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19
Rosalind relaxed in the steaming water as her maid bustled about, putting away her things. The ice blue gown was already carefully brushed and hung, the matching slippers with their spiraling design stuffed with tissue paper and placed in the wardrobe. She took a sip of the champagne, perfectly chilled, and surveyed the pale cream and yellow walls, all smelling of fresh paint. A large vase of flowers sat on a round table in a small sitting area surrounded by two comfortable-looking chairs. In addition to the wardrobe, there was a dresser and a vanity. Her cookbooks were stacked on a bookcase. A desk held paper and ink. Torrington must have had the rooms redone for her, because the colors were nearly identical to Rosalind’s bedroom at home. Everything, including the bath and the champagne, was perfect. And shehadneeded a moment to herself after the ceremony and the wedding breakfast. It had been harder than Rosalind expected to leave her mother, now alone except for her servants.
She’d had time, while soaking in the bath, to consider the wedding and the following breakfast in detail. Torrington’s nieces, all four of them dressed in near-identical gowns, had fluttered around their uncle, small faces full of adoration as he bent to speak to each of them. She’d seen Torrington draw his sister into an embrace and whisper something to her which made her laugh and swat him on the shoulder. He’d interrupted the rapidly escalating argument between Haven and Tony with a story about a place called Hagerty’s, of which he promised to say no more until the ladies weren’t present.
Phaedra whispered to Rosalind that Hagerty’s was a boxing establishment. And not the sort of place most gentlemen frequented.
Rosalind declined to ask how her cousin knew of such a thing. She wasn’t sure she’d care for the answer.
While she was loath to admit it, Torrington had charmed the Barringtons, and that was no easy feat.
Rosalind kept trying to rekindle her anger at Torrington but couldn’t seem to do so when sitting in a warm, scented bath he’d ordered for her and drinking champagne. Her resentment toward him had faded dramatically since she’d overheard Lady Hertfort and Mother discussing her fate.
She swirled a finger in the now tepid water. There was no anger now. Anticipation, yes. Rosalind often imagined what lay underneath Torrington’s finely tailored coats. The only thing she knew for sure was there would be no padding. She couldn’t wait to see for herself.
Gertie stood before the tub, a fluffy towel opened wide for Rosalind. The maid dried her off with ruthless efficiency, glancing at the clock on the bedside table before rubbing another bit of skin. Once dry, the maid dropped a ridiculous scrap of lace, ribbon, and little else over Rosalind’s head. Diaphanous and nearly see-through, the garment left very little to the imagination. One pull of the ribbon at her neck and the nightgown would fall from her shoulders.
Rosalind shivered at the thought. Of all the things she feared, most she couldn’t even put a name to, having Torrington bed her wasn’t on the list.
“If that’s all my lady, I’ll bid you a goodnight.”
“Actually—” She wanted to ask after Torrington.
But the girl bobbed and exited the room before Rosalind could utter another word, scurrying away into the depths of Torrington’s house.
Frowning at the maid’s odd behavior, Rosalind took a seat by the fire to give her hair time to dry and waited for Torrington to appear. Surely he didn’t mean to leave her alone on her wedding night.
She glanced out the window. Or rather, her weddingafternoon. The sun had still not completely set. Standing, she went to her new vanity, a lovely carved bit of walnut, and straightened her things, though the maid had done so only an hour before. Pouring another glass of champagne, Rosalind resettled herself on the chair.
She eyed the door separating her rooms from Torrington’s. No sound came from beyond the door. Rosalind stood and cocked her head to listen. The entire house was silent. There were no footsteps from servants echoing in the house.
Strange.
In fact, the only servant she’d seen, besides her own maid, had been Watkins. Rosalind had been so out of sorts upon her arrival, she hadn’t bothered to consider why Watkins showed her upstairs instead of introducing her to the staff. She walked to the door leading to Torrington’s rooms and knocked. Only silence greeted her.
Rosalind strode to her own door and stuck her head out into the hall. “Hello?”
The most delicious smell met her nose. Or smells. Something sweet mingling with the aroma of chicken, mushrooms, and onion. Her stomach grumbled in response.
She hadn’t eaten much at her own wedding breakfast. Her nerves had been too frayed. Rosalind hadn’t even sampled the wedding cake because she knew it would be dry. If Mrs. Hadley, Mother’s cook had made a moist cake, biscuit, or scone in the last ten years, Rosalind had yet to taste it.
“Watkins?” she said into the hall. If there were servants about, someone would answer. “Hello?” she said a little louder.
Nothing. The entire house was still.
If the smell of chicken hadn’t reached her on the stairs, Rosalind would have assumed she was all alone in the house. Grabbing her robe, which the maid had left for her on the bed, Rosalind threw it over her shoulders, then cautiously made her way down the stairs.
“Torrington?” She peeked into the dining room, catching a glimpse of a large table completely absent of food. Rosalind started down the long hall in the direction of the kitchen, but a bark sounded to her right, followed by a low, masculine rumble.
Walking with more certainty, she passed the kitchen stairs and made her way to the end of the hall. A door stood ajar. Bijou barked again, sensing her presence.
Rosalind pushed the door open cautiously, really hoping it wasn’t Watkins who was behind the door. That wouldn’t be an appropriate way to begin her tenure as Lady Torrington.
The sound of claws clicking on the floor came closer, and Bijou’s snout appeared, poking through the partially opened door. The small, wet nose nudged at her hand as Bijou’s tail thumped in greeting.
“Bonjour, Bijou.” Rosalind kneeled to scratch the dog between her ears.
“Very good, Lady Torrington.” The smoky sound of her husband’s voice held approval and something else. He had discarded his coat and waistcoat. No cravat. His shirtsleeves were once more rolled up his beautiful forearms.
