The kiss was a revelation. Amity was awfully glad the worktable was close behind to support her for she didn’t have a bone left in her body, and her breath had been stolen from her lungs.
As she opened her eyes, she refilled her lungs with an unladylike gulp, breathing in that intoxicating fragrance he wore.
Briefly, she saw a look of tenderness and something else upon his handsome face — desire, if she understood the expression, undoubtedly mirroring her own. Her body was aflame with wanting more. Another kiss, a touch of his hand on her skin.
Heaven help her! She was soon to belong to Jeremy, and the duke belonged to Lady Madeleine.
Was he toying with her? Amity had heard of a titled gentleman ruining a maid in his employ. It was a clichéd tale, but it happened all the same. Nobility felt entitled to take what they wanted because no one ever told them they couldn’t. Privileged lords preyed on the powerless — and even the not-so-powerless, such as Charlotte and how Lord Greenley behaved with open disrespect.
The duke backed away. He didn’t apologize. In fact, he didn’t say anything. He looked as confused as she felt. Nevertheless, he had determinedly cornered her and kissed her!
She was about to tell him to leave — or beg him to kiss her again! — when he nodded stiffly and walked out of the room. Hurrying forward and peering through the open curtain, Amity watched him go, without acknowledgment, straight past Charlotte who was behind the counter and past two customers deciding on what to buy.
He tugged open the shop door, his broad shoulders held rigidly as he strode out into the watery London sunshine.
Well!
HENRY HAD NEVER DALLIED with a woman in his life. He was no saint, of course. He’d not only kissed a few willing ladies in the gardens of Mayfair’s best townhouses, but upon occasion, he went to the most expensive brothel in London and, for a long night of passion, spent more than some men earned in half a year. Once or twice, discreetly, he’d even taken a mistress for a month.
But that kiss! His behavior had been different than anything he’d ever done, grabbing the chocolatier and kissing her because she was within arm’s reach and because he desperately wanted her.
He still wanted her. Now, he wanted more of her, but to what end besides slaking his own lust? For that was all it could be. He wanted to strip her down and see her stretched out upon his sheets with a blush of desire on her cheeks and her soft lips parted. He wanted to dust cocoa powder upon Amity’s skin and taste her like a sweet confection.
Dammit! He was thinking of her now as Amity and not Miss Rare-Foure.
And if he did experience her delights — after seeing how her brown eyes and dark hair looked in the moonlight as well as in the morning sun following a night of lovemaking — then what?
He could hardly take her home to his mother and present her as his bride-to-be. The Duchess of Chocolate?
Troubled, he climbed into his carriage, belatedly realizing he hadn’t told his coachman where to go.
Leaning his head out, he said, “To White’s,” before he slid the window back up.
His future rested securely and properly with the most desirable woman in London. It wasn’t as if he were settling for anything but the best. Lady Madeleine was bred to be a duchess, to handle their dinner parties with aplomb, to manage household affairs, to entertain at his country estate, and to be a partner in his entire aristocratic life.
And she was beautiful, to boot. But then again, Amity was perfectly lovely and vibrant, funny and smart. Why on God’s earth did she have to be a shopkeeper’s daughter?
She was also spoken for. That lawyer was the natural choice for her — Mr. Cole and his affable manner and his ability to provide a modest life for her. She could probably continue to work in her shop if the lawyer married her, whereas if Henry claimed her, she would have to give up all such endeavors. A duchess could hardly go to New Bond street and make chocolates in a back room to fill the shelves of a confectionery.
He thumped his knee with this fist. Why was he still thinking of marrying Amity Rare-Foure?
Henry needed Waverly and Jeffcoat to talk him out of this madness, and he needed to spend more time with Madeleine. He ought to kiss the earl’s daughter to expunge the memory of how perfect was the kiss with Amity. When he kissed the glorious Madeleine, stars would shoot across the night sky, the earth would shake, and he would drop to his knees with desire for her.
And if he didn’t? Then heaven help him!
AMITY GAVE UP TRYING to do anything useful. She made sure Charlotte had ample stock of their best-selling items, added a tray of Beatrice’s treacle toffee to the display case, and went for a walk.
Window shopping was a good way to purge any troubling thoughts from her head. Usually, she took pleasure in idly strolling along and looking at the pretty things London had to offer. Today, however, when she looked in Mayfair’s luxurious shops, she saw the Duke of Pelham’s world, and its vast difference from her own.
She could dress the part for an evening and hold her own at a dining table with English aristocrats. Almost — except for the rude laughter and the wine spillage! Be that as it may, those of his ilk lived a life she could not really comprehend, nor did she desire to.
Two ladies stepped out in front of her from a jeweler’s store, their hands empty. Behind them came a maid carrying small parcels with the jeweler’s stamp. No matter the size, those packages might hold unimaginable wealth of precious stones set in gold, and these ladies didn’t even care enough to hold them!
Amity wandered along aimlessly behind them, not eavesdropping but unable to help from hearing their words. And that was only because the ladies spoke at a pitch meant for everyone around them to hear. They talked of fashion and pointed out things they liked in the next shop window, a haberdashery. They spoke of traveling abroad soon since everything on Bond Street, no matter how fine, was undeniably months behind what they would find in Paris or Milan. What nonsense!
As other women passed them, they spoke loudly about their rivals’ clothing. They hardly seemed to notice the few fashionable men, wanting mostly to be certain they looked better than the other ladies. And if they didn’t, then they had a harsh putdown for them.
“That Lady C is such an unfortunate dullard. What matter if her hair is lovely when she can barely read a clock?”
“Her figure is fine, but that dress color makes Lady T look positively sallow. Someone should tell her, poor thing.”
These snide remarks were accompanied by lighthearted giggles.
And when they passed a gallery, suddenly, they were art critics. Meanwhile, the maid traipsed along behind in what was undoubtedly her best clothes, and yet her boots were so well-worn, Amity could see the girl’s stocking through a hole in the right heel.
She glanced down at her own comfortable but stylish ankle boots and her rather fashionable day gown in gray and pink. She was firmly, irrevocably in a position betwixt the maid and the ladies. Just as the Duke of Pelham was firmly above them all.
But the kiss! It was as perfect as she’d ever imagined a kiss to be. It wasn’t her first. She and Jeremy had managed to steal one here and there. His kisses were enjoyable. They made her happy. He smelled of familiar Pears soap and treated her with care. He was safe, never giving her a moment’s anxiety.
Never making her truly tingle, either.