For his part, he would take his children to Rare Confectionery where he would let them purchase whatever they liked. He might even ask the more endowed Rare-Foure sister how she made that piercing whistle. He imagined it would come in handy for calling his children if they were in another part of the house or summoning a dog, for that matter.
“And your feeling on dogs?” He might as well ask.
Her head whipped around, and her eyes finally blazed with passion.
“I cannot abide them. Smelly, yappy things, always scratching or yawning or relieving themselves. My father had one for a short while, and after two weeks I made him get rid of it.”
“Ah, well then. Perhaps a cat?”
She shook her head and launched into further vitriol about shedding and clawing and vomiting. She’d allowed her mother to keep a cat for three whole weeks once!
He decided not to ask about the more unusual pets he’d encountered in some of England’s finest houses, such as squirrels, owls, or monkeys. His children would have to grow up without the fun of a four-legged friend, except for their horses.
Suddenly, he had a terrible thought. “Lady Madeleine, do you like the taste of chocolate?”
She gave him her perfect smile again. “Of course, Your Grace. One would have to be uncivilized not to.”
“I refer not to the regular drinking kind,” he clarified. “I am speaking of the solid type of chocolate, such as a Cadbury Fancy Box or even a Fry’s Cream Stick. Have you had one?”
“I have. They are most delicious. The sweetness of the cream stick is a treat.”
Internally, he heaved a sigh of relief. His plan remained a good one. And he would tell Miss Rare-Foure, the sweeter the better.
“Chocolate is the very opposite of an orange, don’t you think?” she added.
He frowned. “I’m not sure I take your meaning.”
She lifted a delicate shoulder. “I mean that I like sweet chocolate almost as much as I dislike a bitter orange.”
He nodded even though he recalled the third, orange-infused creamy chocolate with great fondness. What’s more, never in his life had he considered the sweet fruit to be bitter, but apparently, Lady Madeleine did.
AMITY HAD JUST FINISHED pouring boiled, nutmeg-infused cream into a bowl of chocolate pieces when her mother called to her through the curtain.
“I can see the Duke of Pelham’s carriage has pulled up. And there he is. He’s coming in. Again.” Mrs. Felicity Rare-Foure had a sing-song tone of approval. She liked her store being patronized by the finest ranks.
Amity heard the tinkling of the shop’s bell and pulled off her apron to look more presentable while immediately wishing she didn’t care a fig if he thought her so or not.
By the time she stepped through the curtain, her mother was already speaking with the duke. The sight of him gave her the same thrill as a new shipment of Chocolats au Lait Gala Peter, a ready-made milk chocolate drink from Monsieur Peter’s factory in Switzerland. Anticipation tingled through her.
“Here she is, my lord,” her mother said.
Amity stepped forward and curtsied. “I did not expect to see you again so soon.”
“I said I would return,” he reminded her, looking like the perfect gentleman in a charcoal gray morning suit. His ascot was meticulously tied.
In truth, she’d assumed he would find something else to occupy his time between yesterday and today.
“And there is nothing more important than getting this right,” he added.
Ah, yes. When a man was on a mission to win the heart of a lady, it trumped all other interests.
“I understand, my lord,” she said. “I haven’t as yet had a chance to make anything new. I had an order to fill for the palace.”
“Indeed! How exciting. I have definitely chosen the right chocolatier,” he said, making her cheeks warm with his praise. “I have information that may help in your artistry,” he said. Pausing, he looked past her toward the curtain.
Did he actually want to return to her workroom? What a strange man! She couldn’t imagine another duke in all the world who wanted to spend time in the back of a confectionery.
“Very well, my lord.” She glanced at her mother, knowing she might already be concocting fanciful notions in her head. Seeing the duke return to their shop, Felicity Rare-Foure was as likely to tell her husband that an aristocratic wedding was imminent.
“We’re going to work on the chocolate surprise for his lordship’s special lady,” she reminded her mother, hoping to knock any silly ideas out of her head.
“Of course you are.”
Rolling her eyes as she turned so the duke wouldn’t see her, Amity led him through the curtain. She grabbed her recently discarded apron and pinned it at the top before tying it around her waist.
“Would you care for an apron, my lord?”
“Not if my life depended upon it,” he said, then grinned.
Did angels start singing? Amity had to look away to stop herself from blushing, so strong was her attraction to him and his dimples.
“Do not blame me if you walk out of here with chocolate stains,” she said, reaching for her notebook. “If you get too close to me or to my worktable, you are bound to get soiled.”
To her amazement, he stepped closer, reaching his arms around her. She gasped, feeling the heat of him along the front of her.
Staring down into her eyes, he said, “That’s a risk I’m more than willing to take.”
Chapter Five
Amity was about to close her eyes and tilt her head upward for a kiss, when he snatched a chocolate off the marble counter beside her and backed up.
Popping it between his lips, he closed his eyes and savored it.
That gave her time to regain her balance and her senses. The Duke of Pelham wanted to offer his hand to the most beautiful woman in London. He was hardly going to swoon at the feet of a shopkeeper’s daughter. Or sneak a kiss, for that matter.
“That was delicious,” he said when he looked at her again.
“That was what went to the Palace,” she told him. “When Her Highness isn’t eating parboiled bone marrow on toast, she enjoys chocolate-smothered treacle squares.”
“I bet you learn quite a bit about your customers.”
“Those of us with an interest in serving the queen, and especially in getting the royal stamp of approval, tend to make it our business to find out her likes and dislikes.”
“The queen’s cooks pour a good cup of gossip-water, do they?” the duke asked.
“For the right amount of chocolate, yes, they do.”
“I hope, Miss Rare-Foure, you are not going to gossip about my likes and dislikes.”
She blinked. “Absolutely not, my lord. In plain truth, I know very little about them.”
He raised a perfect eyebrow.
“And even if I did,” she added, “I would not babble about you. You are a customer. I will not disclose anything about Lady Madeleine, either.”
“Isn’t the queen a customer?” he asked. Amity could see by the smile playing about his lips he was teasing her.
“The queen is a different kettle of fish entirely.”
“I suppose she is. She also might not like to know she had ever been described as a ‘kettle of fish.’”