Chapter One
London, 1877
The female whom Henry sought was practically prancing along New Bond Street, dressed in a plum-colored gown and a stylish hat upon her head with the identifying sapphire blue feather he’d been told to look for. He liked her on sight. If she’d been a dour, gray-clad woman, he might have questioned her ability to create the sweet magic of which he’d heard.
Henry tapped upon the ceiling of the carriage, and his driver pulled over. Leaning out the window, he called her name with a slight query to his voice although he had no doubt it was she.
“Miss Rare-Foure?”
He waited for her to turn and respond. After all, he didn’t want to be accused of accosting the wrong female. Actually, he didn’t want to be accused of accosting any female when it came right down to it. He hoped after they’d spoken, she wouldn’t be accusing him of anything except a pleasant arrangement.
He smirked to himself. In any case, no one accused a duke of being indecorous. He could say that with all the smug certainty in the world for it was true.
The woman in the plum dress stopped, barely able to hold her own against the tide of passersby, and stared directly at him — mahogany-colored eyes in creamy skin, dark hair escaping from under her feathered hat, and a hesitant, questioning expression.
Since she was carrying parcels restricting her movements, she couldn’t even raise a hand to swipe the tendril of hair that crossed her face as she turned.
“Who wishes to know?”
With that saucy statement, she seemed to acknowledge her identity, and then her gaze darted over the coat of arms on his carriage, and he watched her eyes widen.
Not awaiting his footman, he popped open the door and stepped out.
“I do.” Henry offered her a shallow bow, a greeting she tried to return in the form of a deep curtsey befitting his status, but she could hardly manage with her packages. She ought to have a servant assisting her, he thought, a little irked that she was juggling so many items.
Before she could drop anything, he reached out and took the bag, perched atop a box she held with both hands.
“Oh,” she gave a little yelp of surprise, and then said, “Much obliged, my lord.”
He started slightly. No one had called him anything other than “Your Grace” since his father passed away, transforming Henry into the Duke of Pelham.
“Will you enter my carriage for a private tête-a-tête? I mean, with your maid, obviously.” He looked past her for any such person.
“Oh,” she said again in a slightly different tone, her rich brown eyes looking directly into his. “That’s redundant, my lord.”
“I beg your pardon?” What was the woman on about?
“A tête-a-tête is, by nature, a private discussion, and thus, there is no need—”
“I take your point,” he said, not keen on being corrected by her. “I must tell you, I do not have a chaperone inside,” he admitted, gesturing to his carriage. “Do you have a companion with you?”
“No,” she said, glancing past him to where his coachman and footman awaited. “Nevertheless, I shall enter your carriage for two reasons. One, you are a well-known gentleman with a long-standing, spotless reputation, and two, because your coat of arms is plain to see, so obviously you cannot be engaged in anything remotely nefarious. We shall, of course, leave the shades up and the windows down. Agreed?”
“Yes, naturally.” He watched her take a breath. She was a whirlwind, but hopefully not a chatterbox. He didn’t have all day.
“And if you can drop me at Rare Confectionery after our discussion,” she added, “I will greatly appreciate it, as that is my destination.”
“I can get you there in a jiffy. In fact, I just came from your shop,” he admitted, handing her bag to the footman, before relieving her of the rest of her parcels, which he also dispatched, so he could assist her personally into his spacious coach.
“That’s how I knew what you were wearing and where to find you,” he said to the backside of her pleated bustle.
“Very clever of you, my lord,” she said, as he clambered up behind her and closed the door.
Tidily done, he thought.
“My purchases?” she added, glancing out the window.
“John will hold them safely until we arrive at your destination.”
She nodded, folded her gloved hands — also plum-colored — in her lap and waited.
As the carriage got under way, maneuvering around the other carriages and the blasted omnibuses that were a blight upon the streets, he took her measure, and two words came to mind, intelligent and capable, simply by her manner and the interested look upon her face.
He also thought another word, beautiful, but that was not important to him, so he dismissed it.
Henry knew her reputation as a chocolate-maker — more than that, as a veritable artist of chocolate, a Michelangelo of the cacao bean, as it were.
“I have heard what you are doing in your little shop. I’ve been told you have a magical way of making chocolate confectionery so delicious, one cannot help but consume it, eyes closed, raving over the quality, under an enchantment of ecstasy. Very impressive.”
Her high cheekbones blushed with a pretty shade of rose. “Thank you, my lord. Have you tasted my confectionery?”
“Sadly, no, not yet. But I hope to remedy that soon. It is the reason I wish to speak with you. For you see, Miss Rare-Foure, I am in need of a wife.”
AMITY SHUT HER MOUTH so quickly, her teeth clacked together. She was sure they made a loud sound, but that might have been only in her head. In any case, her ears were filled with the beat of her own thumping heart.
A wife, she thought. The Duke of Pelham was speaking to her about needing a wife!
“Are you indeed?” she asked when she could finally make a calm and sensible response. Inside, she was screaming a duke, a duke, a duke!
Good lord! She was riding in a ducal carriage with not just any duke, either — although any duke was impressive enough — but the Duke of Pelham, famous for his massive fortune, his lovely London home on St. James Place, his good looks, which were in evidence that very moment, and his comely smile, which she had yet to see, among other things.
Actually, she didn’t know anything else about him except that he had a sister who was recently married and, thus, also in the papers. What did he like for breakfast? Did he like to read? Was he kind or cruel, of good humor or ill-tempered? None of that was mentioned in the gossip rags she enjoyed with her morning cup of hot chocolate.
The duke’s carriage was regally plush. The soft and smooth leather seat was firm beneath her, promising a comfortable ride even for a long journey. The “shades” she’d mentioned keeping open turned out to be curtains of a thick brocade, shot through with gold thread. And the interior smelled heavenly of some enticing manly eau de toilette.
With her nose being nearly as good as her palate, Amity tried to pick out all the individual scents — orris and bergamot, cedarwood, musk, sandalwood and more, even something floral, perhaps jasmine. Whatever it was, the duke’s rich fragrance seemed to wrap her in elegant cashmere and tanned leather, making her want to close her eyes and dream of something special upon the horizon. And to desire it!