Chapter Nine
Henry froze as thecouple before him broke hastily apart.
Miss Rare-Foure’s cheeks turned scarlet, and her chocolate-smeared apron was creased from being held against the man’s body.
Wanting to rip the stranger limb from limb, luckily, Henry’s civility restrained him from doing anything rash. Miss Rare-Foure’s mouth was parted in surprise — or perhaps because she had been about to let herself be kissed — and since the young man was staring as if shocked out of his boots, Henry spoke first.
“My apology for barging in.” He didn’t sayhis sincere apologybecause he didn’t feel sincere at all. “I assumed you would be working on your chocolate creations, not ... that is, I shall return at another time.”
“No, please, my lord,” Miss Rare-Foure said, finding her voice and taking a step in his direction. “Let me introduce you to my ... my friend. This is Mr. Cole. He has recently returned from a trip to Scotland. Mr. Cole is a lawyer.”
She smiled, looking between him and the detestable lawyer, then added, “This is His Grace, the Duke of Pelham.”
The lawyer paled and stuck out his hand, bowing at the same time. It was most unfortunate and awkward. Henry nodded, yanked off his right glove, and took the man’s hand, despite feeling an instant aversion at having to look at the top of his head.
In that moment, he wanted to whisk Miss Rare-Foure away to his own townhouse and let her make her chocolates in his kitchen. And when she wasn’t making confections, he would dress her in the finest gowns and show her off all over Mayfair.
What could this lawyer offer her?
The man raised his head, and Henry let go of his hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, my lord,” the man said. “Amity told me about the special chocolate she is making for you.”
Amity?Henry realized he hadn’t even known her given name. He thought of her as many things — includinghis chocolatier— but her name suited her perfectly. He loved everything about it, except for having to hear it from this other man’s lips.What did it matter this lawyer erroneously called Henry “my lord” instead of “Your Grace,” just as the rest of the Rare-Foures did?Mr. Cole might not have all the social niceties, but he apparently had her fond regard.
Was the man soon to be her fiancé?
“I didn’t break a confidence lightly, my lord,” Miss Rare-Foure promised him. “Mr. Cole doesn’t know for whom we are making the chocolates, nor would he speak of this to anyone.”
Henry appreciated her assurance. “I trust you,” he said and meant it. But he didn’t trust this oily lawyer, who was probably going to spend his life in the dreaded Court of Chancery and become whey-faced, bald, and trembling. He couldn’t imagine his lovely chocolatier, so full of creativity and life, living in some pokey little house far outside the city where they could afford to eke out an existence, where she might have to give birth to his brats.
Why was he feeling so damnably hostile toward Mr. Cole?
It couldn’t be because the man had been touching her.Could it?
Yes, it could!
“Solicitor or barrister?” Henry asked curtly.
“Solicitor, my lord.” Mr. Cole said it without the least embarrassment, even though he’d taken the lowlier path with less prestige, money, and influence.What a short-sighted dunce!
Henry knew he was close to saying something entirely inappropriate so he had best be away.
