Amity wished her questionto the Duke of Pelham had come out sounding a little more cordial. Something about this arrangement was making her feel snappish, or as Charlotte had said that morning, crabbed! And thatsomethingwas undoubtedly Lady Madeleine. She might be a perfectly sociable person, intelligent and witty, but all anyone ever talked about was her incredibly lovely appearance.
Amity rearranged her expression until she offered the Duke of Pelham a friendly smile. She had best change her sentiment regarding his ladylove, or she would never be able to create a delicious chocolate treat. And her reputation was on the line, along with that of Rare Confectionery.
“I came to give you my input as to Lady Madeleine’s likes,” the duke said, “so you don’t add a flavor of which I already know she would disapprove.”
Amity nodded. “How prudent of you, my lord.” She glanced at Charlotte who was hanging on every word, looking like an eager puppy. Their mother was not coming in today, and Beatrice was coming in later to make her famed treacle toffee, which they sold by the pan full.
“Please come into the back with me, and I’ll show you some of the choices we have at our disposal. I shall take notes on the lady’s preferences.”
She noticed out of the corner of her eye as Charlotte’s expression altered to one of surprise. Amity didn’t usually have customers in the back room, nor did she particularly like people watching her as she blended and created. However, this was a special circumstance.
He nodded. “I would be honored to see where you make your confections.”
Charlotte’s brows rose. Amity ignored her.
“This way, my lord.” She raised the curtain, holding it aside as she stepped through to the back, the familiar thickly sweet, delicious aroma of chocolate immediately relaxing her. It was exceedingly strange to have the Duke of Pelham at her back, and then she looked at the room through his eyes.
Oh, dear!“It’s a little messy,” Amity admitted, seeing her early-morning endeavors by the light of the window in the back, which overlooked the small alley. Upon the cooktop, there was herbain-marie,with a pot of chocolate being kept at the perfect melted temperature. She’d left spoons, a whisk, and a bowl of grated orange peel on the copper counter beside the cooker. Opposite, on the other side of the small room, blocks of Swiss Cailler’s and French Menier’s plain chocolate sat upon her marble workspace, the surface she used for cooling melted chocolate and blending it with her wide scraper. Small bottles of fruit essences and an open can of Borden’s condensed milk also vied for space.
On the shelf above the marble, oils of peppermint, cinnamon, and orange were lined up in vials. And next to a bowl of soft chocolate fondant, which she was blending with other flavors, she had a few Fry’s bars.
In bins and on the shelves were her molds and presses, small jars of walnuts and almonds, a grinder, and heavy pots. Knives were laid out on a wooden cutting board atop the marble, along with candied ginger in a glass jar.
“Well!” he exclaimed, his gaze taking it all in. “It seems as much like a chemist’s space as that of a chocolatier, although it smells better than any other shop I’ve ever entered.”
“As you may be aware, my lord, all chocolate in England, particularly drinking chocolate, started out being manufactured in chemist shops for medicinal purposes, just as it was in the past for Marie Antoinette and as far back as the Mayan’s bitter brew of ground cacao beans.”
“How interesting,” he said, sounding sincere. “There is more to this than I could have imagined.” He had already tugged off the glove on his right hand and started to reach out to —oh no! —put a finger toward her pure fondant, and she scrambled to pull the bowl out of his reach.
“Please, my lord, you mustn’t contaminate the chocolate.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, stepping away from the table.
Amity crossed the room to a desk under the window and picked up her tablet of paper for taking notes. She’d already written a few things on it from her ideas the night before. All under the heading “Lady Mad,” underlined with an exclamation point. She clutched it to her, turned so he couldn’t read anything, and grabbed for a pencil.
“Would you like to tell me some ofyourideas?” she asked. After that, he could go away and she could get to work. She certainly couldn’t get anything done with his larger-than-life ducal presence crowding the back room. Besides, with him there, she found it difficult not to be distracted by his dark, wavy hair, perfect for running one’s fingers through. Or gaze into his green, intelligent eyes.An unusual shade, she thought.
And then there was his mouth, which presently was speaking.
“...thus, no raisins, if you please.”
She shook her head to clear it. “No raisins.”
For some reason, the duke noticed the Fry’s. “What do you do with those?”
What a silly question!“Eat them, of course.”
He barked out a laugh. “In Rare Confectionery, you eat Fry’s Cream Sticks?” He grinned at her, and her stomach did that strange twinging again as it had in the carriage.Most disturbing. Her stomach never twinged when Jeremy smiled, but Jeremy didn’t have the duke’s devastating dimples.
She shrugged. “I spend all day tasting and dipping and heating and creating. Sometimes, I want to eat a confection someone else has made. They are not competitors. Or rather, we are not competition for them. If you want a packaged bar of plain chocolate or a sweet, white minty cream stick — and who wouldn’t? — then you should grab a Fry’s. They are superb. Would you care for one?”
“Frankly, I’d rather taste something you’ve made.”
“You shall, but back to my notes.” Glancing down, Amity realized she had written nothing so far. She penciled in “no raisins.”
“What flavors does Lady Madeleine enjoy?”
“Roast pork and pheasant, potatoes, sponge cake, oysters.”
