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“Yearsof experience.”
Rosalind was growing weary of the constant reminders about his age. When had she stopped thinking of him as an aging rake and begun thinking of him as just Torrington? Every reference made Rosalind feel foolish, especially when faced with his magnificence. And those overly tight riding breeches.
“I’ve apologized for my insults, but to be fair, my lord, you would never know of them if you hadn’t been eavesdropping.”
“Insincerely apologized.” His smile never faltered. “The recipe.” He patted the space over his heart.
Rosalind’s hand wavered in the air as she waited for Torrington to take the recipe out of his pocket and place the paper in her fingers. Nothing happened. Not very different from when she’d been convinced he meant to kiss her at Blythe’s but hadn’t. She tapped her foot impatiently, mainly as a way to distract herself from the fact she was enjoying herself. Immensely.
“Very well.” Torrington made a sound of resignation and moved to set his brandy down on the table. Turning back to her, he took hold of his coat and pulled the sides open. “Do you see the slip of paper? In my pocket. Go ahead and take it.” There was a challenge hovering in his eyes.
She took a deep breath,thankfully, because she wasn’t laced too tight today. It was difficult to properly roll out pastry dough when she couldn’t even bend. “Why—” Rosalind blushed furiously and pulled back her hand. “Why can you not just hand it to me?”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” Torrington gave her a pained look. “Tremors in my fingers. Happens to we elderly gentlemen. I’m always dropping things. Very tragic.”
Rosalind narrowed her eyes at him. “Yet you held on to your glass of brandy with no problem whatsoever. And I must ask, my lord. Can we not allow the matter of your age to rest? I grow weary of defending my actions.”
He leaned forward, enough so that one of those delectable curls dangled before one eye. “Care to give it a tug?”
Rosalind coughed. Sputtered. Tried not to laugh at his antics. “You, my lord, are a fine example of an earl in his declining years—”
“Rosalind.” He made a tsking sound. “You were doing so well.”
Her heart squeezed, very softly. “A paragon of ancient masculinity.”
Torrington snorted. Then laughed outright, a rich decadent sound that did nothing to dispel the ever-growing hum along her skin. “Ancient masculinity?”
Rosalind shrugged, knowing she’d won whatever game it was they were playing. Torrington nodded toward the piece of paper. “You only need take it from my pocket, my brazen baker. Custard making awaits.”
My brazen baker.She was unbelievably pleased at the title.
“Open your coat wider.” Rosalind flapped her arms open. “Much wider.” Her entire hand and part of her arm would brush against Torrington’s chest if Rosalind dared reach for the recipe at present. “You’re making this oddly difficult, my lord. I thought we were friends.”
“Inever said we were friends. I merely asked ifyouthought that the case.” He winked.
“You are splitting hairs.” Rosalind’s legs wobbled slightly as she took a step toward him, reaching for his pocket. The motion sent her breasts crashing into the warm, muscled wall of his chest. She thought of his thighs, encased in leather, only inches and several layers of skirts from hers.
As she closed her fingers around the scrap of paper sticking from his pocket, Torrington pulled the edges of his coat together abruptly, trapping her into an unexpected embrace. He was so incredibly warm and smelled...wonderful. Rosalind had to stifle the sudden urge to nuzzle her nose into his neck. Possibly pull at that mischievous curl hanging over one of his eyebrows.
“Do you have the paper between your fingers?” His nose sifted gently through her hair.
“Yes.” Her body flared sharply, like an ember being stoked to a flame.
“I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this, Rosalind. But you smell of cherries. Which I adore.”
“You’ve said as much.” The air in her lungs was shaky. “Often.” Her body throbbed delicately next to his larger form, trapped unbelievably against his chest. Her free hand trailed over his ribs, palms heating from the muscle hidden from her.
Torrington jerked at her touch. She looked up, surprised, to find him—wincing? At her touch?
Horrified, Rosalind immediately stepped back, paper in her hands. She looked down at the rug beneath their feet, then out the window, anywhere but at Torrington. It was not the first time she’d mistaken his intent. Torrington merely liked to flirt with her and keep her off balance. “My apologies, my lord.”
“Not at all. I am a little sensitive in that spot.” He turned from her and back to the window.
Rosalind couldn’t imagine what was so fascinating about the blasted maple tree aside from the rotten branches.
“Do not sit on the bench outside, Rosalind. Not until you’ve had the tree trimmed else you might well be injured,” Torrington said with mild concern. The sort any friend would share with another.
Friends.Like Pennyfoil.
Pennyfoilwasher friend. And her partner. Torrington was—something different.
Rosalind’s gaze ran over Torrington. Very unlike Pennyfoil who most closely resembled a stork with ginger hair. “Thank you for bringing me the recipe.”
Torrington said nothing for a moment, before his lips twitched, ever so slightly. “Make the custard, Miss Richardson. There is a secret to ensuring it is fluffy. Light. Airy like a cloud. I realize that is a strange way to describe a custard. I’m certain you’ll figure out what I mean once you read the instructions. Make sure that the eggs you use are of normal size else there will be too much yolk and—well, you’d be surprised at how such a simple thing alters the consistency.”
Rosalind’s eyes widened at his instructions. “My lord, you sound as if you’ve—”
“Made the custard? I have, Rosalind. And I make it far more often than just at Christmas.” He bowed over her hand, brushing his lips over the ridge of her knuckles. “I’ll see myself out.”
