“So, Torrington only handed you a lemonade? Nothing more? Romy says you were gone for some time.”
“He left me at the refreshment table. I had to make my own way back to everyone through the horrible crush of guests without getting trampled.”
“How very ungentlemanly of him.”
“He has a sarcastic wit I don’t care for, so conversing with him further wasn’t warranted. We don’t get on at all. I’ve not spoken to him since.”
She and Torrington had been in attendance at a handful of events since the Ralston ball, but he had not sought her out. Rosalind had wanted to question him further about the cookbook but had no idea how to approach him. They weren’t exactly friends.
I’ve already surmised you would rather be fondling dough.
Something coiled rather deliciously in Rosalind’s stomach at Torrington’s remembered comment. A proper young lady would have been offended at his language.
Yes, but a proper young lady would also not have read a collection of erotic books. Several times. But that was entirely beside the point.
“The fact remains that Torrington never had any interest in me at all. His appearance at the house party was the result of a scheme hatched between my mother and Lady Hertfort.”
“Lady Hertfort?”
“Torrington’s sister.” Rosalind waved a hand. “I suppose she finds me suitable. Sturdy.”
“You’re comparing yourself to a well-made table, Rosalind.”
“There isn’t any other reason why Torrington or any man like him weds a girl such as myself. The need for a wife. One that is convenient. Easy to wed. A desperate girl in her third season.” She took in Theodosia, stunning even though she was squinting and feeling her way about like a blind mouse. “You couldn’t possibly understand. In any case, I find him repulsive due to his age and his rakish past.”
“Hmm.” Theodosia gave her a thoughtful glance. “I admit, I’m relieved. Torrington will likely be at Blythe’s party this evening, and I can’t have you mooning at him over the punch. Thank goodness you aren’t suited to each other.”
“Not in the least. I told you. I don’t intend to wed at all.” Rosalind’s heart pounded a little harder, and it wasn’t because of their pace or her corset.
Torrington would be at Blythe’s.
Rosalind and her mother, along with Theodosia, were attending Blythe’s party tonight. She straightened her shoulders, pressing her fingers over her heart which refused to regain its normal rhythm. What would it matter if he were in attendance?
The only positive aspect of her brief acquaintance with Torrington had been learning of the existence of the French cookbook, as it might very well make her fortune. And Pennyfoil’s. She found Torrington unacceptable. There was absolutely no reason for her heart to leap from her chest every time she caught sight of his silver-tinged head.
She really wished that would stop. The heart-leaping.
“So you think you might find this magical cookbook at Thrumbadge’s?” Theodosia wisely changed the subject from Torrington.
“I must offer something unique if I am to become popular. Exquisite desserts that can’t be found anywhere else. I must stand out from the dozens of bakeries and cafes in London. This cookbook contains such recipes.”
“I agree you must stand out.” Theodosia nodded. “But you’ve dozens of recipes tucked away, some you’ve been collecting for years. I’ve seen the little box where you keep them. Can you really improve upon your blancmange? Or that divine cake you made for my birthday? The trifle you presented at Christmas dinner was spectacular, but even so—”
“It’s averyrare cookbook,” Rosalind interrupted. “The recipes are uncommon. Different. It was Mr. Pennyfoil who first brought the cookbook to my attention.” Another small lie, but she didn’t want Theodosia becoming fixated on Torrington again. Besides, Torrington had only mentioned thenameof the collection of recipes. He’d given Rosalind not one lick of information about what it contained or where she could find it. It had been Pennyfoil who’d told Rosalind the importance ofCuisiner pour les Roiswhen she’d asked. He’d agreed that obtaining a copy, though unlikely due to the book’s rarity, would indeed make their establishment famous. “He’s been seeking a copy for years. The original was written in French—”
“Your French is horrific, Ros.”
“But there is a translation in English.” She frowned. “Or at least Pennyfoil believes there might be.”
Theodosia banged her shin as Rosalind opened the door of Thrumbadge’s. “Blast, that hurts. How does Pennyfoil know of such a book?”
“Mr. Pennyfoil’s mother once worked in the kitchens of the Earl of Ismere, whose French chef often consulted a cookbook when making some of his more spectacular desserts. The chef was so possessive of the cookbook, he let no one else look at it even though none of the staff spoke or read French.”
“Very much like you cannot.”
Rosalind nudged her with an elbow. “I know enough to read a recipe.”
“Sounds incredibly mysterious, Ros. A secret cookbook in French. But how many ways could there possibly be to make a custard? Or a torte?”
