“All that external beauty is wasted on her,” Beatrice called out. “Come taste this batch of toffee and see what you think? I added something special.”
Amity rolled her eyes. She couldn’t stay angry at her sister, who meant no harm but called a spade a spade — and to the devil with the consequences.
AT TEN MINUTES TO ELEVEN the next morning, Amity stood upon the pavement in front of the Duke of Pelham’s magnificently appointed mansion. Not a shrubbery was out of place. Located at the premier St. James Place, the duke’s home was intimidating. Next door was Spencer House, and she’d passed Devonshire House to get there. Everywhere were dukes and earls, it seemed. Amity couldn’t believe she was going to breech the walls with a tin of chocolates as her battering ram.
To that end, she had a separate offering for whomever opened the door, probably a butler. As expected, a tall, stately fellow who looked to be as aristocratic as anyone he could possibly serve, peered down his nose at her, and then he glanced past her to Delia, their maid-of-all-work, whom she’d brought as a companion.
“I am here to see the Duke of Pelham,” she began immediately, hoping all her words were coherent. “We must discuss the sweet surprise for his upcoming dinner party. My name is Miss Rare-Foure. Here is my card. And here, if you please, is a small gift of my chocolates.”
She thrust into his hands one of their small sacks with a blue stamp of their store name.
The butler took it but looked at the bleached white paper sack as if it might smell bad or explode. Either way, he was not impressed.
“Do you have an appointment?” he asked.
Drats! The man already knew she had no appointment and no invitation, for any butler worth his salt would know the schedule of his household.
“No.” She paused. “His lordship was at my shop recently and intended to go there again soon, perhaps even today. I am creating a brand-new chocolate confection for him. Thus, I am here to ... to accelerate the process.”
Handing the tin of chocolates behind her to Delia, Amity reached for the paper bag the butler continued to hold at arm’s length. Opening it for him, she raised it under his long, aquiline nose. He sniffed. His face remained entirely expressionless. However, his eyes widened slightly. Then he blinked and looked down at the contents.
“Would you like to try one?” she asked. Who could resist after catching the delicious aroma of chocolate?
Slowly, he took the bag from her again and tipped it on its side. A chocolate square slid out onto his white-gloved palm. He scrunched the bag with the remaining chocolate into a hidden pocket in his livery and picked up the square, putting it into his mouth without preamble.
Amity watched his expression relax as he briefly closed his eyes. He swallowed before his lids snapped open again.
“This way, miss.”
Stepping back, he allowed her entry, followed by her maid. Closing the door, he strode across the spacious foyer and up the stairs. Apparently, his lordship’s parlor was on the second level.
Trying not to appear as a bumpkin, she glanced at the splendid décor, looking up surreptitiously at the enormous foyer chandelier. As her gloved hand slid along the polished handrail, her feet sunk into the carpeted stairs. She couldn’t help looking sideways to exchange a glance of awe with Delia.
Upon the landing, the butler turned into the first room on the left, an expansive parlor, with pale blush wallpaper and an oriental carpet. The various seats around the room were plush with cushions. It looked to be a very pleasant place to meet and chat.
Unfortunately, Amity’s insides were quaking, and she feared throwing up on the luxurious carpet if this discussion didn’t go well.
“Please wait here, miss. I will see if His Grace is available to meet with you.”
“Thank you.” She couldn’t imagine she would be standing there, marveling at the grand fireplace, the massive painting above it, or the graceful statue in the corner if she hadn’t bribed the help with chocolate.
Sometimes she wondered at the powerful intoxicant at her disposal. One certainly didn’t get that response from a regular Fry’s Cream Stick. She turned to their maid.
“I cannot believe we’ve managed to get this far.”
“You are a skilled chocolatier, miss. There’s no reason why the duke shouldn’t fall at your feet with the very first taste.”
That wasn’t exactly what Amity was hoping for, but it bolstered her nevertheless. Delia was a kind soul in her middle years, who’d helped out the Rare-Foure family for a decade. After taking it all in, her maid handed her back the tin of chocolates and wandered down to the end of the room where she took a seat in a comfortable-looking winged chair. She waved at Amity before drawing a penny-dreadful from the pocket of her coat, slipping spectacles on her nose, and beginning to read.
After a very few minutes, the Duke of Pelham entered the room. Her stomach twinged at the sight of him, without a hat or gloves and in more informal clothing than she’d ever seen him wear. Even after her insides settled, her heartbeat continued to race. He was so very appealing, and her reaction still caused her a tremendous sensation of guilt. He was not hers to admire and never would be.
Amity lowered into a deep curtsey.
“Please don’t do that. I do not deserve it,” the duke said. “I came to your shop two days ago to speak with you, but you were not there.” He ran a hand through his hair, and she realized his dishevelment wasn’t simply because her visit was unexpected but because he was in some distress.
“I have been berating myself more strongly than you or your father — if it came to that — ever could. I behaved terribly.”
She was surprised, for while floundering in her own guilt at having enjoyed his kiss, she’d nearly forgotten how ungentlemanly were his actions. It truly was his fault. Yet, in light of Lady Madeleine’s threat, she could hardly spare a thought to anything else.
“What’s more, Miss Rare-Foure,” the duke added, “I know why you’ve come.”
Chapter Thirteen
Had Lady Madeleine beaten her to the Duke of Pelham’s elegant door? Amity had been prepared to confess her sister’s rudeness, but perhaps there was no need.
“I don’t think you can possibly know why I am here,” she told him, then waited to see if he mentioned the earl’s daughter.
“I expect you would like an apology and only out of your desire for discretion did you not ask your father to come demand one, which would be his due. I willingly tell you, Miss Rare-Foure, I am deeply sorry, and I hope you will forgive me.”
She glanced at Delia, whose gaze remained fixed upon her magazine, knowing her maid would probably wonder what His Grace had been apologizing for. How Amity wished that had been the cause of her visit.
“I do forgive you, my lord,” she assured him while wishing she could ask him why he’d done it and what the kiss had meant to him. Yet men and women did not have such a conversation, not when they didn’t have a prior understanding.
Even when they did, such discussions were oft fraught with emotion and confusion. Amity had spent an entire day pondering her difficult encounter with Jeremy in her father’s study the night of the duke’s kiss. In the end, she’d taken Bea’s advice and asked him to kiss her. Despite Jeremy doing so with enthusiasm, Amity had felt strangely indifferent. He’d sensed it, too. And with him already looking wounded, she’d decided against easing her own conscience by confessing to the duke’s kiss and hurting her beau further. Instead, she’d suggested they take a little respite from their close association, which had hurt him anyway.