“Cusine per—”
Rosalind waved away his terrible mispronunciation. “A cookbook from France.”
“I have not, miss. But I can check with Mrs. Hudley if you like.”
Mrs. Hudley was their cook. “Yes, thank you.” If Torrington didn’t appear soon or he neglected to be home when she eventually called on him, Rosalind would have to accept failure or find another copy ofCuisiner pour les Rois. She was getting desperate. Last week, she’d even approached her cousin to ask if he’d ever dined on a special custard made only at Christmas. Tony was the Duke of Averell. Surely, if someone were to make the bloody custard, they would serve it tohim.
Tony had rolled his eyes and asked Rosalind if she was taking nips of the scotch he kept in his study.
The butler, still holding her cloak, stared at her expectantly.
“Is there something else, Jacobson?” Honestly, sometimes gleaning information from their butler was an exhausting process. Mother said he would have made a brilliant spy.
“You have a caller, miss,” Jacobson finally said, shooting her a look of concern. “A gentleman. I informed him you were out, but he insisted on waiting.” He held out a card to her.
Rosalind’s pulse jumped as she read the card.Torrington.Finally.
“I’ve put Lord Torrington in the drawing room. He declined tea.” A frown crossed Jacobson’s tight lips. “Although he did avail himself of the sideboard.”
Of course he had. “Very good, Jacobson.”
“Should I summon your maid?”
For propriety’s sake, Rosalind knew her maid, at the very least, should be present to act as chaperone. But quite honestly, she was at the end of her third season, inching toward being on the shelf. Mother would be gone for hours yet. Their servants wouldn’t dare gossip. There really wasn’t anyone who would care if Torrington called on Rosalind except possibly Jacobson and his sensibilities.
“I don’t think that’s necessary, Jacobson. Lord Torrington is merely delivering a recipe to me.” She lowered her voice. “I wish to surprise Lady Richardson. I’m making a custard, a special one.” The staff knew of Rosalind’s passion for making desserts as they were often the recipients of her experimentation.
Jacobson frowned again but merely bowed. If he wondered why the Earl of Torrington was delivering a custard recipe, he was too well-trained to ask. “Very good, miss. The staff won’t breathe a word to Lady Richardson. I do not want to risk ruining her surprise.”
“Thank you, Jacobson.” Taking a deep breath, Rosalind made her way to the drawing room, reasonably assured Mother would not find out about Torrington’s visit. Smoothing her skirts, she stepped through the open door, careful not to allow her excitement at his appearance to show on her face.
Torrington, a glass of what looked to be brandy in his hand, stood at the window, staring out at the small garden behind the house. He didn’t turn when she entered. Instead, his gaze stayed fixed on something outside.
Rosalind couldn’t fathom what held his interest. There wasn’t much of a garden to look at. Her mother wasn’t enamored of nature. Hated flowers until they were cut and artfully arranged in a vase. Didn’t care for birds, saying the sound of their warbling gave her a headache. Claimed to be absolutely terrified of bees, or any winged insect, really. One of the reasons Mother decided on this house when they’d left their previous home was the absolutelackof greenery.
The garden consisted of a standard row of hedges, trimmed expertly so that not one leaf stuck out. Rose bushes sat in a circle, all perfectly pink. A small weeping willow kept lonely guard at the far corner along with a somewhat diseased maple tree which, even under the best circumstances, rarely sprouted a profusion of leaves. A stone bench sat beneath the maple’s nearly bare branches, a bench Rosalind rarely sat on because it was so uncomfortable.
“Lord Torrington.” Rosalind came forward, hands clasped before her. “My apologies you’ve been kept waiting.” Her gaze slid down his lean, muscled form garbed in riding breeches and boots. She knew now those broad shoulders weren’t padded. The bunched muscles of his thighs, visible beneath the tight leather, weren’t an illusion either.
A rush of warmth settled inside her. She pressed a palm to her midsection to still the feeling.
“The maple needs to be trimmed.” He gestured with his brandy. “I see a rotted branch. Several, in fact.”
Rosalind came forward. “I’ll inform the gardener.” Her heart pounded harder with every step she took in his direction. The anticipation, she guessed, was over the fact he had finally brought her the custard recipe. Or maybe it was Torrington’s masculinity, on full display in his riding clothes, with his curls wind-tossed and the sun sparking the bits of gray to silver.
Something stirred at her core, nearly halting her steps.
He finally turned, the slightly mocking half-smile she was coming to like a great deal on his lips. “Come here, Rosalind.” The husky command brushed over her shoulders. “I’ve brought you something.”
Rosalind’s breath hitched at the intimate use of her name, but she kept walking, drawn to Torrington as if he were pulling her toward him with a length of string.
He inhaled slowly at her approach. “You smell like cherries, Rosalind. Vanilla. Sugar. Why is that?” The tiny lines at the corners of his eyes deepened.
He’s pleased to see me.
The knowledge sent a spike of pleasure through her, unstoppable and entirely blissful. She tried to focus on getting the recipe, but the only thing she could think of was the tight fit of Torrington’s riding breeches. “I don’t think I gave you leave to address me by my given name, my lord.”
“Oh, you didn’t.” The grin on his beautiful mouth stretched wider, taking Rosalind’s breath away. “But I like Rosalind better. And we’re friends, are we not?”
