She had glared and somehow squeezed out a single tear, looking beautiful as she tried to portray sadness when, clearly, all she felt was anger. Finally, she raised a hand to her forehead and fled the room.
For the first time, Henry was extremely glad he had never managed to kiss her. At least, he had not taken advantage of the lady.
Meanwhile, he’d learned from Asprey’s jewelry store that Amity and her family had gone on holiday to their country home in Coggeshall, and he’d been sorely tempted to follow immediately. Or rather, as soon as he figured out where such a place was. From a gentleman at White’s with a passion for maps, Henry learned it was in Essex.
In any case, with indecision reigning supreme, he’d cooled his heels for a week, until at White’s, Waverly said, “If you are serious, Pelham, I think you should go after her.”
“How can I show up out of the blue?” Henry asked, swirling the brandy in his glass. Even the amber liquid, full of subtlety and complex flavors, reminded him of Amity.
Waverly had laughed. “If you are waiting for an invitation, you’ll have a deuced long wait.”
“No, of course not.” What did he want? “I would hate to get there and find she despises me.”
“Why on earth would she despise you?” Waverly asked, with a jovial slap of the polished table. “Miss Rare-Foure doesn’t know you that well. On the other hand, I do, and even I don’t despise you.”
Henry rolled his eyes and drained the last of his drink.
“I say,” Waverly began, resting his foot on his knee and leaning back comfortably, “you must really like this girl to be in such a twist. Can you be worried she’ll refuse you?”
“The look upon her face when she left the party,” Henry reminded him and shook his head. She had appeared to hate him.
Waverly nodded. “Partly my fault. I should have told her the correct form of address, but I thought the evening would end and she would slip back to her world, never having cause to address you publicly again. Nor any duke, for that matter. How could I know you intended her for your wife?”
“How could I know?” Henry asked. “The notion slipped up and grabbed me, and now I cannot think how I can live without her.”
“Amazing. I wonder if love shall attack me in similar fashion. It sounds positively dreadful.” Waverly pretended to shudder.
Henry couldn’t help smiling. “It’s not dreadful. It feels better than thinking I might tie myself to someone for the rest of my life for whom I could scrounge up nothing more than a lukewarm interest.”
“Even with Lady Madeleine’s astonishing looks, you prefer your chocolatier?”
Sadly, Madeleine had only her looks to interest Henry. Besides, even in that regard, Amity outshone the earl’s daughter. Waverly must be blind not to have noticed. “Did you see her at my party?”
Waverly refilled his glass and Henry’s. “Who? Which one?”
“Miss Rare-Foure, you dolt! She is the most perfect woman. At the party, she was like a sweet sprite in her green silk, her hair burnished and gleaming, looking so soft I itched to touch it. And her sincere eyes, earnest and lively. Why, I cannot wait to look into them again. And her sweet, supple lips, the perfect shape for kissing...,” he trailed off at his friend’s expression.
Waverly’s mouth had fallen open, then he coughed. “You must, as I said, go to her at once. No more grand gestures and intricate plans. You can see how those have failed.”
Henry sighed. “I cannot say my plans failed, as they brought me to Rare Confectionery. But you’re right, I should speak with her as soon as possible. I could send word to their country home and see if I get a reply.”
Waverly was shaking his head, humming his disapproval of such a tepid tactic.
Henry shrugged. “Or I could pack a bag and leave first thing in the morning.”
“Here, here.” Waverly raised his glass and set it back down. “Why do you still look doubtful? You are the bloody Duke of Pelham!”
“That is the problem. If Miss Rare-Foure becomes my duchess, all she can do with her life is represent me and my position with grace. That and promise not to engage in anything scandalous.”
Waverly lifted an eyebrow. “And why is that a problem? Do you foresee her becoming scandalous? Go on, tell me the details.”
Henry sent him a withering look. “She would have to give up anything to do with Rare Confectionery and restrict herself to charity work. The closest she could get to chocolates would be placing them in a food basket for the poor, if that is even done. I’m sure the destitute prefer hearty bread and meat.”
“I suppose you had better give Miss Rare-Foure that choice, don’t you?” Again, Waverly raised his glass of spirits. “You or chocolate? That is the question.”
Chapter Twenty
Amity didn’t like the sudden change in her sisters ever since Jeremy had arrived. After she’d agreed to marry him, they had walked hand-in-hand back to her family’s modest country house to tell everyone.
First, he’d been closeted with her father for a few minutes, and when they reappeared, Armand Foure was slapping Jeremy on the back, looking pleased, and her mother had smiled when she heard the news. However, Charlotte had appeared more hesitant, and Beatrice gave the barest nod of approval.
Later, upstairs in the large bedroom shared by her two younger sisters, Amity asked them, “What on earth has soured your milk?”
“What do you mean?” Charlotte asked, plainly stalling.
Forthright Beatrice shrugged casually. Apparently, she had something to say, but as it was probably harsh, she had decided to be uncharacteristically cautious.
“Bea,” Amity pleaded.
“You said you’d kissed the Duke of Pelham.”
“What?” Charlotte exclaimed. “How did I not know this?”
Amity glared at Beatrice. “Because it was not necessary. It was one kiss and that was it. What possible bearing can it have on my engagement to Mr. Cole?”
“When did it happen? And where?” Charlotte asked. “Did you like it? Did he ask you first? Did he taste good?” Then she gasped. “Did he force you?”
All this came out in such a rush, Amity could but shake her head. “Do you see what you’ve done?” she asked her middle sister.
“All good questions,” Beatrice said. “Why don’t you answer her before telling us why you’ve settled for Mr. Cole.”
“Settled? That’s unkind. Did you say that because he is a commoner and not a nobleman? Or because he doesn’t have a fancy house in Mayfair?”
“Neither,” Beatrice snapped. “I said it because your eyes don’t light up the way they do when you mention the duke. Because you’ve kissed both men but only dream about one. Am I right?”
“Stop it,” Amity said. “What is the point of wanting something I cannot have? Do you really suggest I become the spinster you joked about, rather than enjoy a full life with Mr. Cole? If that’s the case, I don’t think you love me as much as I love you.”
Beatrice paled, looking shocked. “That’s a terrible thing to say. I want you to be truly happy.”