Mortification filled her. “I see.” Rosalind jerked her chin and dipped politely. There was little else she could do save committing matricide. “Lord Torrington.”
“Miss Richardson.” He inclined his head. “I doubt we’ll speak again. Enjoy the remainder of the party.” Torrington’s face was incredibly composed, giving nothing away. He did not apologize for taking liberties with her. Perhaps he wished to forget he had.
Rosalind forced herself to look away from his broad-shouldered form as he marched in the direction of the terrace to rejoin the other guests. Laughter erupted from somewhere near the French doors leading inside. She looked up and saw Lady Beatrice holding court, her fingers fluttering over the arm of the Duke of Granby.
Beatrice Howard didn’t stand a chance of becoming a duchess, at least not Granby’s duchess. Granby’s intentions lay in a different direction. Rosalind couldn’t believe no one else saw it.
Torrington jogged up the steps to the terrace, bowing in greeting to Granby and the others standing near the doors. He didn’t turn or look in the direction of the gardens.
Rosalind had managed to ruin her mother’s plans once again. Except this time, she didn’t feel victorious. She gave her skirts a vicious tug, no longer caring if she ripped the silk to shreds. It would be best if she returned to her room quickly before anyone noticed her.
Or she gave any more thought to Torrington.
1
London, a few weeks later
The overly extravagant ballroom of Lord and Lady Ralston was full to bursting, but that was hardly a surprise. Every event they hosted resulted in a mad crush. Invitations tothisball, the finest of the season, were highly sought after. Tonight, even more so since Lord Ralston meant to announce the engagement of his daughter to... well,someone. Rosalind searched for the name and came up with nothing. The future groom was likely one of the eligible dukes swirling about the ballroom. Or possibly a marquess.
Lady Ralston had high aspirations for her daughter.
She tapped her foot in time to the music, watching, without envy, the young ladies twirling about the dance floor. She didn’t want to be here tonight. Balls had only been enjoyable, very briefly, in her first season. The smell of pomade hovering in the air nearly caused one to choke. The press of moist silk from the crowd, nauseating. Dozens of fans waved in the air, pausing ever so often to conceal whispers or sidelong glances. Gentlemen strutted about, filled with their own self-importance, while the finest debutantes this season held court.
Tedious.
This entire ball was a study in excess, something Lord and Lady Ralston did not lack. Lord Ralston was sinfully wealthy, his daughter’s dowry enormous. This house, one of the few in London with a ballroom of this size, was utterly lavish. You’d think, with such an abundance of gold, Lady Ralston would have spent some of her coin on decent refreshments.
Nothing on the refreshment table was the least appetizing. Rosalind had taken a small sample of everything as a form of research and had been appalled by the abundance of tasteless fare.
This is exactly why I will be successful.
A surge of hope swelled in her chest at the thought. She had finally secured a partner for her future endeavors. Or at the very least, succeeded in thepossibilityof securing such a partner. All it had taken was a sudden rainstorm and Rosalind’s need for a strong cup of tea and a biscuit. A meeting more fateful than accidental.
Mr. Rudolph Pennyfoil was the owner of the small café Rosalind had dashed into, seeking shelter. He was a baker of solid family and sound ambition. Over several cups of tea, Pennyfoil and Rosalind had struck up a conversation, mostly to do with preparing currant scones. The connection between them had been instantaneous, solidified by their mutual love of dough. When she’d visited again the following day, he’d been shocked to discover Rosalind was a viscount’s daughter and had grown reticent once he’d realized she was the cousin of the Duke of Averell. Still, he had allowed her to visit his workspace. Yesterday, Rosalind had gently voiced her plans, imploring him to consider a partnership with her. He’d yet to give her an answer.
Pennyfoil was a necessity for Rosalind. The daughter of a viscount, truly any young lady of good breeding, could not go into trade on her own. Or at all. If her plan was to work, no one could know she and Pennyfoil were partners. Not only would there be a scandal, but Mother would put a halt to the proceedings, crushing Rosalind’s dreams beneath the heel of her slipper. Rosalind would find herself wed in a trice with no say in the matter, especially now that the rumors about Romy’s hobby were circulating about London. As it was, Mother was growing ever more suspicious as to why her daughter couldn’t secure a match.
She glanced in the direction of her mother, sitting ramrod straight, hands clutched in her lap, beside the Dowager Duchess of Averell. She and Cousin Amanda both held up their chins, daring anyone to besmirch the Barringtons.
Romy stood on the other side, a fierce look on her beautiful face, defying the gossip being bandied about the room.
Rosalind abruptly looked away.
A wave of guilt assailed her for the unintentional part she’d played in the drama and rumor clinging to her cousin’s skirts. She’d apologized profusely though Romy insisted it wasn’t Rosalind’s fault. How could Rosalind possibly have known Beatrice Howard would discover Romy’s sketches at Granby’s house party? One of which was for the very ballgown Beatrice had commissioned from Madame Dupree.
Nothing good at all had come of that blasted house party.
Especially not the unexpected, impossible kiss Rosalind had shared with Torrington. True to his parting words that day, he and Rosalind had not spoken again for the remainder of their stay at Granby’s estate. Torrington had kept his distance. She’d kept hers. It had all been very civilized.
Mother had not been pleased. Rosalind had been subjected to a dramatic wringing of hands while being chastised for her lack of effort in securing Torrington.
Now, she despaired of Rosalind ever making a match.
The only thing I wish to make is a cake.
Rosalind shifted against the wall, attempting to get comfortable and knowing it would be impossible given the tight lacing of her corset. She was quite breathless standing near the dance floor but didn’t dare take a seat for fear she might faint. The pinch to her mid-section was much worse when seated. A fainting Barrington cousin, one who toppled right out of her chair, would only add to speculation about her family.
The mood in the ballroom suddenly shifted. The hum of dozens of voices, like bees fleeing their hive, filled the air.
