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“What happened to your eye?”
Bram turned to see Lady Phaedra looking up at him. There was a shrewd look in the blue of her eyes that belied her youth.
“Just here.” She tapped at the corresponding place on her own cheek. “In case you’ve forgotten.”
Direct. Blunt. All the Barringtons were like that. Rosalind came by her manner quite honestly. “I tripped over my dog.” Bram decided to go with the last reason he’d come up with for his injury. “I hit the knob of my drawing room door as I fell.”
Lady Phaedra leaned back a space. “If you say so, my lord. Looks to me as if you’ve been in a fight.” She tapped a slender finger against her lips. “Did someone try to steal your purse?”
“No, my lady. As I said, I merely tripped over my dog. The room wasn’t properly lit.”
“Hmmm.” She cocked her head. “I won’t say a word. You can trust me to be discreet.”
Bram rather doubted it.
“Boxing, then? You’ve the look of a boxer, if you don’t mind me saying so, my lord. Though your nose is rather straight.” She shook her head as if delving into a deep mystery. “Which means you must be quite good and swift on your feet if you’ve avoided breaking your nose thus far.” She leaned in just a bit and whispered, “I bet your knuckles are a disaster.”
Bram’s sister had said much the same about Lady Phaedra. Not about her nose or knuckles, but the part about being a disaster.
Lady Phaedra gave a small roll of her shoulders. “Well, I don’t find you the least ancient, if it helps. Rosalind implied you were wrinkled and elderly. Much like Lord Richardson, her father. My cousin doesn’t wish to wed. She never has. Ros prefers to be in the kitchen with her baking tins.” Phaedra patted his arm. “Has nothing to do with you. Pity you aren’t a chocolate cake.”
“How nice of you to let me know.” Bram gave her an amused smile. Lady Phaedra, he suspected, liked to be shocking. But he sensed she was also trying to tell him something about Rosalind, in her own way. Bram just wasn’t sure what it was.
“Rosalind requires a firm hand,” Lady Phaedra said in a lofty tone. “One only a more mature gentleman can provide.”
“You sound remarkably like Lady Richardson.”
“Thank you. I’ve been practicing. One never knows when you’ll have to imitate your cousin’s matronly mother. You’d think Cousin Winnie would see that the last thing Rosalind wants is to be reminded of Lord Richardson.”
Bram considered that for a moment while Lady Phaedra continued to study him. He didn’t know very much about the deceased Lord Richardson, but perhaps he should make a point of learning about the man who’d sired Rosalind.
“Do you want to knowhowI know you’ve been involved in fisticuffs?” Lady Phaedra said, apparently done discussing Rosalind.
“I couldn’t hazard a guess, my lady.” Bram glanced over at Averell, feeling his disapproval from across the drawing room, most of it focused on his youngest sister.
“I’m taking fencing lessons.” She lowered her voice. “Which may have evolved into some general lessons on boxing and defending oneself. His Grace doesn’t know the last bit,” she said, sneaking a look at her brother. “Would be best for both of us if you don’t tell him. You might be the only gentleman marrying into the family the duke remotely approves of, and I would hate for you to lose your only advantage.”
“I am the soul of discretion.” Dear God. Bram had never thought to feel such pity for the Duke of Averell as he did after speaking to Lady Phaedra. “Where is Miss Richardson?”
Lady Phaedra lifted her gaze to the drawing room door. “She’s just come in. Rosalind was finishing the chocolate toffee cake for tonight’s dessert. My brother’s favorite.” She gave him a mischievous look. “Don’t worry, my lord. He can’t be bribed to stop your wedding with cake. Ros is all yours.”
Bram choked which pulled the cut at his lip. “Good to know.” He turned his attention to Rosalind as she entered the room, stunning in a peach and cream striped confection which hugged all her glorious curves.
The thump of his heart echoed loudly in his chest.
He hadn’t seen her since their meeting in the park, thinking it for the best given their heated discussion and the fact he’d partially ravished her against an oak tree. After trying to blunt his emotions with scotch for a day or two, Bram had sent Rosalind a recipe for macarons. A peace offering of sorts to his brazen baker. He’d made notations on the recipe, including the history of the macaron as he knew it. Originating in Florence and thought to have been brought to France by none other than Catherine de Medici, macarons became popular when a group of nuns sold the dessert to support themselves. A sketch of a tiny nun graced the corner of the recipe.
Bram’s gaze settled on Rosalind’s mouth, unable to help himself.
She blushed immediately, the red stain spreading over her chest and mottling her complexion in an instant.
“Like a moldy cherry,” Lady Phaedra said under her breath as she floated away from him.
“Miss Richardson.” Bram made his way over to Rosalind and bowed low over her hand, holding her fingers far longer than he should have. Warm vanilla and the scent of sugar surrounded her. She’d very recently left the kitchens. He tried to focus on the freckles across her nose but found he could only think of how she’d looked in the park, riding his hand as she climaxed.
“Lord Torrington.” Her eyes were luminous, shining like the chocolate he’d dribbled over her thighs in his kitchen. The connection between them sparked so fiercely, Bram was nearly blinded by it.
HelovedRosalind. Desperately.
