“I will, my lord. Thank you,” she replied in a clipped, precise tone, knowing Jacobson had only retreated a few steps. Once Torrington departed, Rosalind planned to return to her room, possibly with the remainder of the custard, and contemplate whether she could be seduced by the earl without it resulting in a more permanent attachment.
He pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket and held it out. “Orange sponge cake.”
“Sponge cake?”
The half-smile appeared on his lips and the lovely creases, the ones at the corners of his eyes, appeared. “Yes.” He leaned over, pretending to push away his plate of custard. “And when you present it to me, Rosalind,” Torrington’s breath tickled over her ear, “do not wear a corset or I will cut it off you.”
Rosalind’s lips parted in surprise. A pulse of pure longing shot between her thighs. “I see.”
His voice was low. “I certainly hope so.” Torrington stood and pulled on his gloves. He bowed and took her fingers, his mouth hovering along her knuckles, tongue flicking between her middle and ring fingers.
Her knees buckled. She reached out with her free hand to take hold of the table for support.
Torrington’s eyes glinted at Rosalind. “I bid you good afternoon, Miss Richardson,” he said in a loud voice for Jacobson’s benefit. Releasing her hand, he strode out, his steps echoing as the butler showed him out.
Rosalind kept perfectly still, holding her breath and the table, not trusting herself to move until the sound of Torrington’s carriage departing met her ears. Taking a seat, her limbs continued to tingle. Lifting the spoon, she took another mouthful of the custard without the cherries.
She frowned. He was right about the anise. It only made sense with the cherries added. Looking down at the slip of paper he’d given her, she saw the recipe for an orange sponge cake written out carefully in a masculine hand.
Torringtondidhave excellent penmanship.
There were comments along the edge of the recipe from him on preparation. The proper way to extract the juice from the fruit to maintain some of the pulp. A tiny orange was scribbled in the corner. Her fingers traced the shape of his letters as she remembered the feel of his hand on her thigh.
Torrington wanted to seduce her. Rosalind intended to allow him to do so.
Neither of those things would be at odds with her ambitions, Pennyfoil’s, or escaping whatever older gentleman her mother deemed suitable for her. Logically, men and women had physical relations all the time. Marriage and affection weren’t requirements. The fact that she liked Torrington would only make the experience more pleasurable.
She scooped the remaining cherries into the bowl with the custard and took up her spoon. It was possible the custard tasted different when eaten off the finger of a splendid, amber-eyed gentleman with silver in his hair.
Rosalind smiled to herself and made her way to her room.
There was only one way to find out.
8
Bram sat back against the fine leather squabs of his carriage as it pulled away from Lady Richardson’s home. Aroused. Frustrated. Annoyed. Rosalind was incredibly fortunate he hadn’t locked them both in the dining room and compromised her. Loudly. With witnesses.
Patience.
But Bram wanted so much more than to simply ruin her.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the hardened length of his cock to stand down. Rosalind wanted him to seduce her—which Bram would gladly do—butnotwed her. She was a stubborn, confounding woman. And her opinion of him, as a man dishonorable enough to bed her and not marry her along with him being far too old and having had a past, obviously hadn’t improved much with his generous offer of the custard recipe.
Bram slammed his palm down on the leather.
There had once been a time when he would have beenthrilledat the knowledge that a young lady, one he desired as much as Rosalind, wanted nothing from him other than to be seduced and properly ravished with no further expectations. She thought of him as a friend, and nothing else.
Friends.Bram snorted in derision.
Friends did not speak of food in erotic terms, unknowingly or otherwise. Or pretend to adore cherries when they both knew it was Rosalind’s nipples Bram was actually considering. Nor would a merefriendlick custard off his damned fingers while mimicking having his cock in her mouth.
Where had Rosalind learned about such a thing? Because it was clear, after watching her nibble the cherry off his finger—
A grunt of frustration left him, compounded by the insistent, unrelenting throb of his cock.
The entire direction of his otherwise peaceful existence had been altered by one plump, pastry-making young lady. One he hadn’t wanted originally but who now consumed his thoughts. Had he not attended Granby’s party, Bram might have missed Rosalind entirely and settled for a more convenient, less bold young woman who didn’t have such a luscious mouth. One who he could have forgotten after begetting an heir. A girl whom Bram wouldn’t have wished to be his companion as well as his lover.
He'd never wanted a woman to be his companion. Not even Lizabet.
