“Miss Richardson—”
She cut him off and pasted a polite smile on her lips. “His Grace often admired what I could accomplish with a bowl of flour, some sugar, and eggs.” She forced her mind back to the cookbook. Her establishment would be the finest in London. “At any rate, if you will not part with the cookbook, perhaps you would allow me to simply look at it? I don’t expect that you should call on me—”
“Good. I hate taking tea and discussing the weather. Utterly dull. How many ways can you express your displeasure at rain, for instance?”
Rosalind had to agree. And she couldn’t very well have Torrington showing up at her home with a cookbook. “I don’t wish my mother to know anything about...” She searched for the right way to phrase things. Torrington knew of her ambitions, but he didn’t know the specifics, and Rosalind meant to keep it that way. Mother couldn’t find out. At least not until she and Pennyfoil were successful.
He was watching her intently, but Rosalind found it difficult to discern his thoughts.
She cleared her throat. “I would appreciate your discretion, my lord. It would be best if Lady Richardson didn’t know about my desire for the cookbook or... anything else.”
“You find me to be an ancient, reformed rake who is morally bankrupt—”
“Your words, not mine, my lord.”
“Yet you trust me to be discreet. Do you see the irony?” Torrington’s hand settled near her skirts, the tip of one finger lightly caressing the fold of silk. The slight pressure had Rosalind’s insides twisting pleasurably.
“I could call on you at your convenience,” she said, barely above a whisper, distracted by the intimate touch of his finger on her skirts. “You do not even have to be present—”
“Do I not? In my own home?”
“Perhaps your butler could oversee my visit. Or a housekeeper? I do not wish to put you out in any way.”
“Howconvenientof you, Miss Richardson.” He’d drawn closer, the warm cedar scent she associated with him embracing her as if they were lovers. “But then, you think of yourself as endlessly convenient, do you not?”
“It is a small thing I ask.” She caught his gaze. A mistake. Those amber lights were mesmerizing.
I only want the custard recipe. Maybe the tart. Nothing more.
“Will you be coming to my home alone, Miss Richardson?” He leaned over her, his lips nearly brushing the curve of her ear.
“I can bring one of my cousins,” she said in a halting tone, the sensation of his breath buffeting her hair, sliding down her neck. Rosalind remembered well this intoxicating feeling. It had been the same that day in the Duke of Granby’s garden. “Or possibly a maid. Please?” She took a small step back and lifted her chin, studying the brush of beard along his jaw. “It’s very important to me.”
“I know.” His eyes were soft on hers.
Warmth spilled from Torrington, all of it falling over Rosalind in a wave that made it difficult for her to remember why she’d ever found him unappealing. Or claimed him to be repulsive. She might well faint. Torrington was far too close. She couldn’t breathe properly. “I think I am laced too tightly,” she blurted.
“Of course you are.” His thumb skimmed lightly along the curve of her cheek. “You’ve a cluster of freckles across your nose, Miss Richardson.”
“My mother claims them to be unsightly.” Why couldn’t he smell terrible? Like pomade? Or onions? Why must Torrington be so bloody splendid?
The cookbook. Focus on the cookbook.
“I disagree with Lady Richardson’s assessment.” The tip of one finger trailed down the slope of her nose before retreating. His usual half-smile appeared on his lips once more. “I will call on you, Miss Richardson, and bring a copy of the custard recipe.”
“A copy?”
“It will have to be translated. Unless you’ve suddenly become fluent in French.”
Rosalind nodded. She hadn’t thought of that. How kind of Torrington.
“Lady Richardson will not hear of your pursuits from me. You must send word when it is convenient for me to call.”
“I appreciate that you would make the time, my lord.”
“I’m not so busy, Miss Richardson.” Torrington’s gaze dropped to Rosalind’s mouth. His jaw lowered a fraction in her direction. She found herself wishing he would kiss her again, no matter his reason for doing so.
Her head tilted back, eyes fluttering closed, baring the line of her neck and anticipating the feel of his mouth. “Is this the price for the custard recipe?” she whispered in what she assumed to be a seductive manner.
