Page 27 of A Recipe for a Rogue (The Beautiful Barringtons 5)

Rosalind couldn’t fathom what held his interest. There wasn’t much of a garden to look at. Her mother wasn’t enamored of nature. Hated flowers until they were cut and artfully arranged in a vase. Didn’t care for birds, saying the sound of their warbling gave her a headache. Claimed to be absolutely terrified of bees, or any winged insect, really. One of the reasons Mother decided on this house when they’d left their previous home was the absolutelackof greenery.

The garden consisted of a standard row of hedges, trimmed expertly so that not one leaf stuck out. Rose bushes sat in a circle, all perfectly pink. A small weeping willow kept lonely guard at the far corner along with a somewhat diseased maple tree which, even under the best circumstances, rarely sprouted a profusion of leaves. A stone bench sat beneath the maple’s nearly bare branches, a bench Rosalind rarely sat on because it was so uncomfortable.

“Lord Torrington.” Rosalind came forward, hands clasped before her. “My apologies you’ve been kept waiting.” Her gaze slid down his lean, muscled form garbed in riding breeches and boots. She knew now those broad shoulders weren’t padded. The bunched muscles of his thighs, visible beneath the tight leather, weren’t an illusion either.

A rush of warmth settled inside her. She pressed a palm to her midsection to still the feeling.

“The maple needs to be trimmed.” He gestured with his brandy. “I see a rotted branch. Several, in fact.”

Rosalind came forward. “I’ll inform the gardener.” Her heart pounded harder with every step she took in his direction. The anticipation, she guessed, was over the fact he had finally brought her the custard recipe. Or maybe it was Torrington’s masculinity, on full display in his riding clothes, with his curls wind-tossed and the sun sparking the bits of gray to silver.

Something stirred at her core, nearly halting her steps.

He finally turned, the slightly mocking half-smile she was coming to like a great deal on his lips. “Come here, Rosalind.” The husky command brushed over her shoulders. “I’ve brought you something.”

Rosalind’s breath hitched at the intimate use of her name, but she kept walking, drawn to Torrington as if he were pulling her toward him with a length of string.

He inhaled slowly at her approach. “You smell like cherries, Rosalind. Vanilla. Sugar. Why is that?” The tiny lines at the corners of his eyes deepened.

He’s pleased to see me.

The knowledge sent a spike of pleasure through her, unstoppable and entirely blissful. She tried to focus on getting the recipe, but the only thing she could think of was the tight fit of Torrington’s riding breeches. “I don’t think I gave you leave to address me by my given name, my lord.”

“Oh, you didn’t.” The grin on his beautiful mouth stretched wider, taking Rosalind’s breath away. “But I like Rosalind better. And we’re friends, are we not?”

“Are we? I don’t recall deciding we were. But I suppose we are.” She wasn’t sure how else to refer to her furthered acquaintance with Torrington. They were either arguing or he was being flirtatious, which then left her wanting him to take liberties. And now she liked him. Which was making things that much worse.

Focus, Rosalind.

“Oh, good.” He cocked his head, eye on her bosom. “Then allow me.” Torrington’s hand reached out and carefully plucked a small bit of pink frosting from the neckline of her bodice. He’d discarded his gloves, and Torrington’s hands were...large. Graceful. Warm where they briefly touched her skin.

She wanted them on her body.

Dear Lord, where had that come from?

“You had a bit of pink frosting just there.” One finger traced the piping along her neckline while Rosalind watched in fascination. “What have you been up to, Rosalind? I’d venture you weren’t walking in the park or sifting through old books at Thrumbadge’s. Not smelling of cherries with frosting on your”—his eyes flicked to the rise and fall of her bosom—“person.”

Torrington’s fingers were elegant. Long. The nails neatly trimmed. A gentleman’s hands. Except for the tiny cuts on two of his knuckles. Those looked as if he’d been in a fistfight. His thumb had a purplish tint beneath the nail. It was possible Torrington didn’t spend all his time being charming.

“Rosalind?” His hand dropped. “You’re frowning. Are you angry? Or puzzled? I can’t tell which.”

“A teacake.” She looked away from his hand. Severaldozenteacakes. Pennyfoil had been decorating the small rounds when she’d arrived, and Rosalind had decided to help. She’d been so careful with the dough and the cherries for the pies, worried over crumbs from the crust, but there hadn’t been a thought given to the pink icing for the teacakes getting on her clothes. “I was—having tea with a friend.”

“You’ve also got a bit in your hair.” He nodded toward her left ear but made no move to pluck out the bit of pink as he had on her bodice. “Were you tossing the cakes at each other?”

“No. Of course not.” Her eyes fell back to his fingers now lightly curled against his thighs, wondering about the cuts. And how those hands might feel trailing between her breasts. A tiny sound escaped her.

“Rosalind? Are you well?”

“Quite,” she said firmly, ignoring the increased coiling sensation in her stomach. “Have you brought me the custard recipe?”

“I have.” A curl hung next to his cheek, tempting her to wind the strands around her fingertip. Cedar floated into her nostrils along with the scent of wind and the outdoors. Torrington was more tempting than a hundred cookbooks.

“May I have it?” Rosalind stretched out her hand. “Please.”

“I translated and copied it myself. Didn’t use my secretary.”

“Good for you, my lord,” she shot back, frustrated at his delay. “I’m sure you have perfect penmanship.”

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