Rosalind frowned. It was rather cringeworthy to consider her parents reading those books. Worse to consider what Mother had becomeafter Lord Richardson’s death.
“I cannot survive this. My heart is shattered into a thousand pieces.”
Not her mother’s words. No, this time it was Cousin Amanda, prostrate with grief over the death of the Duke of Averell. Inconsolable.Frozenwith such anguish she couldn’t move from the sofa where she sat next to Rosalind’s mother.
Rosalind hadn’t needed another example that grief made one powerless. Or that loss consumed you. But one had been received all the same.
She’d taken one look at the two women, both mourning, and run to the kitchens where she couldn’t hear them weep. Her hands had flopped about, determined to bake something, do anything which would stave off her own grief at the death of Cousin Marcus.
Lemon blackberry cake. Proclaimed his favorite.
As if making a bloody cake would bring him back.
She’d been fine assembling the ingredients. Mixing the flour and eggs together. But once the cake had been put in the oven, Rosalind’s head had fallen to the worktable. She’d grieved not only for herself but for Cousin Amanda, who was now alone without her duke. The cake had burned while Rosalind wept. When you lost yourself to grief, you were apt to burn a cake. Among other things.
“You shouldn’t wander off by yourself. There could be vagrants in the park.” The smoky voice curled around Rosalind’s ankles and up her skirts as she stood, looking at the river. Her heart fluttered madly, as it often did when Torrington appeared.
She would do anything to make it stop.
Opening her eyes, she said, “It’s not even nine yet, my lord. Hardly an hour for vagrants.”
“Or elderly rakes?” Torrington said in a mocking tone, beautifully handsome with the silver in his curls sparkling in the early morning light. He didn’t look as if he’d been ill, but healthy and vital as he always did.
Her heart beat wildly once more, reaching for him.
“Stop it,” she whispered under her breath.
Torrington raised a brow. “Rosalind?”
“Why are you here?” All the terrified, confused feelings toward him crashed over Rosalind in a wave.Hewould be a source of incredible anguish if she allowed it. There would be no end to burnt cakes. Ever.
“You’re angry, and you’ve every right to be,” he murmured, one hand reaching out to tug, very gently, at her skirts.
Rosalind turned her gaze back to the water. “I am angry. And I will not marry you. I refuse.” She’d repeated those words dozens of times. No one seemed to be listening. “Don’t you care that you’re forcing me into a marriage? I don’t want you.” The lie burned her tongue. “Beg off. Tell my mother you’ve changed your mind.”
“Could you be any more direct?” His reply was thick with sarcasm. “I’m not sure I take your meaning. Perhaps you need to remind me once again how elderly and repulsive I am.”
“I’ll run away, perhaps.”
Torrington gave a deep sigh. His forefinger trailed down her arm, circling her wrist. “It defeats the purpose of fleeing, Rosalind, if you tell me you intend to do so.”
“You can’t force me. Think of the scandal, of dragging me kicking and screaming before a vicar.”
“I’ll merely give you laudanum. Only enough to make you sluggish so you don’t injure me or anyone else with your flailing about. Besides, for a large enough donation, the vicar will turn a blind eye to a nearly unconscious bride.” A lopsided, amused smile crossed his lips.
“This isn’t funny,” she snapped.
“It is, a little. Given you were spread over the worktable in my kitchen with my head between your legs. You tasted better than the chocolate.”
Rosalind sucked in a breath, shocked at how quickly her body responded to his words with a low, pulsing hum between her thighs. “Why didn’t you just ruin me? What would it have mattered?”
Torrington didn’t answer.
She tilted her chin, wishing he didn’t look so bloody marvelous. Cedar flitted into her nostrils, mixing with the smell of the Serpentine. Torrington’s warmth, even from the distance that separated them, seeped into her skin, banishing the chill of the early morning. Rosalind had the sudden urge to wrap her arms about his waist and cling to him, like some pathetic vine. Her fingers dug into the trunk of the tree.
“Go find anotherconvenientyoung lady, Torrington,” she choked out. “My understanding is that Lady Mildred is available. She’d wed you in a trice.”
“Yes, but Lady Mildredwantsto marry. Where’s the challenge in having a willing bride?” he said in a flippant tone. “You aren’t in the least convenient. You never have been.” Torrington looked out across the water. “I am ashamed to admit that when we were first introduced, I had little interest.”
