“Not a nibble or a bite,” she murmured.
He closed his eyes. She knew the chocolate was melting quickly upon his tongue, allowing all its sweet and subtle flavor to release.
“Mm,” he said, rather like a low moan that made her shiver. In quick succession, he ate the rest. She counted three more. Each time, as soon as the confection was in his mouth, he closed his eyes and savored the taste. Like a true connoisseur. The way her mother did with wine she particularly liked or her father with his favorite cigar.
When the duke finished, he opened his eyes and grinned at her. Ah, there was that famous smile, just as handsome as she’d heard. With dimples to boot!
She shook her head, cleared it, and recalled her professional demeanor as a chocolatier. “What do you wish, my lord? Chocolates in the shape of swans is rather romantic? Perhaps chocolates with sweet cream centers or with exotic nuts? Or maybe heart-shaped chocolates to woo your lady with her sweet tooth?”
As he nodded at her suggestions, any remaining tendrils of fantasy dissipated from Amity’s brain.
“Perhaps not shaped like a heart,” he said. “That seems too obvious. She does like sweet things, however.”
“Hopefully, your lady still has teeth in her head,” Amity added, taking the empty bag from his fingers and crumpling it before stuffing it back into her reticule. “Although at the rate our fellow countrymen and women are consuming sugar, it’s a wonder any of us have anything but gaps in our gums and toothaches in the remaining teeth we have left.”
He frowned. “Miss Rare-Foure, you started out making my mouth water and ended by making me feel a little sickened. Do you really think sugar is ruining our nation’s teeth?”
She shrugged slightly. “When it was used by only the very wealthy, from the late sixteen hundreds — to make those lovely sculptural table displays, for instance — right up until a few decades ago, diseases of the teeth seemed to be worse in the nobility and the royalty, including blackened teeth, abscesses, and loss of choppers altogether. Find a farmer eating his meat and potatoes, and I’ll show you a man with more good teeth than King Louis of France.”
The duke stared at her, then blinked.
“And how about now?” he asked. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Now, twenty years since the prices plummeted and everyone started eating more sugar — over thirty-five pounds per person in a year — don’t you think you see more toothless people than when you were a child?” She doubted he could disagree.
“I ... I...,” the duke trailed off.
Amity bit her lip. She was a ninny! Since he wasn’t around the masses, he would hardly be seeing more or fewer toothless people.
“Smile for me,” he commanded unexpectedly.
She couldn’t help rolling her eyes. He might be nobility, but she wasn’t a horse he was determining whether to buy. Nevertheless, she gave him a broad smile.
“Perfect white teeth,” he pronounced. “Yet you must spend a great deal of time tasting your creations. Do you brush daily?”
“Of course. And I have a highly effective tooth powder recipe with peppermint oil.” She leaned forward. “Come closer.”
Looking startled but intrigued, the duke did as she suggested.
“Hah,” she huffed her breath directly upon him. “Well?”
“Fresh and minty, I must say.”
She sat back with a delicate lift of her shoulder. “What did I tell you?” Then, before she thought, Amity added, “Smile for me, my lord.”
She might have gone too far, but luckily, the duke didn’t look affronted. Instead, he produced an attractive grin that showed not only his dimples but his straight teeth — and a whole set of them, too. She decided not to point out he had a small piece of almond stuck between two of them from one of her chocolates. If he did brush daily, he would discover it soon enough.
“Satisfied?” he asked, his attractive green eyes locked on hers, causing her stomach to twinge oddly.
She nodded.
“I won’t breathe in your face if you don’t mind,” he said, “but I can assure you I use the finest tooth powders.”
“I have no doubt, my lord.”
He looked as if he was going to say one thing but changed his mind and said another. “How do you know so much about sugar?”
“My father made his fortune in the sugar market, my lord.”
“I see. Is that why your family got into the confectionery business?”
“Yes, my lord. My mother started Rare Confectionery when she and my father first were married.”
“You come from enterprising stock, it seems. And thus, back to business, Miss Rare-Foure. I believe we have an agreement, yes? Before a fortnight is out, you will create a chocolate delicacy specifically for my party, and we shall name it for the woman I hope to marry.”
Why hadn’t he said that in the first place? She hadn’t given him the chance, she supposed — instead jumping to an unfortunate assumption that had sent her on an emotional ride along with the carriage ride. Good thing she did have a suitor in the back pot, as it were. Jeremy Cole was definitely the name she had momentarily forgotten, and his affable expression swam in front of her eyes framed by sandy brown hair. A perfectly good man.
“The name, my lord?”
“Lady Madeleine—”
“Brayson,” she guessed.
“Yes. How remarkable!”
“No, not really.” Amity ought to have known instantly without going on her outrageous journey of delusion. “Everyone who lives within a stone’s throw of Mayfair has heard how Lady Madeleine has taken the Season and the bon ton by storm. Why wouldn’t you want her?”
If rumors were true, she was the most beautiful creature to grace London’s ballrooms in a donkey’s age. Amity had never seen her, but not because her family didn’t have the money for a ball. In truth, she didn’t care for the whole debutante and match-making notion of a Season. It seemed passé and a little degrading.
The carriage came to a halt, and she realized they must be in front of her own shop.
“I hate to tell you this, my lord, but there is already a famous sweet treat named the Madeleine, some call it a small cake, some a soft biscuit. Anyway, it’s a cakelike treat baked in a dainty shell-shaped mold. Everyone in the bakery or patisserie world has heard of them already.”
He made a face of dissatisfaction, while remaining as handsome-looking as ever. She hated to disappoint him.
“Perhaps her last name, my lord. We could call it a Brayson.”
“Not as pretty sounding as a Madeleine,” he protested.
She shrugged. “The Maddie, perhaps?”
He winced slightly. “I shall think on it, and we shall name it later.”
Nodding to the waiting footman who peered discreetly through the coach window, the duke waited while the man opened the door, let down the steps, and assisted her onto the pavement.
Keenly aware when the duke alighted directly behind her, Amity turned to face her new patron.
“John will help you inside with your packages,” the duke insisted as his footman gathered her belongings from the storage box. “I shan’t go inside your shop again as I created a bit of mayhem last time.”