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“The only real talent I possess. Turning flour and sugar into something delicious. Mother disagrees, as you know.”
“The daughter of a viscount isn’t supposed to toil in the kitchens, Rosalind, with bits of dough stuck to her hands. It’sunseemly,” Romy stated, sounding remarkably like Rosalind’s mother. “Nor as a duke’s daughter am I supposed to know how to do more than embroider a rose on a handkerchief or something else equally useless.”
“Yes, but you’ve found a way around things, haven’t you, Romy? Why shouldn’t I?”
“I quite agree. I shall be your biggest supporter.”
Romy designed clothing. Gowns. The most delectable frocks. If she wasn’t the daughter of a duke, Rosalind’s cousin would be the most sought-after modiste in London. Romy had refused to allow society to dictate her life. She had secretly formed a discreet partnership with Madame Dupree, a dressmaker of some renown. If anyone ever found out it was Romy who crafted the ensembles of half the ladies in thetonand not Madame Dupree, the scandal would be enormous.
Rosalind wanted to emulate her cousin. Using dough instead of fabrics.
“I dream of an establishment,” she said. “One that provides exquisite baked goods to all the finest homes in London, not only those with titles. I don’t want to limit myself.”
“Agreed. The titled are a fickle lot and always short of funds. Give me a wealthy merchant’s wife who will pay her bills promptly over a countess whose husband is gambling away their fortune any day,” Romy mused.
“Exactly. Gunter’s has been the choice for years, but I think they could do with a little competition. The problem is, I need a way to stand out, so to speak. A reason for patrons to prefer my pastries and cakes over those of a much more established institution. And of course, I must be discreet. If Mother caught wind of my ambitions, she’d wed me to the likes of Lord Cheshire in an instant.”
Cheshire was nearing sixty with a terrible case of gout. He’d professed on more than one occasion how delightful he found her full figure.
“Then you need be exceptionally discreet, Ros.”
Rosalind nodded. The idea to enter trade had been taking form in her mind since her first season. She did not want to marry but needed a means to support herself. Her own Madame Dupree was among the bakers and coffee shop owners in London. She was certain of it.
“Thereisroom in London for another such establishment, I think,” Romy said. “Another place to take a young lady for hot chocolate and such.”
“Exactly. I can also fill orders for weddings, balls, dinner parties, and the like.”
“Maybe even Elysium. Leo appreciates a finely baked scone. You should ask my brother when he returns from his business in America.”
Elysium’s proprietor was Leo Murphy, Romy’s bastard half-brother. Part gambling hell, part pleasure palace, Elysium boasted a French chef who served dinner and other assorted delicacies to Leo’s patrons. Every lord losing his purse should be granted a decent biscuit. That was Leo’s philosophy. And there was no reason why Rosalind couldn’t provide that biscuit.
“The idea has merit,” she said. “You don’t suppose my custards and cakes would be used for improper purposes on the second floor, do you?”
Romy rolled her eyes. “I should never have told you about the things I witnessed when I snuck into Elysium. If Leo ever finds out, he’ll be furious.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “There were a great many feathers in those rooms, Rosalind. Scarves attached to the bedposts. I suppose it isn’t out of the question that a custard could be put to good use.” She laughed. “You’ve such a vivid imagination—a rather naughty one for a well-bred young lady.”
“One only has to listen at the door when your brothers are sharing a drink to get all sorts of ideas, as you well know.” Or be born the daughter of a former rake. Rosalind’s father, Lord Richardson, had kept quite an extensive collection of... illustrated instruction manuals. Books explaining and depicting a variety of sex acts. The trunk containing her father’s erotic treasures had been stuck in a far corner of the attic, forgotten when Rosalind and her mother had moved into the house they now inhabited. Bored one day when she was fifteen, she’d explored the attic and come across the trunk. She wisely had not informed her mother of the discovery.
“Or perhaps I merely read a lot.”
Romy shot her a speculative glance. “I suspect a little of both.”
A different young lady might have tossed the lot of erotic tomes in the fire. Or perhaps refused to allow herself to become aroused at the depiction of such carnal pleasures.
Unfortunately, Rosalind was not such a girl.
There were times when she thought of herself as tinder, merely waiting for someone to strike the flint of her inherited wicked nature. Memories of her father were muted at best; he’d died when she was still a child. But she remembered overhearing him flirt with the upstairs maid. Or standing far too close and giggling with one of Mother’s friends. Lord Richardson had once cut a swath through London, and Rosalind suspected he’d never reformed, at least not completely.
Torrington had that in common with her father. He was also reputed to be a former rake.
“At any rate, I suppose I’ll eventually need to take a lover to satisfy my curiosity,” she said blithely to her cousin. “One with whom I can form a relationship of mutual understanding. I’m at the very end of my third season with no offer of marriage in sight.”
“You’re rather proud of that.”
“Unlike you, I’ve never desired marriage or romance. I shall be happily put on the shelf soon enough, like a jar of old beets one has forgotten. Eventually, Mother will give up. And then I can finally spend the rest of my days doing what I wish, making biscuits and scones. Cakes.” A wistful note entered her voice.
“Cousin Winnie is not going to allow you to remain unwed. The very idea is absurd. Perhaps you should seriously consider Torrington.”
“Absolutely not.” A tingle ran down her skin at the mention of the earl. Yet another reason to avoid Torrington. He had an unsettling effect on Rosalind.
