“Are we? I don’t recall deciding we were. But I suppose we are.” She wasn’t sure how else to refer to her furthered acquaintance with Torrington. They were either arguing or he was being flirtatious, which then left her wanting him to take liberties. And now she liked him. Which was making things that much worse.
Focus, Rosalind.
“Oh, good.” He cocked his head, eye on her bosom. “Then allow me.” Torrington’s hand reached out and carefully plucked a small bit of pink frosting from the neckline of her bodice. He’d discarded his gloves, and Torrington’s hands were...large. Graceful. Warm where they briefly touched her skin.
She wanted them on her body.
Dear Lord, where had that come from?
“You had a bit of pink frosting just there.” One finger traced the piping along her neckline while Rosalind watched in fascination. “What have you been up to, Rosalind? I’d venture you weren’t walking in the park or sifting through old books at Thrumbadge’s. Not smelling of cherries with frosting on your”—his eyes flicked to the rise and fall of her bosom—“person.”
Torrington’s fingers were elegant. Long. The nails neatly trimmed. A gentleman’s hands. Except for the tiny cuts on two of his knuckles. Those looked as if he’d been in a fistfight. His thumb had a purplish tint beneath the nail. It was possible Torrington didn’t spend all his time being charming.
“Rosalind?” His hand dropped. “You’re frowning. Are you angry? Or puzzled? I can’t tell which.”
“A teacake.” She looked away from his hand. Severaldozenteacakes. Pennyfoil had been decorating the small rounds when she’d arrived, and Rosalind had decided to help. She’d been so careful with the dough and the cherries for the pies, worried over crumbs from the crust, but there hadn’t been a thought given to the pink icing for the teacakes getting on her clothes. “I was—having tea with a friend.”
“You’ve also got a bit in your hair.” He nodded toward her left ear but made no move to pluck out the bit of pink as he had on her bodice. “Were you tossing the cakes at each other?”
“No. Of course not.” Her eyes fell back to his fingers now lightly curled against his thighs, wondering about the cuts. And how those hands might feel trailing between her breasts. A tiny sound escaped her.
“Rosalind? Are you well?”
“Quite,” she said firmly, ignoring the increased coiling sensation in her stomach. “Have you brought me the custard recipe?”
“I have.” A curl hung next to his cheek, tempting her to wind the strands around her fingertip. Cedar floated into her nostrils along with the scent of wind and the outdoors. Torrington was more tempting than a hundred cookbooks.
“May I have it?” Rosalind stretched out her hand. “Please.”
“I translated and copied it myself. Didn’t use my secretary.”
“Good for you, my lord,” she shot back, frustrated at his delay. “I’m sure you have perfect penmanship.”
“Yearsof experience.”
Rosalind was growing weary of the constant reminders about his age. When had she stopped thinking of him as an aging rake and begun thinking of him as just Torrington? Every reference made Rosalind feel foolish, especially when faced with his magnificence. And those overly tight riding breeches.
“I’ve apologized for my insults, but to be fair, my lord, you would never know of them if you hadn’t been eavesdropping.”
“Insincerely apologized.” His smile never faltered. “The recipe.” He patted the space over his heart.
Rosalind’s hand wavered in the air as she waited for Torrington to take the recipe out of his pocket and place the paper in her fingers. Nothing happened. Not very different from when she’d been convinced he meant to kiss her at Blythe’s but hadn’t. She tapped her foot impatiently, mainly as a way to distract herself from the fact she was enjoying herself. Immensely.
“Very well.” Torrington made a sound of resignation and moved to set his brandy down on the table. Turning back to her, he took hold of his coat and pulled the sides open. “Do you see the slip of paper? In my pocket. Go ahead and take it.” There was a challenge hovering in his eyes.
She took a deep breath,thankfully, because she wasn’t laced too tight today. It was difficult to properly roll out pastry dough when she couldn’t even bend. “Why—” Rosalind blushed furiously and pulled back her hand. “Why can you not just hand it to me?”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” Torrington gave her a pained look. “Tremors in my fingers. Happens to we elderly gentlemen. I’m always dropping things. Very tragic.”
Rosalind narrowed her eyes at him. “Yet you held on to your glass of brandy with no problem whatsoever. And I must ask, my lord. Can we not allow the matter of your age to rest? I grow weary of defending my actions.”
He leaned forward, enough so that one of those delectable curls dangled before one eye. “Care to give it a tug?”
Rosalind coughed. Sputtered. Tried not to laugh at his antics. “You, my lord, are a fine example of an earl in his declining years—”
“Rosalind.” He made a tsking sound. “You were doing so well.”
Her heart squeezed, very softly. “A paragon of ancient masculinity.”
