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“Perhaps yards of muslin wrapped tightly, more likely a masculine version of stays. Can you imagine a lord, even Torrington, grabbing onto a bedpost while a red-faced valet struggles to lace him?” A snort left her. “At any rate, my skirts are quite stuck, Romy. I am in desperate need of help lest I tear my gown.” This time, when her cousin didn’t answer, Rosalind looked behind her, the smile on her lips faltering.
Well, this is embarrassing. Nearly as bad as the bit about the harp.
Torrington, in all his dreadful silver-tinged handsomeness, was standing beside her cousin. Rosalind’s backside, much wider than she wished it to be, was pointed in his direction. The side of his mouth lifted just slightly in a mocking smile, making his mustache twitch and drawing attention to the curve of his mouth.
“Lord Torrington,” she stuttered. “I didn’t realize you were in the garden.”
“Apparently not, Miss Richardson.” He glanced at the outline of Rosalind’s well-rounded backside with a lifted brow.
Rosalind immediately straightened. It was only a gown. A tear could be mended. Her embarrassment could not.
“Lady Andromeda.” Torrington made a small polite bow. “I do hope I’m not interrupting your discussion.”
“Not at all, my lord,” Romy replied smoothly. “My cousin and I were just speaking of how lovely the duke’s gardens are. Your interruption is timely, as it happens.” She kept her eyes averted from Rosalind and waved vaguely in the direction of the house. “Because I must speak to Lady Mildred, and I’ve just caught a glimpse of her on the terrace. There is a matter of some urgency I must discuss with her.”
Rosalind shot her cousin a horrified look, a silent plea not to leave.
“My lord.” Romy bobbed politely to Torrington before sailing away leaving Rosalind to her fate.
Traitor.
Heat suffused Rosalind’s cheeks as she looked at Torrington. Given the splotchy way in which she blushed, she was moments from resembling a rotting strawberry. At least the girth of her backside was no longer pointed improperly in his direction.
“The gardens are lovely, are they not?” Torrington’s voice had a smoky quality, as if he’d been in bed all day and had only now awoken. The sound sifted pleasurably around Rosalind’s insides and along her thighs. Why couldn’t Torrington be more... unappealing? Hewashandsome. Distinguished, with bits of gray scattered about his dark curls and through his carefully trimmed mustache. The brush of his beard, clipped short, lined a chiseled jaw. Torrington had an air about him. Not arrogance, exactly. But confidence. Self-possession. And there was a sense of amusement hovering about his shoulders, as if Torrington found the entire house party slightly absurd.
Hewassplendid. That was the truth of it. Rosalind hated that even she could see it.
“Lovely,” she agreed, trying to remain composed as she tugged once more at her skirts. “Granby’s gardeners are quite skilled.”
“My understanding is that the duke does much of the gardening himself,” Torrington said. “He has an interest in horticulture. There’s a greenhouse”—he motioned to the left—“where I’m told His Grace putters away with dirt and pots.”
“Fascinating.” The gray strands in his close-cropped beard sparkled in the sunlight. Forcing her gaze from his jaw, Rosalind pretended to study the plant currently holding her hostage.
“Can’t avoid me at the moment, can you?” He leaned over, the curve of his full lips twitching once more at her discomfort. He seemed about to burst into laughter at her predicament. “The bush is far too small to hide behind.”
“Avoid? Hide? I’m not sure I understand what you mean, my lord. I merely sought some fresh air in the company of my cousin.”
A low, amused sound came from the depths of his chest. “Oh, Miss Richardson. You desire at this very moment to toss yourself into a bed of thorns rather than converse with me. We were introduced upon my arrival, but you’ve kept away from me as if I have the plague ever since. I believe this might be our lengthiest conversation to date.”
“We conversed over dinner last night.”
Another burst of laughter, rich and melodic hovered in the air. “Agreeing with me that the pheasant is overdone doesn’t constitute conversation, Miss Richardson. What did you think of the carrots?”
“Undercooked,” she caught herself saying. “Far too crunchy.”
“And I thought the potatoes over seasoned. Too much rosemary. And the trifle?”
Rosalind gave another tug at her skirts. “I didn’t care for it. The sponge cake had deteriorated from an excess of sherry.”
Torrington nodded. “You enjoy good food.”
“I think it painfully obvious.” She gave a wave down the side of her body.
His eyes flicked down her figure with something that looked very much like approval.
A low, warm hum started up her spine.
“Now, about the harp playing. Lady Richardson spoke so poetically of your skill. Do I have a recital to look forward to? Or do you even play? I would guess you merely pluck at the strings and pretend.”
