“Like every cup I’ve had in a coffeehouse,” he said.
Wretched man, Henry thought.
Mr. Foure didn’t appreciate the answer either. “You should add the sugar and milk as His Grace instructed. I can even imagine how a spot of cocoa powder might be quite nice stirred in, if not chocolate itself, grated and left to melt.”
Henry startled, noticing Amity did, too. They glanced at each other with excitement. She reached for the coffee urn, but Henry beat her to it and poured some into her half-empty cup of hot chocolate. She stirred it, sipped, and smiled.
“It’s wonderful. Father, you are a genius.”
Apparently without even thinking of the impropriety of sharing a cup, she turned to Henry. “You must taste it. I know you will love it.”
Smiling with satisfaction, he took the proffered cup from her delicate fingers and raised it to his mouth, sipping from the place where her lips had touched. He couldn’t help sparing a glance for Mr. Cole, who looked positively gray.
Tasting the blended beverage, Henry’s tongue was overjoyed. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw everyone was looking at him.
“It’s perfect,” he declared, taking another sip and returning the cup to Amity’s outstretched hand. She was too excited by the new discovery to do anything except snatch it from him and drink from the same cup.
“It is, isn’t it? We cannot put coffee grounds into cocoa powder since it won’t taste right unless the coffee is already brewed, but we could start to sell our own cocoa with instructions to add it to freshly brewed coffee. What do you think, Mother?”
Unfortunately, Mrs. Rare-Foure frowned and shook her head. “I think people will still buy Cadbury’s, Fry’s, or one of the hundred other cocoa powders being produced, since they can make it far more cheaply than we can, which is why we’ve never sold it,” she added, looking at Henry. He was pleased to be included in the discussion.
“I think it’s best we stick to confectionery,” Mrs. Rare-Foure said, “and start selling the coffee-flavored chocolates Amity created. If people love them, we could provide extra value by including a small printed card with instructions on blending the perfect coffee chocolate beverage.” She turned to Charlotte. “You can put a card in the bag with the ... what are they called?”
Amity cleared her throat and glanced at Henry, then her cheeks went a becoming shade of pink. “I call them Pelhams. Unsurprisingly.”
“Brilliant,” Mrs. Rare-Foure said. “Your Grace, you do understand if we call the new chocolate by your name, you will be considered by the public to be a patron of our shop, as well as endorsing the chocolate itself.”
“I am honored,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant, while being secretly thrilled about the whole connection.
Especially when he looked at Mr. Cole who was decidedly not thrilled!
Tucking into his breakfast with gusto, Henry thought he’d never had a more pleasant morning. And he fully intended to enjoy the rest of his day, too. After putting his fork and knife together on his plate, he leaned back, enjoying another cup of coffee. He liked this family and wanted nothing more than to enjoy breakfast with Amity for the rest of his life and visit with the rest of the Rare-Foures whenever possible.
Out of the blue, Mr. Cole asked, “When did you say you were leaving, Your Grace?”
Henry practically heard the internal gasp of everyone else in the dining room. Mr. Cole, as a visitor, had no say in the matter, nor should he bring any attention to the timeframe of another guest’s comings and goings.
Henry paused to see how this delightful family would handle such impertinence.
The sharp middle sister, the one whom Henry had been told brooked no foolishness, was the first to respond. “Mr. Cole, I wonder that you worry over His Grace’s departure, unless you need a ride back to London. By the by, when did you say you were leaving?”
Time for Henry to step in and secure his position as most gracious guest. “Now, Miss Beatrice. Please do not feel affronted on my behalf. If Mr. Cole desires to have your delightful family all to himself, perhaps I should be on my way.”
There, Henry thought, having tossed down the gauntlet, waiting for the lawyer to either come to his senses and grovel out an apology or continue along the path of pettiness and insecurity, however justified in this case.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mr. Cole flushed an embarrassed ruddy color. “I have been misunderstood. I merely wondered whether I should get a room at the local inn myself, as I had intended to stay and accompany you all back to London.” He looked nervously at Henry. “If His Grace wishes to stay until Kingdom Come, I am only too happy for him to have the guest room.”
Amity shot Henry a sideways glance. What was she thinking? Perhaps his chocolatier was regretting her agreement to marry the ninny.
“As long as no one minds, then,” Henry said, “I shall stay a day longer. The bed was so comfortable, and the room so charming. Between that and the fine dinner and delicious breakfast, I must give my sincere compliments to you, Mrs. Rare-Foure for such a well-run household. I wish my own estate near Canterbury was so smoothly managed.”
Amity’s mother nodded graciously.
“By the way,” Henry said, looking at Amity, “Chilham Castle, my country home, has a separate confectionery where they prepare the sweet treats and desserts when my family is in residence. Sadly, it is not for chocolate-making.” He paused before adding, “Yet.”
Miss Charlotte was the one who let out an ear-splitting whistle of delight. After they all cringed and regained their hearing, she said, “Oh, Your Grace! I had heard country homes had such, but you are the first to confirm it.”
“We have a small staff specially for dealing with anything sugar-based, including jellies, cream ice, sweet pastries, frozen mousses, custards, syrups, and naturally, all the patisseries. I suppose I should find out if anyone there is capable of whipping up some chocolate.”
He hoped this would duly impress Amity and that she might wish to see his home’s confectionery for herself. She definitely wore a thoughtful look upon her face, and Henry felt quite satisfied. Then, without considering his words, he turned to the lawyer.
“Where is your country home located, Mr. Cole?”
The man’s eyes bugged out of his head, and, against Henry’s intentions, Amity rushed to her fiancé’s rescue.
“As Your Grace must know, most people who are not of your class, meaning those who haven’t inherited wealth and multiple estates, do not have country houses.”
Her vehemence on behalf of Mr. Cole humbled him. Henry did know that and regretted the mean-spiritedness of his question. His parents had always made him aware how very fortunate the Westbrooks were to have the Dukedom of Pelham, and he’d lived his life being generous and kind to those less so.
When he’d succeeded his father, shedding his title of marquess for that of duke, he’d vowed he wouldn’t lose sight of that humility even as he became more kowtowed and pandered to than ever. That morning, he’d failed spectacularly.
When he said nothing right away, Amity added, “I am sorry if I have offended you, Your Grace.”
“You didn’t. It is I who spoke out of turn.” To Mr. Cole, he said, “My apologies if I sounded like a snout-nose.”