“Shall we sit?” He pulled a chair out for her, his breath fanning across her shoulder as a hum started beneath her skin.
“Yes.” She took her seat, heart hammering in her chest, and smoothed down her skirts.
“You look lovely, by the way.” The words caressed the air around her neck.
Rosalind wore one of her favorite dresses, a pale rose frock edged with a tiny row of lace at the bodice and sleeves. The dress wasn’t extravagant and not cut so sharply it required her to be tightly laced. The last thing she wished to do was become breathless with Torrington in the room.
“Thank you.”
Torrington pulled out his own chair, angling it so that he faced her instead of the table. Pulling off his gloves, he laid them carefully aside.
Rosalind swallowed, her eyes following the movements of his hands. “I’m rather eager for you to taste the custard. I made a few small changes. I hope you’ll approve, my lord.”
“I’m certain I will. I suspect I would adore anything you placed before me.”
Rosalind inhaled softly as their eyes caught and held once more. “Why does everything you say sound slightly improper? I’m never sure if you are serious or not.”
“I’m always serious about being improper. That is something I don’t joke about.” Torrington picked up a spoon. “As I mentioned when I gave you the recipe, I’ve made the custard many times myself. Secretly, of course.” He shot her a glance. “I expect your discretion, Rosalind, in return for my own.”
“You have it.” A smile tugged at her lips. His presence overwhelmed her senses. Intoxicated her. As if she’d drunk an entire bottle of champagne.
“Earls are expected to have a variety of skills,” he continued. “Most completely useless. How to play whist. How to find a proper valet. The study of Greek.”
“Greek?”
“Possibly interesting but not useful. How many people in London speak Greek?” Torrington rolled his eyes. “Learning to cookisuseful but definitely not taught at Eton or Harrow.”
“Which did you attend?”
“Eton. And before you ask, I excelled in history and mathematics.”
“An interesting combination.” Rosalind found it hard to look away from Torrington. She noticed everything. How one side of his closely shorn beard held more gray than the other. The brackets around his mouth when he smiled, which was often. The lone curl that no matter how often he pushed it back seemed to fall against his cheek.
“My sister once hosted a grand dinner party. The guest list contained some of London’s most influential titles. The Marquess of Hertfort is very well connected.”
Rosalind knew that to be true because her mother had once remarked that Lady Hertfort seemed to know everyone.
“Margarite’s cook, though skilled at roasting a leg of lamb, hadn’t created anything special for the dessert course, or at least nothing Margarite felt would impress her guests, especially the Duke of Castlemaine. He couldn’t have merely a chocolate toffee cake. Not as the guest of honor. I’m not sure why. I happen to like chocolate toffee cake very much.”
She smiled at that. “Lady Hertfort wanted to impress Castlemaine.”
“Indeed, she did. So, Margarite swore her kitchen staff to secrecy, threatening to sack them all if they said so much as a word, and sent a note to me. She begged me to arrive that morning, insisting I prepare something worthy of a duke.”
Her heart skipped ever so softly at his words.
“Mamanhad taught me to make the custard. I possessed an aptitude for such things. Margarite did not.”
Rosalind tried to picture this elegant, handsome man with a riot of curls hanging about his cheeks, descending into his sister’s kitchens, scattering the staff, and making a decadent custard in secret. “You like to cook.”
Torrington smiled at her. “I shared my mother’s love of being in the kitchen, something my father allowed as long as I kept up my other studies. She and I spent a great deal of time up to our elbows in flour or chopping vegetables for a stew.” He held up one pinky finger to her. The tip was missing. “Sliced off the end while cutting up a potato. My mother nearly fainted at the sight of all the blood.” He laughed softly, his face unguarded so that Rosalind could see the boy he once was, lost in his memory of a day spent in the warm confines of his mother’s kitchen.
“I am often comforted by the scent of vanilla and sugar.” He leaned close to Rosalind for a moment and inhaled slowly before leaning back.
She had to stop herself from following.
“Margarite’s cook was scandalized at seeing me in her kitchen. One of the scullery maids, shocked at my appearance, dropped an armful of plates.” He cocked his head at her. “I kept her from getting sacked. It was my fault for stepping into the kitchens unannounced.”
“That was kind of you.” Rosalind had the inclination to cup Torrington’s face and brush her mouth against his. All because he’d been kind to a kitchen maid. Many fine, titled lords wouldn’t have cared.
