He ate it. “Oh, that is good. We must keep that flavor in the horserace.”
“Try the raspberry, my lord,” and she indicated which one.
He swallowed, tilted his head, and frowned.
“Didn’t you like it?” Amity couldn’t believe it.
“Oh, I did. Very much, but I’ve never tasted anything quite like it. The chocolate was sweeter and...,” he trailed, looking for the word.
“It’s called milk chocolate,” she said. “I think I am the only chocolatier in London, maybe in all of Britain, who has it. I get it from Switzerland, from the factory of Mr. Peter’s in Vevey. He is still perfecting it, trying to make it last longer on the shelf, as milk tends to sour. But these sell so quickly, I don’t worry.”
“Milk chocolate,” the duke mused. “May I?” He pointed to the other lighter confection.
“Yes. That one has a figgy center.”
He ate it. “Strange how the chocolate is sweeter, but the fig wasn’t as sweet as the lemon, which I would have expected to be sour.”
“It was not a fig, butfiggy. I used a prune base. A figgy center could also be dates or raisins, for example. And the lemon is candied and, thus, sweeter.”
He nodded, soaking in the information. “I liked the figgy one too, by the way, especially the milk chocolate.”
She reminded him, “You’ve liked them all.”
He smiled. “It’s true. I have.”
She set the plate down and wrote in her notebook to avoid orange and lemon but perhaps include ginger or raspberries. Then she added ‘no fig’ as it seemed dull in comparison to the other fruit flavors.
“Do you find this terribly tedious?” he asked suddenly.
“Oh, no. I love my work.”
He persisted, “Do you ever grow tired of tasting chocolate?”
“Again, no. I love my work.” She couldn’t imagine a day when she tasted chocolate and felt anything less than delight.
Nodding at her answer, he asked. “Did you always know you would do this?”
“Yes,” she confessed. “I had a good palate for it, my father says, from early on. When my sisters would cram any sweet into their mouths, even those awful boiled colored balls which we all now detest for their poor quality, I would be more discerning.”
Keeping her face blank, she asked him, “What about you? Did you always know you would be a duke?”
He blinked, opened his mouth, got the joke an instant later, and then laughed uproariously.
Amity felt a wave of warmth trickle through her at having amused this man. It gave her genuine pleasure to make him happy.
“Water, please,” he said when his last chuckle died away.
She poured him a glass, which he drank down quickly, probably thirsty from so much chocolate. He set it down and wiped the back of his mouth on his hand, looking entirely at home in her work room.
She straightened. She mustn’t allow herself to get too comfortable with him. This wasn’t a real friendship, and their association would undoubtedly end entirely in less than a fortnight.
“I suppose we should concentrate on the texture of the third chocolate from yesterday. You thought that had the most spirit, and for your purpose of winning the Lady Madeleine, I think we need one with spirit, don’t you?”
He was staring at her and simply nodded in agreement.
Feeling a little ruffled at his scrutiny, she continued, “That one was plain chocolate with orange liqueur. TheBraysonwill be plain because we don’t want to risk the milk chocolate and not orange flavored. I can create some samples with the other flavors we’ve discussed. Do you think you — or rather,she— would like a filled center, such as a piece of candied ginger, or shall I keep the same creamy smoothness in the middle and add a flavored syrup or oil?”
“Creamy smoothness,” he said, staring at her.
