“The custard that is so rich, it is only made once a year?” Miss Richardson breathed softly as if she were in a lover’s arms. “At Christmas?”
Bram’s cock twitched again. Did she have any idea how tempting he found her? Age was supposed to bestow patience and the ability to control certain carnal urges.
“The very same.”
He often made the custard. The dessert was one of his favorites. He nearly shared that fact with her, but Miss Richardson was already overstimulated. “It’s wondrous,” he said of the custard, looking away as if catching sight of something angelic. “Like a bit of heaven on one’s tongue.” A rather dramatic description for a custard but one he thought she’d appreciate.
“Did your mother, by chance—” She bit her lip. “Leave you a copy of the recipe?” She looked up at him with lust-filled eyes. For a custard recipe.
Oh, Miss Richardson. The things I will do to you.
“She left me the entire cookbook,” Bram said, watching his blithe pronouncement sink in. Miss Richardson, eyes wide, took a shaky breath, the near spill of her generous bosom surging against the modest neckline of her gown. Her creamy skin pushed against the lace, dislodging the tiny crumb caught at the edge of her bodice.
Bram was transfixed.Magnificent.
All that softness promised an assortment of delights to a gentleman who appreciated such things, which Bram did. She reminded him of a painting by Reubens with her beautiful mouth and the supple cream of her skin. He wanted all that voluptuous glory spilling over his bed where he could explore her to his heart’s content. Her nipples would be taut, peaking when Bram bent to put them in his mouth. The exact color of—
“Cherries,” she said, interrupting his thoughts.
Bram coughed, turning to hide the sudden tenting of his trousers. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “I beg your pardon?”
“I asked you about the cherries for the tart. Are they soaked in brandy first?”
He couldn’t answer immediately, too busy imagining how heavy her breasts would sit in the palms of his hands. “Possibly.”
A frown tugged at her lips. “What possible reason could you have for not telling me? And why would you neglect to tell meyouhad the cookbook?”
Bram had his reasons.
Miss Richardson, though she wouldn’t care for the comparison, reminded Bram of one of those tiny crabs he’d chased along the sand as a child, whenever his family visited the seashore. You couldn’t catch the crabs by approaching directly. They sidled back and forth, resisting all attempts to be trapped in Bram’s net. But if he left a pail near the water with something tempting inside, like a bit of fish or chicken, the crabs crawled inside of their own accord.
In this case, he was using a cookbook instead of chicken.
Miss Richardson made no effort to hide her annoyance that Bram didn’t immediately offer up the recipe for the tart or the custard. Or even tell her whether the damned cherries were soaked in brandy. “It is my understanding, my lord, that there is an English translation of the cookbook,” she said stiffly.
“Wonderful. Then you should have no trouble finding your own copy.” A translation of the cookbook was a fallacy, probably fostered by French émigrés. It had been a matter of national pride to keep the book in French, at least according to his mother. Outside of his mother’s friends, who were all long dead, Bram had never heard of nor seen another copy of the cookbook in London. And hehadsearched, mostly for his own satisfaction, for far longer than Miss Richardson. He might well have the last copy ofCuisiner pour les Roisin England.
Miss Richardson’s lips trembled before she forced a smile. “Are you being so difficult because I might have suggested you padded your shoulders?”
“Don’t forget the corset wearing,” he replied.
“There you are.” A feminine voice came from the doorway.
Bram turned to see a stunning young woman blink at him from a pair of incandescent blue eyes, marking her as a Barrington. He recognized her immediately, as they’d been introduced at Granby’s house party. She was the sister of the new Duchess of Granby and Miss Richardson’s cousin. Lady Theodosia Barrington.
“Lady Theodosia.” He bowed to her. “How lovely to see you again.”
“Lord Torrington.” She cast a look in Miss Richardson’s direction. “How unexpected to see you here. Digging through dusty cookbooks.” She narrowed her eyes slightly, whether to pretend shrewdness or because she couldn’t see clearly, Bram wasn’t sure. Lady Theodosia stumbled, bumped, and ran into a great many things. He suspected she was in need of spectacles, but vanity kept her from wearing them.
“Miss Richardson said much the same. I wonder at the opinion you two have formed of me,” Bram said. “I think you’d both be surprised.”
His quarry watched Bram from beneath her lashes with a calculating look, likely trying to ascertain how she might wrest the cookbook from him with as little effort as possible. Miss Richardson was quite desperate to get a hold ofCuisiner pour les Rois.
Coincidentally enough, Bram was quite eager to get his hands onher.
Lady Theodosia smiled back at him. She really was a lovely girl. Stunning, as all the Barringtons were. He’d never seen a family so blessed with such good looks and copious amounts of eccentricity. Miss Richardson wasn’t so different from her cousins.
“I fear I’ve tarried long enough.” Bram bowed politely. “Manfred likely has my order packaged and ready.” He tossed Miss Richardson a pointed look. “A collection of dull stories sure to remind me of my distant youth.”
