“Oh dear,” Beatrice remarked. “Someone didn’t enjoy her evening.”
Amity shrugged. “I did, I suppose, once I got used to it and overcame my nervousness. Regardless, it seemed as if everyone were on display and needing to watch their step and their words. Except for the host and hostess, and Lord Pelham.”
Beatrice cocked her head with interest. “He was there?”
“Yes, as was the sublime Lady Madeleine.”
Her sister straightened and set down her teacup. “You saw her?”
“Yes.” Amity tried to remain neutral despite having a feeling of distinct animosity toward the beautiful lady.
“Was she exactly as everyone says?” Beatrice asked.
“More so.” Amity shrugged.
“Good lord. Why on earth would Charlotte want to spend an evening competing with the likes of that paragon of all things desirable?”
Amity sighed. “Fortunately for our younger sister, she has a couple of things men desire.” They blinked at each other and started to giggle.
“Bless her heart,” Beatrice said. “She doesn’t realize how adorable she is, while being womanly at the same time.”
“We’re lucky she doesn’t realize yet. If she demands a Season, Father will have to keep the suitors away with a cricket bat.” Then she looked at Beatrice. “I’m rather set with Mr. Cole” — except when she was kissing the Duke of Pelham — “but what about you? You’re as adorable and womanly as Charlotte. Plus, two years and somehow decades more mature. Have you got your eye on anyone?”
“No. Truthfully, sometimes I despair of having anything or anyone outside this shop.”
Amity was stunned by her sister’s admission. “What? That’s ridiculous. Simply because I didn’t want a Season, doesn’t mean you can’t have a coming out party and attend events. Shall we talk to Father tonight?”
“No, I don’t want to bother. I would have to wait until next April for an appropriate time to coincide with the titled misses being presented to the queen.” Beatrice shook her head of thick brown hair, a shade lighter than Amity’s, and sighed mightily.
“Most of those girls aren’t worrying over the cost of a Season. As soon as I was declared a shopkeeper’s daughter, I would be ostracized anyway. And as you said, I’m about two years older than most, and four years older than many. Why, off the top of my head, I can think of at least four gentry brides who got married at age sixteen in the past few years. If we go by them, then I am firmly over-the-hill.”
At this, Amity laughed. “You are nineteen and perfect. Your life is just starting. What’s more, you are talented.”
“As a toffee-maker? I might as well be a seamstress or a cobbler.”
“Nonsense. Yet if you wish to learn the skill of patisserie, I think Mother would be thrilled. She’s always on about the superior pastries in Paris.”
Beatrice shrugged. “I don’t think so. I’ve never had an interest in baking. I like making toffee, but it doesn’t have the artistry of your chocolate creations or Charlotte’s marzipan sculptures. I am in a rut, I suppose.” She sipped her tea again. “I think running a household and having a husband and children sounds rather heavenly compared to spending my days with treacle and butter.”
The shop bell tinkled, and Amity went out to sell half a pound of chocolates, two marzipan pigs, and another pound of toffee to a very joyful woman, who was grateful for complimentary samples for herself and her three young children.
She could see what Beatrice meant about having a family and had been lucky to find Jeremy quite by happenstance. Having his children would be fulfilling, but she intended to continue making chocolate after her marriage and even after motherhood. It was her passion, and she delighted in watching people enjoy her confections. How could she help Beatrice find a good man?
Wandering into the back room again, she realized her sister was cleaning up for the day.
“Do not worry,” Beatrice said. “I’ll see what comes. Tell me more about Lady Madeleine, while I scrub these pots.”
“If I must. She had on a gown of the palest shade of blue—”
“Thus, cold and unappealing?” Beatrice asked mischievously.
“More like angelic and breathtaking. Her hair was styled as a golden crown of braids. She had extraordinarily blue eyes, the palest skin, and a lovely shade of pink to her lips—”
“Artifice and make up,” Beatrice interrupted.
Ignoring her, Amity added, “She had a soft voice. I didn’t hear her speak too much, to tell you the truth, so I couldn’t tell you if she was intelligent, but the Duke of Pelham hung upon her every word. As he should,” she added quickly.
Beatrice arched a brow at her. “Why do you say that?”
Amity shrugged. “No reason.”
But her middle sister was like a hound at the hunt. “Tell me. Something has happened. I can read it on your face. Come on, you’re dying to.”
It was true. She was desperate to tell someone, preferably her thoughtful sister, and get her opinion.
“All right, I’ll tell you. The Duke of Pelham kissed me.”
Chapter Eleven
As soon as Henry told Waverly, he regretted it. His friend promised discretion, but still, a woman’s reputation was at stake as well as his own future happiness. Waverly raised a knowing eyebrow but looked sympathetic.
“You are not the first to be tempted by the charms of a warm and willing ordinary female. They are right there in our midst, after all, and so readily available, infinitely more so than our titled ladies who must keep their lips and legs firmly closed until after the wedding.”
Henry frowned at his friend, sipped his brandy, and tried to discern any truth from his rambling palaver. He couldn’t credit any advice that termed Amity as ordinary. Moreover, as with a titled lady, she had as much cause to keep her lips and legs closed. Why should any of them assume middle-class women mustn’t guard their reputations as fiercely as Lady Madeleine or Henry’s own sister?
“Balderdash,” Henry said finally. “Miss Rare-Foure deserves the exact same courtesy as any titled lady, and she cannot be any freer with her person if she wishes to gain a husband. Besides, she already has a man in mind for that position.”
“Then why did she let you kiss her?” Waverly began. “I’ll tell you why. Because as with every single female around any man whom they think is eligible, your Miss Rare-Foure thought one kiss and you would be hooked like a trout upon her line. That is the sole reason ladies let us kiss them at the balls and parties, no matter how secretly and hastily we must do it in a darkened corner of a damp, miserable garden.”
Waverly sounded a little bitter. Henry wondered who’d soured his cream, but his friend wasn’t finished espousing his theory.
“Even if she already has a suitor, as you say, your chocolate-maker didn’t mind kissing a duke in hopes of snaring you into marrying her. They all want a similar thing, I tell you — a titled man as long as he has a good fortune to go along with it.”
“So cynical,” Henry observed. “The thing is, however, she didn’t really kiss me. I surprised her with a hasty maneuver of which Wellington, himself, would have been proud.”