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“You’ll find no judgement from me over your ability to make a pie or a scone. But you’ll have to keep it secret that I enjoy doing so as well. And a good roasted chicken. The secret to the chicken is what you stuff inside the cavity to flavor the meat.”
Even stuffing a chicken sounded sensual coming from Torrington.
“Oh.” Dear Lord. Rosalind was about to swoon for the first time in her life. Torrington and all his... gloriousness combined with his love for her beloved pastries and the way he sampled custard had become... a seduction of sorts. She wanted very much to be in the kitchen with Torrington. Watching him move about. Whipping eggs or... something.
Exactly as she did with Pennyfoil.
It would be nothing like my time with Pennyfoil.
“I could easily have opened my own establishment or perhaps found myself in the kitchens of the Duke of Castlemaine. My French is excellent. No one would suspect I wasn’t from Paris. Every duke wants a French chef in his employ.” He rolled his shoulders. “But instead, I’m an earl.”
Rosalind sensed he’d rather be a chef with a kitchen to command. “So you don’t find my ambitions to be outlandish?”
“No. We must all do things which feed our souls, Rosalind. But the structure of London society means that discretion must be practiced. My sister’s plea for me to make custard is a perfect example. Friendly advice, Rosalind. Should you choose to take it.”
She very nearly told him of Pennyfoil, sensing he would understand, but Rosalind kept silent. It was enough he didn’t condemn her for her ambitions. “Do not keep me in suspense any longer, my lord. I must have your opinion of the custard.”
Torrington dipped an elegant finger into the bowl of custard and held a dab to her lips. “Close your eyes, Rosalind. Let the custard sit on your tongue. What is it you taste?”
Rosalind’s heart nearly beat out of her chest at the intimate gesture. Tentatively, she wrapped her mouth around his finger, forcing herself to focus on the taste of the custard and not the warm finger in her mouth.
“The anise.” Rosalind sucked gently at the remaining custard on his finger.
A hungry look entered Torrington’s eyes. “The flavor is not as strong or noticeable when you also take a scoop of the cherries.” A seductive purr came from his chest. “Here. Try a bit more.” Dabbing his finger into the custard again, Torrington added a bit of the cherry mixture.
Rosalind parted her lips, her gaze locked with Torrington’s. As the custard-covered digit slid into her mouth, she flicked her tongue along the length of his finger before sucking gently at the tip.
A sound came from Torrington. Blatantly sexual and male. His eyes dropped to her mouth. Pulling out his finger, he rubbed it along her lower lip, growling when she grazed his finger with her teeth.
The space between her thighs gave an insistent pulse. The air fairly swarmed with her impending ruination. It hadn’t been how she’d planned to end Torrington’s visit today, but the custard. The cherries. The firm, muscled form only inches from hers.
She’d always planned to take a lover. Eventually.
According to her father’s books, there was an act a woman could perform on a man involving a certain male appendage that was very much like tasting the custard from Torrington’s finger.
“You must consider”—his smoky tone turned rough as it slid over her breasts—“how it will taste without the cherries.”
The edge of her skirts tugged, ever so gently, in Torrington’s direction.
“Why—” Rosalind sounded quite breathless—“do you like to pull at my skirts? You’ve done so before.” Her senses had become muted to everything else but Torrington and the taste of the custard on her tongue. Including the fact that they were seated in the dining room with the doors open and a small army of servants milling about the hall.
“Because I want to touch you,” he whispered, hunger stamped plainly on his handsome features. “And I should not.”
She drew in a long shaky breath and glanced in the direction of the door. Jacobson wasn’t stationed directly outside, or at the very least, he didn’t seem to be observing them from the shadows. Rosalind’s eyes returned to Torrington. She lowered her hand, boldly pulling her skirts up until her ankles and calves were exposed.
A low moan left her as the heat of his fingers wrapped around one silk-clad ankle.
Watching her, Torrington dipped his finger in the custard once more. “Open your mouth, Rosalind.”
His words vibrated over the length of her body. She obeyed him instantly, grazing her teeth along his finger. Rosalind sucked and licked at the custard on Torrington’s finger as his other hand trailed further up her leg, heating the skin beneath her silk stockings. His thumb teased at the hollow of her knee.
A thread of moisture made its way between her thighs. The pulse of the blood beneath her skin sped up along with the beat of her heart. Rosalind bit her lip. Her legs splayed open in invitation.
Torrington’s eyes fluttered shut. His palm stretched over the top of her thigh, fingers pressing into her skin. “I’m not”—the rasp of his voice was barely above a whisper—“going to ruin you in your mother’s dining room.” His eyes flew open, the amber more pronounced, giving him a predatory, almost feral look. “But it isn’t because I don’t want you.” He flipped aside the edge of his coat. It was impossible to miss the tenting of his trousers. “Do not attempt to convince yourself otherwise.”
He sounded angry.Ravenous.
Torrington’s hand ran back down the length of her leg, pausing to draw his finger around the curve of her ankle once more before removing his hand completely. Then he sat back in his chair as if nothing untoward had occurred and took another spoonful of the custard.
