“I agree it is not. At least, it never has been ... until now.” He shrugged. “Why not? Who is to gainsay you?”
“Besides you?” she asked, feeling herself start to tremble again, very glad he still held her.
“Yes, besides me,” he said. “And, for my part, I say wholeheartedly you should continue. Moreover, you will find no one else has any business saying otherwise. Except the queen, I suppose, and I believe you’ve already said she adores your confectionery.”
Amity was starting to believe she could do it all — be a duchess, a wife, someday a mother, and a chocolatier.
“The queen could order me to stop,” she pointed out. “Her Royal Highness might say it is unseemly for a duchess. And the rest of the haut ton will have their say, mostly in the newspapers, I imagine.”
“After our wedding, Mr. Giles shall burn every newspaper the instant it comes into our house,” he teased.
Amity put a hand to his dear cheek. “Once I enter your world, I have a feeling there are more restrictions than I could imagine.”
With one of his large hands now splayed against her back, he raised his other so he could stroke his thumb across her chin. She had the insane urge to catch it between her lips but refrained.
“There are rules and restrictions, to be sure,” Henry agreed. “Nothing terrible, though, and, quite frankly, nothing that outweighs the freedom of having money and rank. The trick is not to let it go to one’s head, but to use what you have to better the lives of others. I do my duty in Parliament, give alms to the poor, support various charities and workhouses, and sponsor an orphanage. I cannot say all my peers behave similarly, but I know many who are extraordinarily generous. Those are the people I count among my friends.”
She stared at him. Amity had imagined being a duke was all parties and self-interested amusement and was gratified to hear he had social responsibilities. She would like to be a part of helping people who were less fortunate.
But making chocolate? First, she had to tell him.
“I love you, Henry, and that is more important than anything else. Even chocolate.”
His clenched his jaw at her words and his eyes glistened with emotion. “I love you, Amity, and that is more important than anything else, too, even the decorum of a duchess. You shall make your chocolate,” he paused, considering. “Perhaps we could give a percentage of the profits to some charity of your choosing. It would be the new Duchess of Pelham’s patronage.”
“I will make a special chocolate for that very purpose, and we’ll donate them to the children to sample.”
“I don’t want to cause your parents or Rare Confectionery to go bankrupt,” he said.
“We shall work it out. If we can create the Brayson and the Pelham, surely we can create—”
“The Amity,” he finished.
“Maybe,” she said, a little embarrassed at such a tribute.
“Definitely,” he promised. “This party has officially changed from a proposal party to an engagement celebration. We’d best go tell everyone our good news. I believe we have about sixty guests and at least four hundred chocolates to consume. We mustn’t keep them waiting any longer.”
“The guests or the chocolates?” she teased.
“Both.” Then he released her, tucked her arm under his and headed for the door. As he touched the handle, however, he groaned. “I need to kiss you again first.”
And so, he did.
HENRY DIDN’T CARE ABOUT decorum or being ducal. He instructed his butler to place an engagement announcement in the papers the following day. During the previous evening’s celebration with their friends and families, while eating delicious chocolates, he’d secured Amity and her parents’ approval for a brief engagement.
Thus, the wedding date was set for a mere three months hence, in the romantic month of February during which Henry was assured of finding both the perfect St. Valentine’s card for his beloved, as well as many heart-shaped chocolates.
True, the brevity of their engagement might raise eyebrows, especially among the nobility, but it still afforded plenty of time for the church banns to be read, for her extended family to arrive from France, and for gowns and such frilly female things to be created. Besides, he didn’t think he could wait any longer than that to have Amity in his bed.
Further tossing convention aside, Henry spent as much time as he wanted with his fiancée and her family, and with his fiancée and his family, and, scandalously, with Amity alone.
“I am deliriously happy,” he declared to her one evening when they were playing cards in front of the fire in the Rare-Foure’s Baker Street parlor, a fully-festooned Christmas tree stationed between the front windows. Her parents were somewhere in the house, her sisters were out, and there was no pesky maid lurking anywhere. Why? Because he was an engaged duke and could do what he liked.
And also, because Amity’s parents liked and trusted both him and their eldest daughter. Neither of them would do anything to break that trust ... except, perhaps, for a few kisses.
“Let’s sit closer,” he suggested.
“What if my mother comes in?” she asked, but her expression said she was going to sit beside him anyway.
“If your mother comes in, we shall make room for her but not between us.”
She giggled, the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. She rose from the winged chair on the other side of the card table. He stood, too, and they went to the sofa. At the last second, he pulled her onto his lap.
“Much better!” he said.
Amity lifted her arms and to his surprise, sank her fingers into his hair.
“Mm,” she murmured, “such soft silky hair.”
“No fair,” he said. “I cannot do that to you without that infernally complicated hairstyle coming all undone. If you were seen in such disarray, we would have to hightail it to Gretna Green by morning.”
She giggled. “Kiss me.”
“That was my intent. Is this how it will be after we’re married, with you messing up my coiffure — which my valet will not be pleased about, by the way — and giving me orders as if I were a servant.”
“Probably.” She sent him a lopsided grin, and his heart squeezed with love.
“Perfect,” he said.
Framing her beloved face with his hands, he kissed her. As her warm lips opened under his, he felt a sense of bliss he’d never experienced in his life. Teasing her tongue, he nibbled her lower lip before he finally pulled away.
“What is that you’re wearing?” she asked unexpectedly.
He frowned. “A very fine cotton shirt. Laundered, starched, and pressed. And the best tailored coat on Savile Row. Why? Is there something amiss beyond the wrinkles you are making?”
“No,” she said. “I meant your scent. It is ... sensual and makes me tingle.” Her cheeks turned pleasingly pink.
He grinned at her. “In that case, I shall bathe myself in it daily. It’s Penhaligon’s Hammam Bouquet, sold on Jermyn Street, within walking distance of my home, which is a matter of great convenience. I can send my valet without even having to bother the coachman.”
“When I smell it, I want to rub myself against you,” Amity confessed and she did, first her cheek against his lapel, and then, moving higher and tugging his cravat aside, she stroked his neck with her nose.