“No, thank you.” Rosalind shook her head and put the book aside.
The next leather-bound tome was on the preparation of game, rabbits, pheasants, wild boar, and the like. Though it wasn’t what she was looking for, Rosalind still found the book fascinating. The French terms used for braising, baking, poaching, she was familiar with, along with various spices. There was an entire paragraph on venison, for instance, most of which she couldn’t quite make out because the writing had faded. She turned a page and another plume of dust floated from the pages.
A sneeze escaped her.
“Bless you.”
Rosalind jumped, so startled she nearly tripped over the crate behind her. Her mouth popped open in surprise before she firmly clamped her lips shut.
What on earth washedoing here?
“Don’t drop your book, Miss Richardson.” The slightly mocking half-smile was fixed firmly on his perfect mouth. Sunlight struck his head and shoulders, making the silver in his hair gleam in the dim, dusty room.
Rosalind lifted her chin. Could he see the way her pulse jumped beneath the skin of her throat at his appearance? She willed it to stop. “Lord Torrington.”
3
It never failed to amaze Bram the sorts of things one could find when poking about Thrumbadge’s. Rare books on obscure subjects. Scholars wandering about with ancient leather tomes. Giggling girls, the latest romance clasped to their chests. Interesting conversation.
A plump, slightly hostile young lady with a delicious mouth who wasn’t the least happy to see him.
How I wish I wasn’t the least happy to see her.
He blamed his sister, Lady Richardson, and even the Duke of Granby. It had been his bloody house party after all.
Bram’s heart thudded harder at the sight of her, standing amongst a stack of moldering books, obviously looking for one in particular. He hadn’t seen her in at least a fortnight, the last time being when he’d spied her walking in the park with one of her Barrington cousins. And they hadn’t spoken since the Ralston ball. Absence did indeed make the heart, as well as other parts of his anatomy, much fonder of Miss Richardson.
“My lord, how unexpected to find you here.”
“I believe I foundyou, Miss Richardson, not the other way around.”
Her luscious mouth tightened at his flippant remark, drawing his eye. Everything about Miss Richardson demanded his attention. The pale green frock draping her generously curved figure brought out the creaminess of her skin and the deep walnut of her hair. There was a tiny, almost indiscernible sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, something Bram found adorable. A crumb dangled at the lace of her bodice, probably belonging to some sort of pastry. The molten chocolate of her eyes clashed with his.
His chest constricted sharply.
Bram found Miss Richardson to be a most fascinating, gorgeous creature. Since learning of her passion for dessert making, he often imagined her baking or decorating a cake. Naked.
“I meant at a bookseller,” she replied in a tart tone. “I frequent Thrumbadge’s on a regular basis and have never seen you here.”
“I hadn’t realized you were looking for me, Miss Richardson, else I would have made myself easier to find. However, even ancient, corset-wearing rogues enjoy a good book on occasion.”
She bit her lip, eyes falling to the book she held. “I’ve apologized for my remarks.”
Miss Richardson had done no such thing.
“I don’t believe you have.” Bram stepped closer.
“I’m sure I meant to.” A gritty sort of resignation crossed her pretty face before her features smoothed out once more. “Very well, my lord. Please accept my most sincere apologies for any insult I may have dealt you.”
Moving nearer to her well-rounded form, Bram ignored the strain of his cock in her direction. “Why do I doubt your sincerity?”
“I’ve no idea, my lord. Ours has been a brief acquaintance. Barely noteworthy.” Her cheeks pinked just a tiny bit.
“I disagree. Our discussion in the Duke of Granby’s garden was entirely memorable.”
The pink deepened into patches of red, flowering over her forehead, cheeks, and chest. Bram had never seen anyone, let alone a young lady, blush in such an unusual manner. It was as if someone had taken a brush and splattered her unevenly with red paint.
“We’ve barely spoken since, my lord.”
