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Mortification filled her. “I see.” Rosalind jerked her chin and dipped politely. There was little else she could do save committing matricide. “Lord Torrington.”
“Miss Richardson.” He inclined his head. “I doubt we’ll speak again. Enjoy the remainder of the party.” Torrington’s face was incredibly composed, giving nothing away. He did not apologize for taking liberties with her. Perhaps he wished to forget he had.
Rosalind forced herself to look away from his broad-shouldered form as he marched in the direction of the terrace to rejoin the other guests. Laughter erupted from somewhere near the French doors leading inside. She looked up and saw Lady Beatrice holding court, her fingers fluttering over the arm of the Duke of Granby.
Beatrice Howard didn’t stand a chance of becoming a duchess, at least not Granby’s duchess. Granby’s intentions lay in a different direction. Rosalind couldn’t believe no one else saw it.
Torrington jogged up the steps to the terrace, bowing in greeting to Granby and the others standing near the doors. He didn’t turn or look in the direction of the gardens.
Rosalind had managed to ruin her mother’s plans once again. Except this time, she didn’t feel victorious. She gave her skirts a vicious tug, no longer caring if she ripped the silk to shreds. It would be best if she returned to her room quickly before anyone noticed her.
Or she gave any more thought to Torrington.
