He paused in his stirring. “No corset, I hope.”
Rosalind’s pulse picked up. “No.” Or any underthings. A bold decision, made impulsively, only moments before she’d left her home.
He turned and held up the spoon he’d been using. “Come here, Rosalind,” he coaxed, the timbre of his voice lowering just slightly.
Rosalind stepped in his direction and opened her mouth.
“Try this.” Torrington held the spoon to her lips.
Her tongue flicked out before her mouth closed over the tip of the spoon while Torrington’s eyes followed the movement of her lips. “Chocolate.” A sound of pure pleasure came from her. “With a touch of hazelnut. Maybe some cinnamon.”
“Ah, Rosalind,” he purred. “I so love the sounds you make.”
“I didn’t realize I made sounds.”
“When you tasted the custard, the most intriguing little noises came from you.” Torrington watched her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I enjoyed every one. I hope to hear you make them again.”
Rosalind’s cheeks heated. She hadn’t thought she’d made any sound while licking custard off his fingers. “What are you making?”
“I’m makingpain au chocolator achocolatine.” One side of his mouth tipped in his usual half-smile. “It isn’t from the cookbook, just something delicious I tasted once while in Paris last year. Depending on what part of France you are visiting, this pastry might have a different name. I’m honestly not surepain au chocolatis entirely a French invention. But it doesn’t matter. I find them delicious no matter who is responsible.”
Another pastry not well known in London would be a feather in her cap and go well toward Pennyfoil’s further success. Rosalind returned his smile, her heart threatening to fly out of her chest. But not because of Pennyfoil’s andpain au chocolat.
“I adore chocolate.” She patted her hip, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “As you can probably tell.”
“You seem overly concerned with such things, Rosalind. I am not.” Torrington leaned over her, his mouth inches from hers. “I find you perfect as you are.”
Please kiss me.
“I made this to accompany the sponge cake.” He held up another spoon, this one layered with fluffy cream. “Part of me wondered if you would bring not only the cake but one of your cousins. Or a maid.”
“With no corset? Perish the thought.” She closed her lips over the edge of the spoon, moaning softly as the taste exploded on her tongue.
“Have I whipped the cream properly?”
The ache returned between her thighs. There shouldn’t be anything remotely wicked about whipping cream, chocolate, or tasting anything from a spoon except that when Torrington was involved, everything became sinful.
“I—” Her fingers gripped the edge of the worktable, nails biting into the wood to steady herself. Rosalind had the urge to fling herself at him and never let go. A knot tightened inside her at the thought, the fear so absolute it momentarily banished the sheer joy of being with Torrington. She had the fleeting notion to run up the stairs and never return.
“—Didn’t expect to meet you in the kitchen.” She looked down at Bijou who had closed her eyes.
“Whatdidyou expect?” He set down the spoon, leaning toward her once again, his nose gliding along her temple, gently forcing her back until Rosalind felt the press of the worktable against her upper thighs.
“That you’d give me an opinion on the sponge cake,” she said, reaching inside the basket to brandish a bit of the cake at him. “Would you like a taste?”
“Yes, Rosalind.” The teasing glint disappeared from his eyes. “I most certainly want a taste. Ofyou. I think of little else.” His hands shot out, taking hold of Rosalind’s hips.
“Oh.” The cake in her fingers fell to the floor with a plop as he half-lifted, half-pulled her to sit atop the table.
“Spread your legs, Rosalind.”
“I—yes.” She took a shaky breath, the blood pulsing ferociously beneath her skin, and inched her legs apart.
Torrington’s hand hooked beneath the hem of her skirts, drawing them up to her knees before wedging himself into the space between her thighs.
Rosalind’s skin warmed all over with anticipation and a small bit of mortification at her own actions. There was the matter of her boldness, which she kept regretting on and off. For instance, the absence of—
“You’re not wearing any undergarments, Rosalind.” Torrington was looking at her, his shocked gaze shot full of amber lights.
