“I do not like the way the Duke of Pelham looks at you,” Jeremy began. “He is too familiar, by far.”
“It was very kind of you to give up the guest room,” she soothed, hoping to take his mind off of Henry.
“Well,” he seethed, “one of us has to behave like a gentleman. I admit he’s the first duke I’ve ever known, but he seems so ... regular ... almost too common.”
Amity had to laugh. “Better than him being a snout-nose.”
“I suppose.” Jeremy took her in his arms, and she tried to relax and set aside the unexpected notion she was betraying Henry. “I, for one, will be glad when he has left.”
“I believe he is going back to London tomorrow.”
“Truly?” Jeremy’s mood lifted. “I thought the man had threatened to stay longer. Didn’t your sister mention at dinner about a trip to see Constable Country?”
“Yes, but His Grace did not commit.”
“You’re right. He didn’t.” Without any preamble, and completely out of character, Jeremy lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.
After the shock wore off, Amity tilted her head the way Henry had done, and Jeremy froze, then tilted his in the other direction. Their mouths fit perfectly, but she supposed everyone’s did. What a silly thought! Every kiss was not the same, and there was nothing wrong with Jeremy’s, she reminded herself.
Be that as it may, his fragrance was not making her want to crawl inside his clothing and stroke his bare skin. The touch of his lips didn’t cause her stomach to twinge with pleasure, nor her skin to get goosebumps, nor any kind of heat to pool low between her hips. He didn’t attempt to slip his tongue into her mouth for her own tongue’s caress, and when his hands roamed over her back, she wasn’t driven to press her body closer.
Nothing about Jeremy’s kiss, except for his mouth upon hers, was like Henry’s kiss. Sharp sadness lanced her heart, making her pull away.
On the other hand, when she was with Jeremy, she was placid and usually content. It would be easy to undress in front of him on their wedding night. Their marriage would not be complicated.
After bidding him goodnight, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, experiencing a pang of regret she hadn’t been able to meet with Henry It was probably for the best. The fates had sealed her destiny, and she’d accepted it.
Delia had lit the lamps in her room and laid a small fire in the hearth, allowing Amity to enter a cozy, cheerful chamber. Closing the door behind her, she sat upon the counterpane and began to remove her boots.
“Don’t be alarmed,” came Henry’s voice as he materialized from behind the curtains like a spirit.
Naturally, she was alarmed! Jumping to her feet, Amity didn’t know whether to shriek or run to the door. After a moment, however, not feeling particularly threatened, nor in fear of her virtue, she did neither. When the duke crossed the room to stand before her fireplace, he somehow looked the picture of innocence despite being in a single woman’s bedroom.
“You agreed we could talk,” he reminded her.
“Yes. I tried earlier, as you know.”
“Your Mr. Cole is like a hound at the hunt.” Henry slipped his hands into his pockets, perhaps to show he wasn’t about to snatch hold of her.
“With good reason,” she pointed out. “Mr. Cole is wary of you, and you’ve brought that scrutiny upon yourself with all the staring you’ve been doing.”
The duke grinned, his dimples appeared, and her heartbeat began to race. Was she so fickle and shallow that his good looks could win her over each time?
After all, Mr. Cole was handsome, too. Why didn’t his smile melt her insides? She wished fervently that it did.
“How can I help but stare at the object of my affection?” Henry asked, sounding serious.
He was practically declaring himself. She drew in a long breath. “You said you wished to speak to me and promised to leave tomorrow.”
“Did I?” Withdrawing his hands from his pockets, he took a step closer. So much for the picture of innocence!
“Yes,” she replied emphatically. “I will give you five minutes.” She pointed to the clock on her mantle. “Tick tock.”
His lovely green eyes widened. “I beg your pardon? You cannot ‘tick tock’ a duke.”
“I can and I did.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “All right. I have five minutes, but I need but one. I want you to marry me and not Mr. Cole.”
Hearing him say it so frankly made her quite lightheaded.
“I am aware of that, Your Grace. And I am fully aware you usually get what you want. In this case, though, you shall not.”
He uncrossed his arms slowly. “Whyever not?”
“I have given Mr. Cole my solemn vow to marry him.”
“Literally speaking, Miss Rare-Foure, you have told him yes to his question of marriage, an impertinent one at that since he is blatantly unworthy of you. That is hardly a solemn vow. Vows occur on the wedding day, if I am not mistaken.”
“Very well. I gave him my word. I agreed. I said yes. I cannot now say no, even if I wanted to.” And a part of her definitely did.
“You do want to, don’t you?”
“I didn’t say that.” But he could probably read it on her face. “I am not breaking my agreement. It would be too ... hurtful.”
He looked incredulous. “You don’t want to hurt him so you will marry a man and spend the rest of your life with him, all the while having stronger feelings for me. Plainly, you are too chicken-hearted to acknowledge those feelings.”
Chicken-hearted? “Are you calling me cowardly?”
“If the feathers fit,” he said, still with a teasing tone.
He was sure of himself, that much she could tell. And why not? He was every girl’s dream, including hers.
“Putting my feathers aside, my main reason remains. A duchess cannot make chocolate.”
He sighed. “I don’t know of any who do, that’s true. I don’t know many duchesses at all for that matter. We dukes don’t all stand around together at a club, being ducal.”
“Don’t you?” She couldn’t help the mirth in her tone. The image of Henry and a bunch of old men, as most of the current dukes were, standing on the plush oriental rug at whatever club they favored, probably White’s, and discussing things only dukes would know or do struck her as immensely funny.
She started to snicker, then to chortle. When he joined in, she grabbed her bedpost and laughed heartily.
“You are making fun of me,” he said, “and you’ve taken up my valuable time, so I am adding another two minutes.”
Amity took a few breaths and managed to control herself. “Let us agree neither of us have heard of any duchesses who do anything except sit for portraits, run charities, and become ladies-in-waiting to the queen. Isn’t that right?”
He nodded and took a step closer.
“I cannot give up making chocolate, no matter how—” how very much she loved him. She feared how empty and lifeless she would become. “No matter how tempting your offer. A chocolatier is who I am.” She paused. “And it is unquestionably not the pastime for a duchess.”
He had taken another step closer, and by some magic, his hands were upon her waist, drawing her against him.