Page 62 of A Recipe for a Rogue (The Beautiful Barringtons 5)

Damn him.He had made himself irresistible.

The shirt covering his broad shoulders was unbuttoned.Completely. And pulled out of his trousers. The white fabric billowed around him as he wiped at his chest with a rag.

Rosalind’s mouth went dry.

A great wealth of muscular torso was exposed, all dusted with a smattering of dark brown hair. He smiled at her before looking down once more, wiping at something only he could see. His trousers hung low, his hipbones stark against the smooth skin. The hair covering his chest thinned into a small point below his navel, disappearing into the edge of his trousers which were, thankfully, still buttoned.

Rosalind might have fainted if they were unbuttoned.

“Do you like the presentation?”

Like?She was dizzy with lust. A warm, slow prickle glided up and down her skin, softly brushing between her thighs.

“The dinner.” He nodded to the two plates sitting on a small table set for two. “Admittedly, I don’t do as good a job as Watkins. He can fold napkins into all sorts of shapes.” Torrington grinned. “Swans and other intricate designs.”

“Quite a skill.” Rosalind couldn’t take her eyes from him. Torrington was dazzling.

“I thought we would eat here rather than in the dining room.”

Rosalind’s gaze ran over the small, cozy room. A private parlor. Meant only to be used by the family or perhaps the lady of the house. The furnishings in here were slightly more feminine than in the rest of Torrington’s home. The room had probably once belonged to his mother. A fire crackled in the hearth, keeping the air pleasantly warm. Two silver domes sat at the table along with a bottle of wine and two glasses. A third domed plate sat off to the side. A vase of roses was centered on the table, illuminated by two flickering candles.

He'd done all of this forher.

“I must have you.”

Her heart fluttered louder. She couldn’t even summon up the ‘brood mare’ argument without sounding like a complete idiot. Nor disparage him for being too old. Or call him a reformed rake when he was obviously as romantic as any young lady in her first season.

He dabbed at the fine lawn of his shirt once more, frowning at the stain. “Johnson will have a fit.”

“Johnson?”

“My valet. He’s very tidy. I meant to change shirts before retrieving you. Spilled a bit of the sauce on myself when I carried it up the steps.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “Hopefully you don’t find my appearance to be completely upsetting.”

It was impossible for Rosalind’s heart—or any part of her—to stay closed to this man. Not when he stood before her half-dressed after making her dinner while she soaked in a bath. Which he’d ordered for her.

But. But. But—

Rosalind pushed the voice aside. She didn’t want to listen. Not tonight.

Her robe had fallen open, and Torrington’s eyes slid over her scantily clad form, paying particular attention to her breasts and her bare feet. He set down the rag he’d been using to wipe off his shirt and came forward, absently tossing a scrap of something to Bijou. Chicken, she supposed.

“Does everything meet with your approval, Lady Torrington?” He looked down at her, curls hanging over his cheeks.

She nodded, closing her eyes as his lips brushed gently over hers. Rosalind reached up and grasped one curl, allowing the strand to twist around her finger. Like a bit of silk.

“Have we finally achieved a temporary truce of sorts?” he whispered against her cheek.

“Yes.” Rosalind didn’t want to think past tonight or even this moment.

His mouth claimed hers more fully then, moving over her lips, tasting her with his tongue until she opened beneath his gentle onslaught. He kissed her for a long time, long enough for Rosalind’s mind to still, her fears vanquished in the face of Torrington’s seduction. Tentatively, mindful of the last time she’d touched him and he’d shied away, Rosalind’s hands slid beneath his shirt, drawing her fingers along the lines of his ribs.

A groan of pure want came from him before he carefully pushed her away. “I hope you likecoq au vin. Chicken.”

“I do.” She couldn’t seem to let go of him. Her cheek pressed against the crisp hair of his chest.

“Let me pour the wine, my love. I’m not going to ravish you until you have eaten something.” His finger lifted up her chin. “You can let go.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

Yes, but you will.

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