Now, her perfect dark brown brows rose up along her smooth forehead.
“You shall be like a Detective Sergeant in the Metropolitan Police, my lord.”
Was she mocking him? He didn’t much mind because her smile was back. Her right cheek rose higher as her pretty pink lips upturned in a sweetly crooked manner.
He should not be noticing her lips. Or her smile.
Then an irksome thought floated through his head — he had no idea what Madeleine’s smile looked like. In any case, he knew it wasn’t the least bit lopsided, nor did it alter the perfect symmetry of her exquisite face. If it did, he would have noticed.
“Well done. I shall be on my way. I am meeting a friend at White’s.” He didn’t know why he’d told Miss Rare-Foure that, either. She was going to continue working — albeit at one of the best tasks imaginable — while he was going to sip coffee. She probably thought him a topper, for sure.
Giving her a shallow bow, waiting while she curtsied in return, he added, “I will see you tomorrow.”
Because he wanted to. Because he could. Because he was a damned duke, and she’d better appreciate his custom.
Not that he would say any of that out loud.
Chapter Four
When Henry left his club on St. James’s Street, he was still marveling at how the remainder of chocolate flavor in his mouth had somehow made the rich brew in his first cup of coffee taste even better. Maybe everything was better with chocolate. Maybe Miss Rare-Foure was incorrect and chocolate could cover pork or pheasant or even a lowly brussels sprout. Perhaps together, they would invent something entirely new.
Not that she needed his help. He’d been raving about her chocolates to his two chums, Charles Jeffcoat and Daniel Waverly. They’d laughed at his exuberance and asked if it was really the chocolatier herself who had him in such a state of excitement.
He’d rolled his eyes, but in truth, he couldn’t get Miss Rare-Foure out of his mind. What’s more, he had to keep reminding himself it didn’t matter about her strangely attractive smile or her inviting, brown eyes. It was her creations that mattered to him. That third chocolate had been sublime. Firm but melty, creamy with the perfect bitterness from the outer dusting of cocoa powder.
If she had invented it right then, it would have been the perfect gift for Madeleine, the Brayson as he’d come to think of it, even though that name made him think of donkeys.
Did his soon-to-be-fiancée have a middle name? Perhaps it would be the perfect name for a sweet. To that end, and to determine her favorite flavors, he decided to spend time with her that very day. Sitting in his carriage, however, Henry realized he hadn’t the foggiest notion where she might be. He knew where each of his friends were, which of them were at the Palace of Westminster attending Parliament or at a shooting party in the country and who were at their clubs or remaining abed at that late hour.
Nevertheless, of Madeleine, or most ladies for that matter, he had no idea. They didn’t have clubs, at least not the kind he went to. What’s more, he had no idea who her friends were. When they had first met at a ball, she was surrounded by other men, whom he scattered with a wave of his gloved hand. He monopolized her time and couldn’t recall her speaking with any other women who might be her friends.
When he picked her up at her home on Tremont Street for a dinner party, she had come down the stairs and her parents had not put in an appearance, nor a sibling. Apparently, since he was a duke, they didn’t need to know any more about him.
In his carriage, with her chaperone seated by the window, they’d spoken of the weather, and she’d asked him about his country estate. He’d asked her about her father’s. Then they’d arrived at a party at Lord and Lady Lindsey’s townhouse, and conversation had been more general among the group. After two more balls and another dinner party, and Henry grasped the fact he didn’t know too much more about her except for her opinions on certain other people, on unmanageable horses, and on the very best color for a drawing room. Dove grey.
He did know he wanted her to grace his life. She was exquisitely lovely and had a very pleasing tone to her voice, even when espousing on what she did not care for. She was a superb dancer, too. He’d had to share her with other dance partners, but by the third ball, it was coming to be recognized by others that she was his. She was the superior lady in the present Season’s crop, and he was the most eligible bachelor, so naturally, he should have her. Even if he’d still been a marquess and his father very much alive, Henry figured he would have trumped all other suitors.
From a little digging, not only of his own but by his own mother and his friends, he’d discovered Lady Madeleine’s parents, Lord and Lady Brayson, traced their lineage back to the Normans, had holdings in Yorkshire and Wales, and owned outright their townhouse on Tremont Street with no bank loan. They had the fairest daughter in the land, and a son, David, heir to his father’s earldom, who’d attended Eton and wanted to become Prime Minister. No one at White’s could figure out what his qualifications were for dreaming of such a lofty position, but that was neither here nor there.
Nonetheless, all that told him little about the lady herself. Today, he was determined to delve a little more deeply into her nature than her enjoyment of champagne over red wine and prunes over dates. Not that her preference in chocolate was any deeper, but it was time he asked her how she liked children and dogs, for he fancied a few of each. He liked London, but also spending time in Kent. Was she willing to leave the city for a month or two each year?
And it was time to kiss her. Past time, in fact. He had tried once and received Madeleine’s cheek for his effort. Either she would not kiss ahead of a formal engagement or he’d been woefully premature in the attempt. He suddenly had the terrifying thought she was one of those females who would want to wait until marriage to exchange even a simple kiss.
That wouldn’t do. Determining such a thing was more important even than finding out her chocolate preference. He ordered his driver to take him promptly to the Brayson home. He was risking much by showing up uninvited, but he couldn’t think how else to find her.
Thirty minutes later, he was seated in Lord Brayson’s drawing room. Alone. He’d been waiting for ten of those minutes, seated on a stiff, gold-brocade sofa. The butler had not been specific about whether the earl or his countess was home, but the man had said Lady Madeleine was accepting visitors.
So, there Henry waited, unused to being left to cool his heels.
At last, she entered, followed by her personal maid, and all doubts, if he’d had any, evaporated at the sight of her. How could any woman be so lovely? Blonde hair, both piled high and in ringlets hanging down, sapphire-colored eyes, pink-tinted lips, and pale skin without cocoa smears — why did that pop into his head?
Madeleine wore a blue silk gown with silver underskirt, looking how he imagined Aphrodite might have appeared. He jumped up at her arrival. She paused to offer a splendidly graceful curtsey before holding out her hands to him.
“Your Grace,” she said as he took hold of them. Long graceful fingers, perfect for playing the harp or pianoforte, both of which he knew she did, and not a speck of chocolate anywhere upon them, nor under her nails. Cool-to-the-touch hands that were clearly meant to be those of a duchess, he reminded himself.