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“I won’t.” Rosalind lifted her chin. “I’ll speak to him. We are friends—”
Another derisive snort from her mother.
“And ask him to beg off,” she finished. “I’m sure he will have no trouble finding another suitable young lady.” Rosalind could practically feel the press of her mother’s heel on her neck.
Mother set down her cup before regarding Rosalind with steely determination. “I will not undo this, Rosalind. Be thankful it was Torrington who offered for you when I found out about Rudolph Pennyfoil.”
Rosalind blinked, her fingers digging into her thighs. Mother knew of Pennyfoil.
“Else you would find yourself wed to Cheshire,” her mother continued. “Walking in the park every day. For hours. How addled do you think I am?”
“You”—she paused and took a breath—“told me you didn’t wish me in the kitchens, Mother. I was forced to find another place to practice my talents.”
“So this is my fault?” Mother shook her head in resignation before her voice grew steely. “You’ve enteredtradewith a baker, Rosalind. You, the daughter of a viscount. Once I found out, there was little else I could do but get you wed as soon as possible before a scandal could erupt. Because it will.”
“Romy—”
“Destroyed her reputation by playing at being a modiste. You wish to do so with dough stuck between your fingers. I should have known you would attempt to emulate her. You’ve some notion you’re going to become London’s most famous pastry chef. Did you think your visits to Pennyfoil would go unnoticed?”
“Who would possibly care, Mother? I am at the end of my third season. I plan to remain unwed. What difference could it make where I go or with whom I spend my days?”
“I can’t believe I raised such a foolish girl.” Mother leaned in. “You are the cousin of the Duke of Averell. A Barrington by blood if not by name. London will gleefully look in your direction to see what gossip erupts around you, Rosalind.”
“Now who is being dramatic?”
“Let me ask, do you think that anyone will patronize your establishment once word circulates that you are in trade with Pennyfoil? Because wordwillget out. If Granby hadn’t made Andromeda a duchess, there isn’t any telling what her prospects would have been like considering the trouble Theodosia got herself into. The fact remains, an unwed girl of good family, a viscount’s daughter, cannot spend hours with a baker without someone taking note.” Mother shot her a pointed look. “Servants are prone to gossip, Rosalind. Someone is always watching.”
“Our desserts are magnificent,” Rosalind whispered, feeling her dreams slip through her fingers.
“I’m sure they are. But no one will buy a bloody tart from a pariah, Rosalind.” Her mother’s tone softened. “Not even Averell will be able to salvage you then. You need to marry. Especially since I don’t know who might have seen you call on Torrington. Or witnessed you making cakes at Pennyfoil’s.”
Rosalind refused to give up. Years had been spent on avoiding marriage. She and Pennyfoil were successful. And Torrington—something pinched at her chest in thinking of him.
“Then send me away. I’ll go to the Continent. I can join Andromeda in Italy. Or apprentice myself to a baker in Paris.”
“You don’t even speak French, Rosalind. You’ll marry Torrington.”
“I will not.” She stood, fists clenched. “I am not you, Mother. I have no desire to be somebrood marefor an aging rogue.”
A weak gray mass of wrinkles inside soiled sheets and the sound of her mother weeping.
“One to whom I must read and feed broth, all while he flirts with the nurse while my back is turned.”
Her mother paled so dramatically, Rosalind could see the delicate blue of her veins beneath her skin. “Don’t you dare,” Mother said in a threatening hiss, “speak about your father in that manner. Not in my presence.Ever again.”
“Why not?” Rosalind trembled. “It’s the truth. You are trying to force me into the same situation you were once in. Married to a much older rake. Destined to play nursemaid. Well, I won’t have it. I won’t.” An angry tear ran down her cheek.
“I won’t survive this. I want to go with him.”
The sound of her mother’s long ago anguish still lingered in her mind, the pain of that horrible day never fading. Rosalind forced away the image and replaced it with one of a warm kitchen and spice cake.
“You’ve no idea what my marriage to Viscount Richardson entailed. You were a child when he—” Her mother’s words grew thick. “Left us. You may think me blind to Lord Richardson’s faults.” She plucked at her skirts. “But I was not.”
“I won’t marry Torrington,” Rosalind whispered. She couldn’t.
Mother slapped a hand down on the sofa, startling her. “Youwill. You’ll be a countess. At the very least since Torrington is older, you can look forward to being a young widow. A widow who can then spend her days baking to the exclusion of all else.” Her mother smacked the sofa once more to make her point.
Rosalind shied from the anger in her mother’s voice. Her fingers drew back into the folds of her skirts. Panic flooded her throat. Her mouth. She would drown in it. The knot in her stomach grew and tightened, retying itself. A widow was the very last thing she wished to be.Ever. And definitely not Torrington’s, because that would mean—Rosalind’s hands went to her stomach.
