Torrington snorted. Then laughed outright, a rich decadent sound that did nothing to dispel the ever-growing hum along her skin. “Ancient masculinity?”
Rosalind shrugged, knowing she’d won whatever game it was they were playing. Torrington nodded toward the piece of paper. “You only need take it from my pocket, my brazen baker. Custard making awaits.”
My brazen baker.She was unbelievably pleased at the title.
“Open your coat wider.” Rosalind flapped her arms open. “Much wider.” Her entire hand and part of her arm would brush against Torrington’s chest if Rosalind dared reach for the recipe at present. “You’re making this oddly difficult, my lord. I thought we were friends.”
“Inever said we were friends. I merely asked ifyouthought that the case.” He winked.
“You are splitting hairs.” Rosalind’s legs wobbled slightly as she took a step toward him, reaching for his pocket. The motion sent her breasts crashing into the warm, muscled wall of his chest. She thought of his thighs, encased in leather, only inches and several layers of skirts from hers.
As she closed her fingers around the scrap of paper sticking from his pocket, Torrington pulled the edges of his coat together abruptly, trapping her into an unexpected embrace. He was so incredibly warm and smelled...wonderful. Rosalind had to stifle the sudden urge to nuzzle her nose into his neck. Possibly pull at that mischievous curl hanging over one of his eyebrows.
“Do you have the paper between your fingers?” His nose sifted gently through her hair.
“Yes.” Her body flared sharply, like an ember being stoked to a flame.
“I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this, Rosalind. But you smell of cherries. Which I adore.”
“You’ve said as much.” The air in her lungs was shaky. “Often.” Her body throbbed delicately next to his larger form, trapped unbelievably against his chest. Her free hand trailed over his ribs, palms heating from the muscle hidden from her.
Torrington jerked at her touch. She looked up, surprised, to find him—wincing? At her touch?
Horrified, Rosalind immediately stepped back, paper in her hands. She looked down at the rug beneath their feet, then out the window, anywhere but at Torrington. It was not the first time she’d mistaken his intent. Torrington merely liked to flirt with her and keep her off balance. “My apologies, my lord.”
“Not at all. I am a little sensitive in that spot.” He turned from her and back to the window.
Rosalind couldn’t imagine what was so fascinating about the blasted maple tree aside from the rotten branches.
“Do not sit on the bench outside, Rosalind. Not until you’ve had the tree trimmed else you might well be injured,” Torrington said with mild concern. The sort any friend would share with another.
Friends.Like Pennyfoil.
Pennyfoilwasher friend. And her partner. Torrington was—something different.
Rosalind’s gaze ran over Torrington. Very unlike Pennyfoil who most closely resembled a stork with ginger hair. “Thank you for bringing me the recipe.”
Torrington said nothing for a moment, before his lips twitched, ever so slightly. “Make the custard, Miss Richardson. There is a secret to ensuring it is fluffy. Light. Airy like a cloud. I realize that is a strange way to describe a custard. I’m certain you’ll figure out what I mean once you read the instructions. Make sure that the eggs you use are of normal size else there will be too much yolk and—well, you’d be surprised at how such a simple thing alters the consistency.”
Rosalind’s eyes widened at his instructions. “My lord, you sound as if you’ve—”
“Made the custard? I have, Rosalind. And I make it far more often than just at Christmas.” He bowed over her hand, brushing his lips over the ridge of her knuckles. “I’ll see myself out.”
7
“Are you certain, miss?”
“Positive,” Rosalind answered. “When Lord Torrington arrives, Jacobson, you are to send him here to me, in the dining room. Do not put him in the drawing room.” Her hand went out, adjusting the bowl holding the custard. It was perfect. Perhaps Torrington’s opinion of Rosalind’s version of the custard shouldn’t matter, but he’d admitted to making the dessert.
The thought of him whipping eggs with his graceful hands did something to Rosalind.
She pushed aside such blatantly carnal thoughts. Pennyfoil had beaten eggs, rolled dough, and iced tea cakes and not once had the sight of him doing so turned her legs to jelly or twisted her insides pleasurably. It was merely because she and Torrington had once shared a kiss.
Something she had no intention of doing with Rudolph Pennyfoil.
At any rate, Torrington’s opinion of the custard could be important to the success of Pennyfoil’s.
Her hand gripped the edge of the bowl of custard.Pennyfoil’s.Yes, it sounded elegant. Sophisticated. And absolutely no one would guess at Rosalind’s involvement. Which was exactly the point.
