Page 30 of A Recipe for a Rogue (The Beautiful Barringtons 5)

His mouth stretched into a brilliant smile, stealing what little breath was left in her lungs. “Not usually. Only you, Rosalind.” A graceful hand waved over the table. “What have we here?”

“I’ve made the custard.” She lifted her chin proudly. Next to the custard sat the stewed cherries, crushed, and sprinkled with sugar. “With an accompaniment.”

“So I see.” The amber in his eyes sparkled as they lowered to the tops of her breasts. “I adore cherries.” One elegant finger traced the outline of a plate.

Rosalind stared at his hand, thinking of his fingers circling a—cherry. “I remembered.”

Their eyes caught for a moment, his so intent on her, Rosalind finally had to look away. Torrington had the ability, with merely a look and a few thinly veiled innuendos, to raise all sorts of wicked thoughts and feelings in her. She’d dreamt of Torrington last night and afterward had spent a great deal of the night thinking about the nature of arousal. Specifically,herarousal.

She turned to the custard, but upon looking at it, she immediately had another rush of sinful thoughts.

Good lord. It’s only custard.

Putting a scoop of the custard on each of the two plates, she placed a spoonful of the cherries beside it.

“Shall we sit?” He pulled a chair out for her, his breath fanning across her shoulder as a hum started beneath her skin.

“Yes.” She took her seat, heart hammering in her chest, and smoothed down her skirts.

“You look lovely, by the way.” The words caressed the air around her neck.

Rosalind wore one of her favorite dresses, a pale rose frock edged with a tiny row of lace at the bodice and sleeves. The dress wasn’t extravagant and not cut so sharply it required her to be tightly laced. The last thing she wished to do was become breathless with Torrington in the room.

“Thank you.”

Torrington pulled out his own chair, angling it so that he faced her instead of the table. Pulling off his gloves, he laid them carefully aside.

Rosalind swallowed, her eyes following the movements of his hands. “I’m rather eager for you to taste the custard. I made a few small changes. I hope you’ll approve, my lord.”

“I’m certain I will. I suspect I would adore anything you placed before me.”

Rosalind inhaled softly as their eyes caught and held once more. “Why does everything you say sound slightly improper? I’m never sure if you are serious or not.”

“I’m always serious about being improper. That is something I don’t joke about.” Torrington picked up a spoon. “As I mentioned when I gave you the recipe, I’ve made the custard many times myself. Secretly, of course.” He shot her a glance. “I expect your discretion, Rosalind, in return for my own.”

“You have it.” A smile tugged at her lips. His presence overwhelmed her senses. Intoxicated her. As if she’d drunk an entire bottle of champagne.

“Earls are expected to have a variety of skills,” he continued. “Most completely useless. How to play whist. How to find a proper valet. The study of Greek.”

“Greek?”

“Possibly interesting but not useful. How many people in London speak Greek?” Torrington rolled his eyes. “Learning to cookisuseful but definitely not taught at Eton or Harrow.”

“Which did you attend?”

“Eton. And before you ask, I excelled in history and mathematics.”

“An interesting combination.” Rosalind found it hard to look away from Torrington. She noticed everything. How one side of his closely shorn beard held more gray than the other. The brackets around his mouth when he smiled, which was often. The lone curl that no matter how often he pushed it back seemed to fall against his cheek.

“My sister once hosted a grand dinner party. The guest list contained some of London’s most influential titles. The Marquess of Hertfort is very well connected.”

Rosalind knew that to be true because her mother had once remarked that Lady Hertfort seemed to know everyone.

“Margarite’s cook, though skilled at roasting a leg of lamb, hadn’t created anything special for the dessert course, or at least nothing Margarite felt would impress her guests, especially the Duke of Castlemaine. He couldn’t have merely a chocolate toffee cake. Not as the guest of honor. I’m not sure why. I happen to like chocolate toffee cake very much.”

She smiled at that. “Lady Hertfort wanted to impress Castlemaine.”

“Indeed, she did. So, Margarite swore her kitchen staff to secrecy, threatening to sack them all if they said so much as a word, and sent a note to me. She begged me to arrive that morning, insisting I prepare something worthy of a duke.”

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