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18
Rosalind sat back in the carriage, looking out the window at the house she’d called home for as long as she remembered. It wasn’t Lord Richardson’s London house. His nephew had taken possession of her father’s home a week after Lord Richardson had died. This property was one Cousin Marcus, in his endless generosity, had given his dear cousin Winifred along with a large allowance. No relative of the Duke of Averell would be allowed to devolve into genteel poverty or be tossed into the streets. The neighborhood was even more fashionable than the one the current Viscount Richardson resided in.
In any case, Rosalind would never live here again.
Hands clasped in her lap, fingers twisted in agitation. Unknown to her mother or anyone else, especially the traitorous Jacobson, Rosalind had snuck out yesterday to visit Pennyfoil. Surprised at the sight of her, Pennyfoil had immediately stopped what he was doing and joined her for a cup of tea. The work area bustled with activity around her. Cakes were being made. The lemon torte. The ginger spice cake with pears she’d perfected only a short time ago. When she apologized for not bringing over any additional recipes, Pennyfoil had waved away her concerns.
“I don’t think we need them.”
Rosalind looked out the window as the carriage rolled in the direction of Torrington’s home. What Pennyfoil meant, she supposed, was that he didn’t needher. Worse, there was a part of her that didn’t care.
“Are you well, Rosalind?”
“Perfectly, my lord.”
“Bram.” He drummed his elegant fingers against one thigh. “Are you upset because I thought there was too much nutmeg in your chocolate toffee cake?”
Honestly, Rosalind had more pressing concerns. She’d forgotten all about Torrington finding the cake over-spiced. “There wasn’t too much nutmeg.”
He shrugged. “I disagree. Have you tried to make the macarons yet?”
Rosalind narrowed her eyes. “I planned to do so tonight. A pleasant way to spend the evening. I already know my way to the kitchens.”
“Unfortunately, you’ll be otherwise occupied, Rosalind. You’ll have to make the macarons tomorrow, perhaps. If I allow you out of my bed.”
A delicious tingle ran down her spine.
“Or perhaps I’ll assist you. I could eat the batter off your thighs.”
Her pulse skipped a beat at the suggestion, bringing to mind all the things Torrington could lick off of her skin. Her breasts swelled, feeling heavy beneath the confines of her clothing. “You’re provoking me.”
“Is it working?” His gaze lingered on her mouth, as it so often did. She’d come to realize Torrington, for whatever reason, had an obsession with her lips. Deliberately, she worried her bottom lip with her teeth, watching as he took a deep breath and shifted.
Torrington took the edge of his coat and flipped it over so she could see the tenting of his trousers. “This is an amusing game, Rosalind.”
“I think so. When did you decide to offer for me? I know you visited my mother after Lord Blythe’s birthday celebration. You already had the papers ready. You decided before that.”
He looked taken aback, not expecting the question. “Does it matter? Will the answer help you to hold on to your notion I was only looking for a brood mare? Keep the distance you struggle to maintain between us?” Bram sighed. “When I saw you at Thrumbadge’s,” he said quietly. “I knew what I would do. But I had the papers drawn up after the Ralston ball.”
Rosalind did a poor job of hiding her surprise. “You knew you were going to offer for me.”
“Eventually.”
* * *
I love you.
Bram’s heart beat out the words though Rosalind couldn’t hear them.
“I thought we might suit but wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want your mother giving you to Cheshire in the meantime,” he said. “Would you rather I had?”
She made a disgruntled sound. Her moods of late seemed to vacillate between panic, hostility, and longing. All directed at him. He wasn’t sure what to do other than be patient while Rosalind worked through whatever troubled her.
Bram had first assumed that Rosalind’s aversion to marriage had to do with the gentlemen in question being Lady Richardson’s choice. The relationship between Lady Richardson and her daughter was volatile at times, the result of two very strong personalities in constant conflict with each other. Then, Bram had surmised she just wasn’t attracted to him. Neither was true. But once he understood how serious she was about Pennyfoil’s, Bram could see why avoiding marriage made sense. Rosalind wanted to practice her talents. Have her bakery. And it was a rare husband who would allow his wife to be in trade. Bram understood.
But the fear he’d glimpsed in Rosalind couldn’t all revolve around Pennyfoil’s, especially since she had to at least suspect Bram would be supportive of her endeavors. There was more to her avoidance of marriage. Marriage could lead to many things. Affection. Closeness. And in some cases, love.
Thatwas what Rosalind was escaping by making her tortes and pies. He just didn’t know why, exactly. She pushed him away, lashed out at him so ferociously, because shedidcare for him. And Rosalind didn’t want to.
