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Her fingers tightened on him before she firmly pushed the dark thought away. It had no place here. Not tonight.
“I like this tea cosy you’re wearing, by the way.” The low growl rolled over her skin, caressing her nipples, before Torrington’s thumb followed, circling the tip of one. “Very pretty.”
“It’s a nightgown,” she said with a smile, shivering with pleasure at his touch. “I think.”
“More an enticing doily.” He kissed the end of her nose before moving to one of the chairs and pulling it back for her.
Rosalind sat, feeling his warm fingers trail over her collarbone. He leaned down and nipped at the skin beneath one ear. “Are you cold?” he whispered.
“No.” Her entire form was malleable. Warm. Whether from Torrington’s kiss or the champagne she’d already had, she wasn’t sure. “Are you?” She nodded to his open shirt.
“I was going to change.”
“There’s no need.” Her gaze lifted to his.
He sat down across from her, dark eyes flickering with hunger that was for far more than thecoq au vin.
Rosalind wasn’t the least ignorant of what her immediate future held. While her mother hadn’t been entirely forthcoming about the marital bed, telling Rosalind only that ‘Torrington would guide her,’ Theodosia had been much more detailed in the basics of losing one’s virginity. The books Rosalind’s father had left behind, though helpful in explaining a variety of sexual acts, assumed all parties had already discarded their virtue and thus were useless in describing how it felt to have one’s maidenhead breached.
Theodosia had found it painful. Romy, uncomfortable.
Torrington speared a bit of chicken along with a mushroom on the tine of his fork. “Open your mouth, Rosalind.”
Rosalind squeezed her knees together to stop the spurt of moisture at Torrington’s seemingly innocent words. She parted her lips as he commanded. Flavor burst on her tongue. The earthy texture of the mushroom, the savory chicken, the hint of wine in the sauce. She swallowed. “Delicious. You really could have been a chef, fooling everyone with a French accent.”
A rumble of amusement came from his chest. “Do you find it odd I like to cook? I suppose it isn’t very earlish.”
“I don’t think that’s a word, Torrington.”
“Bram. I find horseraces dull. Hazard a waste of time and money—”
“My cousin Leo says never to play hazard. The odds are always in favor of the house.”
“Agreed. Balls are tolerable, I suppose, if you are forced to hand lemonade to the right young lady.” His hand stretched across the table, his forefinger circling and stroking the tip of hers.
“And send her off to look for a rare French cookbook when you already own a copy.” Rosalind raised a brow.
Torrington shrugged. “I was conflicted at the time.” His gaze on her softened. “You enjoyed the chase.”
The throb intensified between Rosalind’s thighs, moving up and over her stomach.
“But back to being an earl. Earls like to hunt, for the most part. I don’t care overmuch for the sport, though I’m an adequate shot. I know how to set a snare.”
“So, if we were lost in the forest, you could potentially find me a rabbitandcook it.”
“Exactly.” He flashed a grin at her. “My father, once I grew older, didn’t care to have me spending so much time in the kitchen, which is probably what drove him to take me to Hagerty’s the first time. Boxing, at least according to him, was a much more appropriate pursuit.”
“You mentioned Hagerty’s when you dined at my mother’s.” Rosalind accepted another bite of the chicken. Torrington really was an incredible cook.
“I hesitate to call Hagerty’s a gentleman’s boxing establishment because I believe I might be the only title frequenting the place, but I learned to box there. Wonderful exercise. Helps with frustration.” His finger caressed the tip of hers once more. “Especially that which is sexual in nature.”
Rosalind’s skin was warm all over. “Is that where the puffy eye came from, not Bijou?”
He nodded. “And when Watkins told you I was ill, it was nothing more than me going far too many rounds with O’Leary. He’s a butcher. Big. Irish. I was a bit bruised around the ribs. Dr. Graw does visit me, but only as often as I visit Hagerty’s. You needn’t worry, Rosalind.”
The relief that Torrington had never been ill was so profound, Rosalind found her fingers twisting far too tightly around the knife by her plate.
Torrington’s eyes flicked down to her hand. “Are you planning on stabbing me, Rosalind? I thought you liked the chicken. Is it because I called your lovely wedding ensemble a doily?” The half-smile clung to his lips.
