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Her heart skipped ever so softly at his words.
“Mamanhad taught me to make the custard. I possessed an aptitude for such things. Margarite did not.”
Rosalind tried to picture this elegant, handsome man with a riot of curls hanging about his cheeks, descending into his sister’s kitchens, scattering the staff, and making a decadent custard in secret. “You like to cook.”
Torrington smiled at her. “I shared my mother’s love of being in the kitchen, something my father allowed as long as I kept up my other studies. She and I spent a great deal of time up to our elbows in flour or chopping vegetables for a stew.” He held up one pinky finger to her. The tip was missing. “Sliced off the end while cutting up a potato. My mother nearly fainted at the sight of all the blood.” He laughed softly, his face unguarded so that Rosalind could see the boy he once was, lost in his memory of a day spent in the warm confines of his mother’s kitchen.
“I am often comforted by the scent of vanilla and sugar.” He leaned close to Rosalind for a moment and inhaled slowly before leaning back.
She had to stop herself from following.
“Margarite’s cook was scandalized at seeing me in her kitchen. One of the scullery maids, shocked at my appearance, dropped an armful of plates.” He cocked his head at her. “I kept her from getting sacked. It was my fault for stepping into the kitchens unannounced.”
“That was kind of you.” Rosalind had the inclination to cup Torrington’s face and brush her mouth against his. All because he’d been kind to a kitchen maid. Many fine, titled lords wouldn’t have cared.
Good lord, what was wrong with her?
“Imagine, an earl whipping up a dessert for a duke.” He gave a soft laugh. “His Grace heaped rapturous praise upon Margarite’s cook and even insisted on meeting the poor woman, who blushed and stammered. Poor Cradditch. I worried she’d expire on the spot.”
“You allowed her to take credit.”
“I did. What else should I have done? Admit the truth? Cradditch was a wonderful cook and served my sister well for many years. She retired a year or so later and now lives in Cornwall with her daughter.”
Were all reformed rakes so kind? Or so capable in the kitchen? Bore so much affection for their sister they would risk their reputation by making a custard for a dinner party?
Oh.Her heart squeezed gently once more.
Rosalind insisted it stop.
Torrington took a spoonful of the custard and scooped up some of the cherry mixture, placing both in his mouth as Rosalind watched in rapt attention. The only thing better than watching his hands, she mused, was the movement of his equally beautiful mouth.
An appreciative sound came from his chest as the spoon left his lips, his tongue licking a bit of cherry off the side.
She swayed in her seat, nearly overcome with...lust. Rosalind knew full well what she was feeling. Her father’s books had been very descriptive. She may also have experimented on herself in an attempt to satisfy her curiosity. So far, she’d had only mild success. Nothing at all like the delicate, pulsing heat between her thighs that Torrington invoked.
I may not survive if he runs his tongue along the spoon again in such a way.
“The Duke of Castlemaine was so enamored of the custard, he insisted on being given the recipe, which Margarite declined to do. He retaliated by trying to hire her cook, but Mrs. Cradditch declined for obvious reasons. This custard is still a bone of contention between the duke and Margarite.”
“Didn’t Lord Hertfort insist she give the duke the recipe?”
“One does not ‘insist’ with Margarite. Hertfort learned that fact early in their marriage. Hertfort doesn’t press Margarite and thus does not need to sleep with one eye open.” Torrington took another bite and sucked on the spoon, watching her the entire time. “This is very good.”
The throbbing between her thighs became more insistent. Rosalind shifted in her seat, squeezing her legs together.
“Do you also cook?” His eyes were alight with some undefinable emotion. “Or is it only making custards and cakes which thrills you?”
You thrill me.
The thought unsettled her. Rosalind tore her eyes from Torrington’s lips and fingers, struggling to maintain what little decorum she had left.“I do enjoy cooking, but my passion is the making of pastry. Desserts. Confections. As you can imagine, Lady Richardson finds that my time icing cakes is less important than paying calls.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“But I believe there is artistry in creating a cake,” she said. “Determining the exact position where I’ll place the delicate roses made of marzipan. Or deciding how I should alternate the layers so that when the cake is cut and one piece lifted out, the appearance causes everyone to gasp in pleasure. It is difficult to explain the feeling I have when someone tastes a nibble of one of my tarts, for instance, and I see the pleasure it brings them.” She gave him an embarrassed smile. “I tend to ramble, my lord. I know it is only making a cake. Not at all like being a true artist such as my cousin, Theodosia, who paints miniatures. Not of pears, of course, but people.”
“I disagree, Rosalind. There is art in creating something so beautiful and delicious. Food is one of the greatest pleasures life has to offer.” He paused, and the timbre of his voice lowered. “Among other things.”
Rosalind drew in a long breath, her entire body feeling as if she were being licked by flames. “I like to think so.”
