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10
Ashort time later, Rosalind was ushered into the foyer of Torrington’s home, her eyes moving over the tasteful, elegant décor. She’d never been to an unmarried gentleman’s home without a proper chaperone.
Her expectations of Torrington’s home were based on the house she’d lived in until her father’s death. Rosalind had been expecting thick burgundy velvet covering every surface. Plush, expensive rugs. Lots of gold tassels. Gilt gracing every surface. Statues of cherubs engaged in questionable activities. Poorly painted art, also of a questionable nature. Mother had not redecorated, for some reason, only managing to force most of the more dubious furnishings out of view of visitors.
Torrington’s home was far different than Rosalind had imagined.
The interior was warm. Comfortable. Smelling, oddly enough, of chocolate and not stale cheroot and dust. The furnishings, though masculine, weren’t overly heavy or intimidating. No cherubs dotted the tops of his tables or were hidden in an alcove. Rosalind didn’t have an appreciation for art—that was her cousin Theodosia—but even she could see that the paintings hanging in Torrington’s foyer were likely done by a master artist.
“Lord Torrington is expecting me,” she crisply informed Torrington’s butler, a tall, faintly disapproving older gentleman. “I am Miss Richardson.”
Rosalind had sent Torrington a note late yesterday asking if she could call. He’d responded that he would be at home but said little else. A brief rush of panic filled her at the thought that perhaps he’d forgotten. About inviting her. Telling her not to wear a corset. All of it.
She clasped her fingers tighter around the basket.
“I am Watkins, Lord Torrington’s butler.” He looked behind Rosalind to her carriage, in expectation of someone else popping out. When no one appeared, the butler gave a sigh and shut the door. “Shall I take that, miss?” He nodded at the basket in her hand.
“No, thank you. This”—she held up the basket—“is for Lord Torrington.”
“Very good. This way, Miss Richardson.”
She’d expected to be led to the drawing room and offered tea while she waited for Torrington, but the butler passed by what Rosalind took to be the drawing room. Instead, he led her down a long hall to a set of stairs at the back of the house.
Watkins waved her forward.
“The kitchens?” While Rosalind was more comfortable in a kitchen than most, she didn’t find it a particularly good spot for seduction. She bit her lip. He had forgotten. Or he’d been teasing her and nothing more.
Rosalind willed such mortifying thoughts away before her skin could redden. She’d no desire for Torrington to see her looking like a moldy cherry.
“Not to worry, miss. There isn’t anyone about.”
“There isn’t?” She took a step forward.
“The staff has the day off, except for myself. And Bijou, of course. She’s down there with his lordship.”
Bijou. Was she a kitchen maid? Or the cook?
“I see. Thank you, Watkins.” Rosalind held on to her basket and descended the steps, her nose immediately assailed with the chocolate she’d caught a whiff of earlier in the foyer. The space wasn’t overly large, but it was well lit. Light streamed in from a series of windows set up high along one wall. Neat rows of pots and pans were stacked on shelves beneath the windows along with bowls, ladles, spoons, and the like. Strewn across an immense, pitted worktable was a large pad of chilled butter on a plate, a tin of flour, and two large bowls. The scent of chocolate hung heavy in the air.
Torrington stood before a small pot, stirring something. Chocolate, she supposed, given the aroma lingering in the air. The spoon moved rather ferociously before Torrington paused and took a taste from the spoon. He hummed while he worked, a low sensual tune that set Rosalind’s pulse to beating harder.
Her legs trembled, the basket tilting to one side.
The space was warm, so Torrington wore no coat. The sleeves of his shirt had been rolled back, and Rosalind caught a glimpse of muscular forearms dusted with dark hair. He turned and looked over at her, the lone curl, a bit longer than the others, dancing against one flour-stained cheek. There was a tiny bit of what looked like dough caught at the edge of his jaw, stuck to his beard. He licked the side of his mouth where a drop of chocolate had landed.
Rosalind had never seen anything more beautiful in her entire life.
A pile of what she thought were rags moved just to the left of Torrington. The rags formed into the shape of a shaggy dog with coal-black fur. A bark erupted from the animal along with the thump of a tail as it looked at Rosalind in expectation.
A small hall led to what was probably the scullery and the larder, but no sound came from that direction. It seemed she and Torrington were truly alone.
“Hello, Rosalind.”
“My lord.” She bent down and held out her hand to the dog. “Bijou, I presume.”
Bijou sniffed her hand, then her skirts before thumping her tail again. She pushed her head against Rosalind for a scratch behind the ears and then retreated once more to her spot near Torrington.
“Very polite, Bijou.” Torrington tossed what looked like a bit of chicken into the air and the dog caught it. “Good girl.” He turned and smiled at Rosalind.
