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7
“Are you certain, miss?”
“Positive,” Rosalind answered. “When Lord Torrington arrives, Jacobson, you are to send him here to me, in the dining room. Do not put him in the drawing room.” Her hand went out, adjusting the bowl holding the custard. It was perfect. Perhaps Torrington’s opinion of Rosalind’s version of the custard shouldn’t matter, but he’d admitted to making the dessert.
The thought of him whipping eggs with his graceful hands did something to Rosalind.
She pushed aside such blatantly carnal thoughts. Pennyfoil had beaten eggs, rolled dough, and iced tea cakes and not once had the sight of him doing so turned her legs to jelly or twisted her insides pleasurably. It was merely because she and Torrington had once shared a kiss.
Something she had no intention of doing with Rudolph Pennyfoil.
At any rate, Torrington’s opinion of the custard could be important to the success of Pennyfoil’s.
Her hand gripped the edge of the bowl of custard.Pennyfoil’s.Yes, it sounded elegant. Sophisticated. And absolutely no one would guess at Rosalind’s involvement. Which was exactly the point.
She straightened the spoon beside the bowl.
Though it was the wisest course, Rosalind couldn’t help the slight pang at the knowledge no one would ever know that she was responsible for so many of the magnificent creations that would soon grace Pennyfoil’s display cases. But there was no other way. Whether the establishment was named Pennyfoil’s or not, the fact remained that Rosalind would have her independence. There would be no reason or need for her to marry. Even her mother would be forced to admit it.
Rosalind had sent a note to Torrington earlier, and he’d promised to arrive promptly. She once more smoothed down her skirts, taking in the dining room table. She’d had fresh flowers brought in. The plates were set just so, along with napkins. The custard would be scooped out in a perfect portion along with a bit of the cherries she’d prepared. Presentation was often as important as the actual dessert.
“Lady Richardson—” Jacobson started to object.
What was Jacobson still doing hovering about? She’d forgotten he was even here.
“Is out shopping with the duchess,” Rosalind finished for the butler. In a stroke of true good luck, Mother had gone shopping with Cousin Amanda and would be gone most of the day. Theodosia, stuck at Haven’s run-down estate, had sent an entire list of items she needed her mother to procure for her. “She won’t return for hours. And not a word to Lady Richardson when she does.” Rosalind gave the butler a pointed look. “I mean it, Jacobson.”
“Miss—” The butler’s face had grown stern, almost fatherly in disapproval.
The very last thing Rosalind required was to have her butler deciding what was best for her. Mother was quite enough. “I know about you and Gert,” Rosalind said calmly, lifting her chin.
A gasp, then a gurgle came from the butler. Like a gutted fish.
Rosalind pressed her lips together, holding back a smile.
Jacobson, stiff and proper man that he was, had formed a surprising attachment to Rosalind’s maid, a slightly bawdy girl with bright red hair.
“I won’t say a word if you don’t.” She wouldn’t normally engage in such tactics, but Rosalind wasn’t about to be dictated to by the butler. Besides, Torrington had already called on her once. It would hardly matter if he did so again. The worst that could possibly happen would be Mother assuming she could restart her campaign to make a match between Rosalind and Torrington.
Jacobson paled. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Finally, the butler nodded, mouth drawn into a thin line. With a bow, he stepped away as the arrival of a carriage sounded outside.
Rosalind peered down at the custard, admiring the rich color. Some of the ingredients for the custard were unusual but not too strange. Nutmeg, for instance, was fairly standard. But not the pinch of cardamom. She often tinkered with recipes, convinced she could improve upon the original. In the case of the custard, Rosalind had added a minuscule amount of anise. She’d prepared some stewed cherries which sat in another, smaller bowl off to the side. A last-minute choice on Rosalind’s part to pair with the custard because the tartness of the cherries mixed well with the hint of anise.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Torrington adored cherries.
Pennyfoil had nearly wept when she’d made the original version of the custard for him yesterday. Taking a spoonful, he’d sighed as if in the midst of a religious epiphany. Between spoonfuls, he’d told Rosalind that all the pies and teacakes had sold out within hours. While Rosalind went over the ledger, double-checking Pennyfoil’s entries, her partner went to work on making more of the custard under her watchful eye. She’d have to tell him about adding the anise when she visited next. Their partnership was already showing signs of success. They’d made a small profit in a short time. Now that they had the custard recipe, Rosalind expected their business to do even better.
A knock sounded on the dining room door before Jacobson swung it open to reveal Torrington, curls falling over one cheek, mouth tilted in his usual half-smile. His gaze fell on the table, taking in the two plates, spoons, custard, and cherries. He waited until Jacobson departed before greeting her.
“Hello, Rosalind,” he drawled.
The smoky rumble settled pleasurably inside her. “Miss Richardson,” she reminded him.
“I don’t think so.” One side of his mouth tilted higher. “I prefer Rosalind.”
“Do you merely ignore what you don’t agree with? Does no one deny you?”
Cedar and clean linen filled her nostrils as he came closer. Rosalind had always claimed the smell of a freshly baked batch of scones to be her favorite scent, but now she thought it might be Torrington.
