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“He’s handsome with all that silver sprinkled in his hair. Wealthy. Intelligent. I find him charming.”
Rosalind shot her an accusing look. “Have you struck up an acquaintance with him?”
“Stop looking at me as if I’m a traitor. You never said I had to avoid him.”
“For the sake of unity with me, I thought you knew your avoidance of Torrington was expected. You’ve never struck up a friendship with any of my other potential suitors.”
Romy gave an airy wave of one gloved hand. “Well, they were all terrible, as you well know. One or two even smelled bad. Torrington is lovely.”
“Lovely? A man his age, with his past, has perversions. Is that what you want for me, Romy? An older rogue peppered with perversions?”
“Peppered with—” Romy snorted. “Torrington isn’t so old as all that, and he’s terribly good-looking. I admit, when I first heard Cousin Winnie mention Torrington would be at this house party, I had a notion of some elderly, gout-ridden gentleman with bad teeth.”
“You’re thinking of Lord Delong. Or possibly Cheshire. But in all fairness, that seems to be the usual sort who pay me interest. Ancient lords needing a brood mare.”
“You aren’t a horse. And Torrington is quite dashing,” Andromeda insisted. “Surely if you must wed—”
“Must I? I disagree. If I am successful in my venture, I’ll be able to support myself.”
“What about love? Affection? Friendship, at the very least?”
A nauseating sensation made its way through Rosalind’s mid-section, settling like a ball of hardened dough in her stomach. Probably the unbelievably dry scones she had been served with breakfast. Or possibly this conversation.
“I will have my cakes and tortes. My tarts and toffees. My love for pastry will outlive any false declarations of affection.”
“But—” Romy opened her mouth to object.
Rosalind held up a hand. “Even if I were remotely inclined to wed, which I am not, Torrington istwicemy age. I’ve no desire to play nursemaid to an ancient husband as my mother did.” A vision of Lord Richardson, withered against the sheets while Mother fed him broth, flashed before her eyes.
“Your father was many,manyyears Cousin Winnie’s senior. Torrington is barely older than Tony.” Romy scoffed. “And you’ve never once mentioned finding my brother ancient.”
“He’s a duke. It would be disrespectful.” The Duke of Averell, Rosalind’s cousin and Romy’s legitimate brother, was so blindingly beautiful, he often didn’t look real, more as if he’d been painted by a master artist. If Tony wasn’t her cousin, she might well swoon in his presence. Most women did.
“You’ve spoken only a few words to Torrington, Ros. Avoided him at every opportunity. I think you’re afraid you might like him and can’t bear the thought since Cousin Winnie finds him suitable.”
“Be honest with me, Romy. If my mother finds Torrington so acceptable, in all likelihood there is something terribly wrong with him. Perhaps he has seven toes on each foot. Or his hair isn’t his own.”
“I’m fairly certain it is. I doubt that head of curls is a wig.”
“Well then, what about the fine figure he cuts? Probably the result of cleverly placed padding and some whalebone around his middle to make his waistcoat fit. Every man his age possesses a paunch, yet Torrington does not. Something else I find highly suspect.”
Her cousin snorted, unable to rein in her laughter. “I know the look of a padded coat and a man wearing what amounts to a corset, Rosalind. I do not believe that to be the case with Torrington. Perhaps he is merely fit.”
Well, what did Romy know? Her specialty was gowns. Dresses. Riding habits. Not gentlemen’s clothing.
“Ithink Torrington pads his shoulders,” Rosalind said, turning from her cousin to view the terrace once more. Mother was chatting with their hostess, Lady Molsin, the Duke of Granby’s aunt. Every so often, her chin tilted as she took in the gardens, probably looking for Rosalind.
“A gentleman his age doesn’t fill out a coat quite so well without assistance,” she stated firmly. “I’ll wager there are two small pillows, one tied to each arm, masquerading as muscle in addition to padding his shoulders.” Rosalind kept her gaze fixed on her mother and took a step forward, pausing when she heard the sound of silk tearing. “Romy, can you help me? I think Granby’s shrub is attacking. My skirts are caught.”
“Rosalind.”
“I will be watching with great interest to see if one or both of Torrington’s shoulders begin to slope and slip down to his elbow.” She laughed. “Didn’t that happen to a dance partner of yours once?”
Romy cleared her throat. Loudly. “Rosalind.”
“I think I’m caught on a thorn.” Rosalind tugged on her skirts once more, still laughing, amused at a vision of Torrington’s broad shoulders disappearing to become bulges at his wrist, perhaps. “Torrington’s valet has probably bound his mid-section tightly in some sort of contraption to account for the pleasing fit of his waistcoat.”
Mother was walking to the edge of the terrace, her head turned toward the sweeping lawn.
