“The kitchens?” While Rosalind was more comfortable in a kitchen than most, she didn’t find it a particularly good spot for seduction. She bit her lip. He had forgotten. Or he’d been teasing her and nothing more.
Rosalind willed such mortifying thoughts away before her skin could redden. She’d no desire for Torrington to see her looking like a moldy cherry.
“Not to worry, miss. There isn’t anyone about.”
“There isn’t?” She took a step forward.
“The staff has the day off, except for myself. And Bijou, of course. She’s down there with his lordship.”
Bijou. Was she a kitchen maid? Or the cook?
“I see. Thank you, Watkins.” Rosalind held on to her basket and descended the steps, her nose immediately assailed with the chocolate she’d caught a whiff of earlier in the foyer. The space wasn’t overly large, but it was well lit. Light streamed in from a series of windows set up high along one wall. Neat rows of pots and pans were stacked on shelves beneath the windows along with bowls, ladles, spoons, and the like. Strewn across an immense, pitted worktable was a large pad of chilled butter on a plate, a tin of flour, and two large bowls. The scent of chocolate hung heavy in the air.
Torrington stood before a small pot, stirring something. Chocolate, she supposed, given the aroma lingering in the air. The spoon moved rather ferociously before Torrington paused and took a taste from the spoon. He hummed while he worked, a low sensual tune that set Rosalind’s pulse to beating harder.
Her legs trembled, the basket tilting to one side.
The space was warm, so Torrington wore no coat. The sleeves of his shirt had been rolled back, and Rosalind caught a glimpse of muscular forearms dusted with dark hair. He turned and looked over at her, the lone curl, a bit longer than the others, dancing against one flour-stained cheek. There was a tiny bit of what looked like dough caught at the edge of his jaw, stuck to his beard. He licked the side of his mouth where a drop of chocolate had landed.
Rosalind had never seen anything more beautiful in her entire life.
A pile of what she thought were rags moved just to the left of Torrington. The rags formed into the shape of a shaggy dog with coal-black fur. A bark erupted from the animal along with the thump of a tail as it looked at Rosalind in expectation.
A small hall led to what was probably the scullery and the larder, but no sound came from that direction. It seemed she and Torrington were truly alone.
“Hello, Rosalind.”
“My lord.” She bent down and held out her hand to the dog. “Bijou, I presume.”
Bijou sniffed her hand, then her skirts before thumping her tail again. She pushed her head against Rosalind for a scratch behind the ears and then retreated once more to her spot near Torrington.
“Very polite, Bijou.” Torrington tossed what looked like a bit of chicken into the air and the dog caught it. “Good girl.” He turned and smiled at Rosalind.
Oh, he’s splendid.
“I didn’t realize you had a dog.”
“Every ancient lecher needs a pet, don’t you agree?” Torrington gave her a roguish wink.
“Not once did I refer to you as a lecher.” Honestly, she might have. Once. Her opinion of the man before her was now far different.
“Hmmm.” A doubtful look was tossed in her direction. “I know titled lords are supposed to have a dog useful for hunting. Or perhaps one of those tiny animals which are carried around on pillows—”
“A Pomeranian?” Her mother had once had a friend, Lady Crestwell, who’d had a Pomeranian.
“Yes, my wife owned one of those little dogs. The second wife. I can’t remember the animal’s name, but she had a pink silken pillow for it. Nasty thing. Bit me on the ankle once. Bijou is much better behaved.”
“You’ve been wed twice, haven’t you?” she said before she could stop herself.
“Yes. The first time when I was very young. Barely twenty. We were married three months when she perished from a fever. Anna didn’t care for dogs. The Pomeranian belonged to my second wife.”
When he didn’t elaborate or tell her anything more, she said, “How long have you had Bijou?”
“A very long time. The longest relationship I’ve ever had with a female.” Torrington was back to stirring the pot before him, his face turned away so Rosalind couldn’t guess at his expression. His hips swayed as he moved back and forth, stirring the chocolate and tossing little bits of cold chicken from a plate by his elbow to Bijou.
Warmth spread across Rosalind’s chest. Torrington was so much more than she’d expected.
“I brought the sponge cake for you to try and to thank you for the oranges.” She cringed at her overly polite tone. Torrington knew she wasn’t here to thank him for the oranges and have him try a bloody sponge cake. At least, she assumed he did.
