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Torrington shrugged. “I don’t have any smelling salts on me tonight, Miss Richardson. If you collapse in my arms, I’ll be forced to drag you into Lady Blythe’s parlor, lay you on a settee”—his voice lowered to a smooth purr—“and do my best to revive you.” He steered her around the corner and toward a wall lined with framed pictures lit by the muted light of a half-dozen sconces.
“You’re very good at this.”
“What is that?” His brows raised in confusion. “Ascertaining the lack of talent required to produce this atrocity?” Torrington stopped before an immense still life covering half the wall. A white bowl, cracked down one side, overflowed with unripe pears. “Just look at those exquisite brush strokes,” he said in a serious tone. “Amazing detail work. If you look closely, I believe you’ll see a worm just peeking out from one pear. Do you see the worm, Miss Richardson?”
“Your eyesight is rather good, considering,” she said, shooting him an amused glance. Torrington was very charming, his sardonic wit notwithstanding. There wasn’t another soul in the hall, and they were no longer in view of the drawing room.
“Frankly, one of my nieces could have painted these and none would be the wiser. I wonder that I shouldn’t have Cora, that’s the youngest who is all of three, create an entire portfolio of pears for Lady Blythe. I could sell them to her. Say the artist is an old acquaintance of my mother’s from France.” He turned to face her. “Cora’s interpretation of a pear would be far better than the artist Lady Blythe seems to favor. What do you think is behind this obsession with pears?”
“Perhaps the artist is Lady Blythe herself,” Rosalind answered, staring at a smaller painting of a lone pear sliced in half. Torrington’s arm brushed against hers, lighting a spark up her shoulder.
“Hadn’t considered Lady Blythe could be a secret painter of pears. I’m trying to picture her in a studio, surrounded by fruit, skirts fluffed up around her as she sits atop a stool, holding a paintbrush.” He turned to her and smiled.
Another warm sensation coiled around Rosalind’s midsection and up her chest, though she willed it to stop. “My lord—”
“I suppose I could understand cherries,” he mused, his gaze once more lingering over her bosom with intent. “As I’ve mentioned, a personal favorite of mine.”
Rosalind’s nipples, of their own accord and beneath the layers of silk and corset covering them, tightened under his perusal.
“Possibly apples due to the various hues. Butpears? I find, even in the best instances, pears are bland,” he continued, as if he hadn’t just rather blatantly compared her nipples to cherries. At least she thought he had. Her experiences with Torrington had all left Rosalind feeling a bit unbalanced.
“Pears are best with cinnamon and a bit of ginger,” Rosalind answered, unsure how else to respond. The entire conversation was absurd.
“Agreed. But only tolerable at best, Miss Richardson. There are other things I’d rather sprinkle with cinnamon and taste.”
A quaking sensation slid all the way down Rosalind’s spine.
Not once had Rosalind ever considered the eating of fruit to be erotic. Not until Torrington. Cherries would no longer seem so innocent. She took in Torrington’s handsome profile, the slash of his nose and bits of silver sprinkled along his jaw.
He gave her a cheeky wink. “I confess, Miss Richardson, you are most bold, enticing me down this hallway under the guise of admiring pear portraits.”
“But I didn’t entice you,” she protested. “Nor bring you in this direction at all. You ledmehere.”
Torrington shook his head. “You could only have brought me down this dark hall—”
“It’s lit by sconces. Not a score of blazing lamps, but it certainly is not dark.” She held out her hand. “I can see quite clearly.”
“—for one of two reasons,” he continued, ignoring her interruption. “My first assumption would be that you wish to take liberties with me.”
“Perish the thought, my lord. I would never take advantage of someone so elderly. It would be poor of me, don’t you think?” She was more amused than angered by his audacity in suggesting she might attempt to grope him. “Any other assumptions you’ve made, my lord, are the result of your inflated ego.”
“My ego isn’t the least inflated, Miss Richardson,” he said with mock outrage.
“I disagree. I have a firsthand account.”
“My past experience, decades of it, has told me what to expect when a young lady asks for escort to view portraits.” He inclined his head and a curl of dark hair fell over one eye, giving him a rakish look. Well, more rakish than usual.
“I didn’t ask—you’re incorrigible, as I’m sure you’re aware.” Rosalind had trouble remaining stern when Torrington was so intent on being playful.
I like him.The thought settled inside her chest.Very much.She hadn’t expected to, when they’d first met at Granby’s house party. Or even when they’d spoken at the Ralston ball.
The knowledge worried her. Physical attraction was one thing. Liking someone, quite another.
“So that only leaves one other reason for luring me under the pretense of pears, Miss Richardson.” His eyes widened as if he were an actor emoting on stage.
“Luring is a rather strong word, my lord.”
The amber in his dark eyes sparked at her. Small creases radiated from the corner of his eyes when he smiled. A sign of his age. Or of a man who laughed often.
