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16
Rosalind had been dreading this dinner since her mother had informed her of the intent to host the Barringtons along with Lord and Lady Hertfort. She wasn’t sure how to behave around Torrington. Not after their encounter in the park and the things he’d said. How was it possible to long for someone yet want to escape them at the same time? She’d stayed away from the drawing room as long as she could, until Mother had sent Jacobson to search for her.
“I must have you.”
Those words and the raw emotion with which they were spoken still haunted Rosalind.
The knowledge that Torrington was circulating in the drawing room with her family had made her impending marriage to him real. She’d even argued with Mother that her family could meet Torrington at the wedding. There was no reason to invite Tony, Maggie, Cousin Amanda, Olivia, and Phaedra to dinner.
EspeciallyPhaedra.
Phaedra was bound to launch into improper dinner conversation. Or whip out a sword from beneath her skirts and dazzle them all with her fencing ability. Worse, she might feel the need to engage Torrington in conversation and share some embarrassing incident involving Rosalind. Like the harp playing.
She’d made sure she wasn’t to be seated next to Torrington at dinner. Not because Rosalind didn’t want the warmth of him at her side, but because shedid. Her victory, however, was short-lived. Torrington was placed directly across from her, which was far worse. Every time she looked up from her plate, Rosalind was faced with all his magnificence. It made it difficult to concentrate on the beef in pastry, one of her favorite meals.
Rosalind watched his graceful movements as he ate, looking for any sign Torrington might not be well. He caught her staring several times. The last time, he mockingly put a hand to his brow and pretended to swoon over the soup course.
She frowned at him, pushing down the fear leaching through her system, not finding his antics the least amusing. This was all his fault. Why had he needed to confess his feelings for her in the park? Up until that moment, Rosalind had continued to pretend. She pushed away the food on her plate, unable to enjoy the excellent dinner Cook had prepared. All of this made Rosalind incredibly annoyed, mostly at Torrington.
The duke conversed with Torrington at length, as did Cousin Amanda. When Phaedra flicked a bit of carrot at Olivia, who was seated next to him, Torrington reached out and caught it mid-air without halting his conversation. He told an amusing story, which had the table laughing, all except Rosalind who couldn’t forget the way he’d clutched his chest earlier. Watkins said he’d been ill. Torrington had a physician who visited him regularly.
Worry left a bitter taste in her mouth.
When the dessert was finally served, she breathed a sigh of relief that the evening was coming to a conclusion. She looked down at the chocolate toffee cake and picked up her fork. Rarely had Rosalind ever refused dessert. Spearing a bit of cake, she held it up to her lips.
Torrington’s foot nudged hers. “A hint of nutmeg, Miss Richardson,” he mouthed from his place directly across from her, “means just that.”
Rosalind nearly threw the forkful of cake at him. Had she not been so concerned for his welfare, she might have done so. Not for an instant did she believe he’d tripped over Bijou.
The entire evening had been nothing but intolerable.
Sometime later, when Torrington finally took his leave along with the other guests, he enfolded her hand in his, squeezing gently. “All will be well, Rosalind,” he said quietly so only she could hear it. “I promise. There is nothing to fear.”
She nearly burst into tears before reaching the safety of her room.
Rosalind didn’t want Torrington to matter so much to her. Or for her to feel such panic at the thought he might not be well. Marriage to him was bound to make things worse. The desire between them had only grown and expanded over time. Rosalind had been reminded multiple times she would likely be a young widow, even by Torrington himself.
As if that were supposed to make her feel better somehow. Because it did not. It made Rosalind want to curl up into a ball beneath the covers of her bed and never come out.
I should have just gone to Paris.
Now as she sat before the window in her bedroom, clad in her nightgown, hair neatly braided, Rosalind tried once more to focus only on the establishment she hoped to create with Pennyfoil. She picked up the macaron recipe from where she’d left it, her eyes scanning the instructions Torrington had so neatly written out for her. There was a tiny nun drawn in one corner.
Rosalind drew in a halting breath.
“It was the risk you took, madam. At wedding my uncle who was so many years your senior.”
Rosalind retreated to her bed, the recipe still clutched in one hand, the words of her father’s heir still fresh, though she’d been only a child at the time. He had derided Mother’s grief at the death of Lord Richardson, assuming it merely a ploy for money.
Rosalind had been barely five that fateful day when her father collapsed. He’d taken to his bed shortly thereafter and never left it again. He died when she was seven. Her memories of him were vague. Cloudy. But she remembered how Mother had stroked his cheek when she sat and read to him, curling herself around his decaying body. She’d wept nearly all the time, except in front of Rosalind’s father.
Rosalind’s determination to avoid the same fate that befell her mother had been for naught.
A sob choked her.
If she must wed it should be Delong. Or Cheshire.
Anyone but Torrington.
