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Rosalind caught another glimpse of Lady Carrington out of the corner of her eye. A woman as shrewd as the widow circling about the room would surmise that seducing Torrington would be the easiest solution to getting what she wanted.
But Rosalind wasn’t Lady Carrington. At best, she was convenient. And seduction required talent she didn’t possess, no matter how many of her father’s books she’d read.
“Your brow is wrinkled in concentration, Miss Richardson. I do wonder what you’re plotting.” Smoke brushed along the skin of her arms. “Why do I have a feeling it involves custard?”
“And a tart.” Rosalind set down her punch. “Good evening, my lord.”
Her fingers sank into the folds of her skirts, nerves tingling at the appearance of Torrington. A sort of breathless anticipation filled her.
“I suspect you are up to something, Miss Richardson. I’m uncertain whether to encourage you or not.” Torrington leaned an inch in her direction, bringing with him the scent of cedar, clean linen, and a hint of a cheroot. He smelled so good, Rosalind wanted to roll around in his scent, like a dog in a puddle of mud.
“What is your opinion?” The sound of him tickled the edge of her ears, blotting out everything else.
That you kiss me again.
Rosalind tried to push the thought away, but it refused to leave. How many nights had she relived the press of his mouth against hers? “You are incorrect in your assumption, my lord. I am merely enjoying the punch.”
Lady Carrington’s laughter echoed once more in the drawing room.
Honestly, what on earth was so amusing about Blythe? Rosalind didn’t find him the least entertaining.
Torrington glanced at the lady he’d escorted tonight, handsome features inscrutable.
“Do you need to...” Rosalind looked upward, searching for the right word. “Attendto something?”
The half-smile fixed on his mouth tilted up. “I don’t believe so, Miss Richardson. Besides, I feel certain there is something you are dying to discuss with me. Shall we take a stroll through Blythe’s portrait gallery?” His hand wrapped around her elbow before she could answer.
Blissful heat slid up Rosalind’s arm to her shoulder.
“I’m told Blythe’s gallery is filled with pears, not distinguished ancestors,” Torrington informed her in a delicious tone. “Should be interesting if nothing else. I’ve never known anyone to devote an entire section of their home to fruit.”
“Pears?” Rosalind strolled beside him, as Torrington discreetly led her across the edge of the drawing room. No one paid them the least attention.
“The gallery.” One brow raised. “I’m told it is covered with portraits of pears. That sounds odd, doesn’t it? Perhaps a symphony of still life. At any rate, I’mdesperateto experience them.”
Rosalind bit her lip to keep from laughing. She rather enjoyed his sarcasm when it wasn’t all directed at her. “I thought you preferred cherries, my lord. At least in regard to fruit.”
Torrington’s eyes lingered over the rise of her bosom far longer than was polite. “I adore cherries,” he said in a husky tone.
Warmth stirred deep inside her. The way he spoke made it sound as if—well as if they weren’t actually speaking of cherries at all but her—
Rosalind attempted to take a deep breath and push aside such erotic thoughts.
“Don’t faint on me, Miss Richardson,” Torrington murmured along the curve of her ear. “At least not before we’ve reached what I understand is an endless supply of pears in a darkened hallway.”
“I won’t faint.” Shedidfeel a bit light-headed, however. The cut of her dress required most of Rosalind be... contained. But her breathlessness was more likely the result of being alone with Torrington. If he had been one of her other suitors, Rosalind might be concerned she was at risk of being compromised, but Torrington wasn’t looking for a wife. He would be unlikely to do anything remotely improper despite his flirtatious manner.
“You will faint if you don’t cease having yourself laced so tightly,” Torrington murmured under his breath. “No gown, in my opinion, is worth such efforts.”
“My corset,” she whispered, horrified their voices would carry to the other guests even as they skimmed the edge of the drawing room, “is none ofyouraffair. Though I’m sure with your many years of experience, you find yourself qualified to give your opinion.”
“Well, you have referred to me as an aging rogue.”
“I’m not certain I used that exact phrase to describe you.”
“Ancient rake. Elderly lecher. Feeble fornicator.”
A bubble of laughter escaped her lips. “I don’t recall saying any of those things.”
