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There was a tugging sensation in her chest. Her heart. Rosalind immediately pressed a finger to the spot, willing it away.
“Ask me, Miss Richardson.”
“A gentleman would offer.”
“Alas, I am merely a corseted, elderly rogue, not a gentleman. So, ask.”
Rosalind looked up at him. “I should like to look atCuisiner pour les Rois. I don’t expect you to merely hand it over to me as we barely know one another,” she said in a rush. “And I assure you, promise you, I won’t allow any harm to come to the book. I realize how rare it is. You can trust I will return it in good condition.”
“I have no doubt, Miss Richardson. However, I can’t lend it to you.”
She’d hoped he would agree. “Why would you mention it to me if you didn’t intend to allow me to read it?”
Torrington gave her a patient look. “What is your greatest achievement in the kitchen thus far? The creation of which you are most proud?”
Rosalind was taken aback. “Why do you want to know such a thing? It has nothing to do with the cookbook.”
“Indulge me.”
She had no idea why Torrington would care about what dessert she was most proud of. Or why he cared about a collection of recipes. It was acookbook. She doubted he was sitting about readingCuisiner pour les Roisin his free time. He was anearl.
“Miss Richardson?”
“I’m thinking.” She thought back to all the different scones, cakes, tortes, and the like she’d made over the years, settling on one moment that meant more than all the others. Moisture immediately gathered at the corners of her eyes, and she blinked it away.
“A cake, my lord. Lemon with blackberry between the layers.” The last cake she’d ever made for Marcus Barrington, the Duke of Averell might not have been her finest, but it was the one that stayed lodged in her heart. Cousin Marcus had requested Rosalind bake him something magnificent shortly before he’d left London. He would never return to the city for he fell ill shortly thereafter and died at his ducal estate, Cherry Hill. Cousin Marcus must have had a sense of the fate awaiting him, for he’d requested only Rosalind and the cake, neglecting to invite anyone else to tea. He’d eaten two slices, extolling Rosalind’s talent with flour and sugar. He’d called it a gift.Hergift.
I love you dearly, Rosalind. Do not ever doubt the talent you possess or allow anyone else to do so. Wars are not won on empty stomachs.
Rosalind blinked at the portrait of tumbling pears directly in front of her, not wishing to burst into tears. Cousin Marcus had always been so kind to her. He’d often waved at his dining room table, crowded with Barrington women, proclaiming himself to be the luckiest of men to be surrounded by such beauty.
“A cake for the Duke of Averell. Not the current duke. The previous one.” The wretched sadness of her words echoed in the empty hallway.
It was Cousin Marcus who’d saved both she and Mother when Lord Richardson had died and his heir had nearly tossed them out in the street. More than that, Cousin Marcus had believed in Rosalind.
“Lemon and blackberries.” She cleared her throat, trying to swallow her grief.
Think how much worse it could be—would be—if she—
“Eight layers. The icing was an inch thick.” The words trembled from her lips.
“You miss him.” Torrington’s voice was gentle.
“We all do.”
A vision of Cousin Amanda, collapsed and weeping on the floor, merged with the memory of Rosalind’s mother in similar circumstances. Rosalind had only been a child when Viscount Richardson had died. She barely remembered her father, but the agony surrounding his death had never dissipated. The sheer terror of him departing this world. It had been the same for Cousin Amanda when Marcus Barrington had died.
Rosalind had the sudden urge to bake something.
“Miss Richardson—”
She cut him off and pasted a polite smile on her lips. “His Grace often admired what I could accomplish with a bowl of flour, some sugar, and eggs.” She forced her mind back to the cookbook. Her establishment would be the finest in London. “At any rate, if you will not part with the cookbook, perhaps you would allow me to simply look at it? I don’t expect that you should call on me—”
“Good. I hate taking tea and discussing the weather. Utterly dull. How many ways can you express your displeasure at rain, for instance?”
Rosalind had to agree. And she couldn’t very well have Torrington showing up at her home with a cookbook. “I don’t wish my mother to know anything about...” She searched for the right way to phrase things. Torrington knew of her ambitions, but he didn’t know the specifics, and Rosalind meant to keep it that way. Mother couldn’t find out. At least not until she and Pennyfoil were successful.
He was watching her intently, but Rosalind found it difficult to discern his thoughts.
