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20
Rosalind didn’t want to move. She was warm. Cocooned. And everything smelled of cherries, chocolate, and sugar.
The lobe of her ear was caught between teeth and gently tugged on. Lips brushed over a hidden spot on her neck. A big hand cupped her breast, toying with the nipple. And something hard, warm, and rather large, was throbbing against the curve of her buttocks.
She rolled over just slightly to see Torrington absorbed in drawing his fingers over the slope of her breast. Squeezing the flesh as if he were testing the ripeness of a melon.
“Enjoying yourself?”
He flashed her a wicked grin. “I am. And by my count, you enjoyed yourself at least a half dozen times. Not too bad for a feeble lecher.”
Rosalind giggled and swatted his hand away. “I never,ever, called you a feeble lecher, my lord.”
After enjoying thebaiser du cielin the parlor, she and Torrington had made their way upstairs. They lay entwined on the bed in his room, far larger than the one in Rosalind’s, staring at the fire. True to his word, Torrington had explored every curve, every hidden bit of skin Rosalind possessed.
“Fine. Ancient debaucher, then.”
Rosalind had spent nearly an hour just running her fingers over every inch of Torrington’s beautifully sculpted form. She’d traced the small creases radiating from his eyes, fingertips stroking down the line of his cheeks to the hard angle of his jaw covered by his beard.
“I think I’ve more than apologized.”
Torrington’s hand slid between her thighs, tugging lightly at the soft hair covering her mound. “Have you? I feel certain there’s more to be done, Rosalind. You can start your apology tonight by reading to me from one of those books I’ve heard so much about. I want you in nothing but stockings. Maybe a robe thrown over your shoulders.”
A gasp came from Rosalind as his fingers slid lower. She would lay naked on the worktable in the kitchen covered in custard if Torrington wished.
“I have something for you,” he murmured into the curve of her neck.
“I’m sure you do,” she breathed, arching her back against him.
“No, not that, Rosalind,” he said in mock outrage. “Insatiable. That’s what you are.” But Torrington was smiling at her. “This is a wedding gift.”
Rosalind sat up. “But I didn’t get you anything.” The anger at being forced to marry, the worry and fear before the wedding, had blotted out the need to purchase him a pair of cufflinks or a jeweled pin of some sort.
He leaned over to the table next to the bed and pulled open the top drawer, retrieving a small, leather tome tied with a red ribbon.
Rosalind went still. “The cookbook.”
Torrington nodded. “You’re my wife. This should be yours.”
Rosalind took the book and held it against her chest in utter worship. The leather was ancient and worn, the binding cracked in several places. Opening the cover, she leafed through the pages, noting stains from bits of egg or cream. Tiny notes in French were written into the corners of the well-used pages in a feminine hand which could have only belonged to Torrington’s mother.
“I won’t let anything happen to it, Bram. Ever. I promise,” Rosalind whispered.
“I know.” Warm lips pressed to her temple. “Look to your heart’s content, but unless you are going to surprise me with a sudden fluency in French, I’ll need to copy the recipes into English for you. And Pennyfoil.”
Rosalind’s fingers tightened on the book at the mention of her partner.
“Yes, I know about Pennyfoil. No, Lady Richardson didn’t inform me. I already knew about Mr. Rudolph Pennyfoil before your mother warned me of his existence. She suggested once we wed, that I forbid you to engage in such a scandalous venture, but Pennyfoil’s other partner disagreed.”
Rosalind’s stomach pitched. Pennyfoil had replaced her so quickly and without her knowledge? How could he? It was her recipes which had made Pennyfoil’s profitable.
“Stop frowning and clenching your jaw. I am the partner, Rosalind. Me.”
“How is that possible?” A strangled breath fell from her lips. “How could you—”
“Before you throw the cookbook at my head”—Torrington nodded at the tome—“let me explain, my brazen baker. Pennyfoil did not betray you, in fact he went to great lengths in denying you were involved in his bakery. I explained that as your future husband, mindful of your reputation, that certain adjustments to your partnership would need to be made.” Torrington held up a hand to stop her from speaking. “Allow me to finish. I have no desire to become involved in the management of your establishment unless you ask my opinion. Whether you wish it or not, you are now a countess, Rosalind. Discretion is necessary. Legally, Pennyfoil ismypartner. I had my solicitor draw up papers to that effect. But in all the ways that matter, Pennyfoil’s belongs to you. The law does not favor women. Nor society. This is the loophole Lady Andromeda used. Legally, it is the Duke of Granby who owns half of Madame Dupree’s modiste shop. I’ve only done the same for you. And I bought the building you wanted from Ledbean outright.”
“Bram.” Her fingers gripped tighter on the book. The enormity of what he’d done for her wasn’t lost on Rosalind. No one had ever gone to such trouble for her. Her heart beat fiercely for Torrington, so much so it was in danger of bursting from her chest. A terrifying fear suffused her limbs, though she tried to will it away.
