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How Lady Richardson and Lady Hertfort had become such close friends was anyone’s guess. A shared love of matchmaking, perhaps, because it was rumored Lady Hertfort despaired of her brother’s bachelor state.
A pair of broad, decidedlyunpaddedshoulders came into view, waved forward by Lady Hertfort.
Rosalind looked down at her slippers, the brush of awareness causing her breath to hitch slightly. If she could have escaped the awkward greeting that was only moments away, she would have. But she supposed she and Torrington would be forced to speak to each other.
“Rosalind, dear.” Mother’s voice carried to Rosalind from her chair. “Come greet Lady Hertfort and Lord Torrington.”
Rosalind told the ridiculous fluttering in her chest to cease. Torrington had never had any real interest in her. Yes, he’d kissed her, but only to prove a point. They could certainly be polite to each other, at the very least. There wasn’t any reason for them not to be.
He wasn’t looking for a wife.
She didn’t wish to marry.
Hopefully, he’d forgiven Rosalind the insults she’d dealt him.
Pasting a bland, slightly bored look on her face, lest her mother sense how her heart thudded softly because of Torrington, she approached Lady Hertfort.
“Lady Hertfort, how lovely to see you again.”
The marchioness had eyes very like Torrington’s. Brown with bits of amber sparkling in the depths except hers were devoid of amusement and far more shrewd than her brother’s.
Torrington’s eyes landed on her. “Miss Richardson.” He took her hand.
A spark of warmth slid down her fingers and around her wrist. For a brief moment, she was back in the garden with Torrington, being kissed to within an inch of her life.
Torrington gave no hint he recalled their previous encounter, or that it had been the least bit memorable. His expression remained impassive. Bored, if she were being honest.
Rosalind lifted her chin and focused on the spice cakes she would make with Pennyfoil tomorrow. Mother thought she would be walking in the park with Romy.
“You look quite parched, Rosalind,” Mother said in a meaningful tone, her eyes shifting to Torrington. “My lord, would you be so kind as to escort my daughter to the refreshment table? It’s such a terrible crush, I’m certain she would have difficulty finding her way there and back without your assistance.”
Dear God.Could her mother be any more obvious? Rosalind’s cheeks reddened, the sensation of the horribly blotchy blush inching itself across her face.
“There’s no need.” Rosalind rushed to assure them all, glancing at Torrington.
Lady Hertfort gave a sigh somewhere to Rosalind’s left. “I’m thirsty as well, Torrington. Perhaps you can bring me back a glass?”
If Torrington was annoyed at either his sister or Rosalind’s mother, he gave no indication. His handsome features stayed blandly polite. Bowing to her mother, he intoned, “It would be my greatest pleasure, Lady Richardson.”
Somehow, Rosalind doubted that was the case. Nevertheless, short of causing a scene, she had little choice in the matter. Dutifully taking Torrington’s arm, Rosalind gave a weak nod to her mother and Lady Hertfort. Torrington’s muscles tensed beneath her fingers, and the warmth of him seeped through her gloves.
It seemed ridiculous to have ever accused Torrington of padding his arms or any other part of his body.
He led her in the direction of the refreshment table, artlessly steering her along the edge of the dance floor, not bothering to engage her in stilted conversation. Finally, unable to take one more moment of this uncomfortable encounter, Rosalind halted next to a large potted fern at the edge of the ballroom, a spot hidden from her mother, who was doubtless watching.
“We may dispense with this, my lord. I’m not the least thirsty and the other refreshments Lady Ralston has put out for her guests aren’t the least appealing.”
He raised a brow, a curl laced with silver falling over his forehead. “Does anything appeal to you, Miss Richardson? Because I have my doubts.”
Rosalind purposefully ignored the sarcasm. “I only meant, my lord, that the biscuits and small cakes are disappointing.”
“Not the sort you would provide, if you were in the business of doing so.”
Torrington had overheard far more than she’d wished him to at Granby’s. The fact that he recalled her words disturbed her even more. “Eavesdropping is a terrible habit,” she murmured. “I realize I have no reason to ask, but I would appreciate—”
“Don’t worry, Miss Richardson,” he said, interrupting her. “I’ve already surmised you would rather be fondling dough,” his voice dipped, “than anything else.”
A shocked puff of air escaped her. “What an inappropriate thing to say. You are—”
