Rosalind’s eyes widened. It wasn’t the same as the chocolate he’d used while makingpain au chocolat. It was... exquisite. Richer. Darker, with hints of cinnamon, and something else she couldn’t place. The mix of brandied cherries, chocolate, and the custard, which she recognized asthecustard, was so unusual inside the pastry crust.
“It was first presented to the Sun King, according to rumor, just as you see it. A flaky pastry crust layered with cherries and powdered sugar. He was unimpressed until one of his mistresses”—Torrington paused in thought—“I can’t recall which one, decided not to wait for Louis to sample the dessert. The surprise is when you break it open.”
“It’s marvelous.” Rosalind licked her spoon.
He leaned forward and kissed away a bit of cherry clinging to the corner of her mouth. “The story goes”—his voice lowered to that smoky purr she had come to adore—“they were naked in bed at the time. I’m certain Louis ate some of the tart off her skin.”
“Really?” Rosalind widened her eyes. “He would have had to be very careful not to miss a bite.”
Torrington’s hand glided over her collarbone. “Oh look, there’s another bit of cherry you’ve spilled.”
Rosalind gasped as his mouth closed over her nipple where it poked through the lace. He sucked and teased until she’d forgotten all about the tart. She fell back, Torrington coming with her, his tongue never ceasing its seductive torture.
“Merely a nipple,” he whispered against her breast. “Not a cherry. My mistake.”
Her hand slid down his chest to his trousers, which he hadn’t even bothered to button properly, feeling his cock twitch beneath her hand.
“I think, my lord, I would like my dessert now.”
20
Rosalind didn’t want to move. She was warm. Cocooned. And everything smelled of cherries, chocolate, and sugar.
The lobe of her ear was caught between teeth and gently tugged on. Lips brushed over a hidden spot on her neck. A big hand cupped her breast, toying with the nipple. And something hard, warm, and rather large, was throbbing against the curve of her buttocks.
She rolled over just slightly to see Torrington absorbed in drawing his fingers over the slope of her breast. Squeezing the flesh as if he were testing the ripeness of a melon.
“Enjoying yourself?”
He flashed her a wicked grin. “I am. And by my count, you enjoyed yourself at least a half dozen times. Not too bad for a feeble lecher.”
Rosalind giggled and swatted his hand away. “I never,ever, called you a feeble lecher, my lord.”
After enjoying thebaiser du cielin the parlor, she and Torrington had made their way upstairs. They lay entwined on the bed in his room, far larger than the one in Rosalind’s, staring at the fire. True to his word, Torrington had explored every curve, every hidden bit of skin Rosalind possessed.
“Fine. Ancient debaucher, then.”
Rosalind had spent nearly an hour just running her fingers over every inch of Torrington’s beautifully sculpted form. She’d traced the small creases radiating from his eyes, fingertips stroking down the line of his cheeks to the hard angle of his jaw covered by his beard.
“I think I’ve more than apologized.”
Torrington’s hand slid between her thighs, tugging lightly at the soft hair covering her mound. “Have you? I feel certain there’s more to be done, Rosalind. You can start your apology tonight by reading to me from one of those books I’ve heard so much about. I want you in nothing but stockings. Maybe a robe thrown over your shoulders.”
A gasp came from Rosalind as his fingers slid lower. She would lay naked on the worktable in the kitchen covered in custard if Torrington wished.
“I have something for you,” he murmured into the curve of her neck.
“I’m sure you do,” she breathed, arching her back against him.
“No, not that, Rosalind,” he said in mock outrage. “Insatiable. That’s what you are.” But Torrington was smiling at her. “This is a wedding gift.”
Rosalind sat up. “But I didn’t get you anything.” The anger at being forced to marry, the worry and fear before the wedding, had blotted out the need to purchase him a pair of cufflinks or a jeweled pin of some sort.
He leaned over to the table next to the bed and pulled open the top drawer, retrieving a small, leather tome tied with a red ribbon.
Rosalind went still. “The cookbook.”
Torrington nodded. “You’re my wife. This should be yours.”
