.
“Torrington merely handed me a lemonade and went on with his evening.” The lie to her cousin came easily to her lips. “Even if he were interested in finding a wife—”
“How do you know he isn’t?” Theodosia interjected.
“Because Torrington told me so himself. As I was saying, even if he desired a match with me, the feeling is not reciprocated. I find him far too old to be appealing. Much like every other gentleman my mother tries to match me with.”
“Your cheeks are red, Ros.”
“We’re walking very fast, and I’m laced tightly. You’ll be fortunate if I don’t faint. Your poor footman would have to carry me back to the carriage. Think of the scene we’d cause.”
