“Rather interesting how all the seventeenth-century chocolate houses gave way to eighteenth-century coffeehouses. At one time, there were literally thousands of coffeehouses in London. Now, they are reduced to a few gentlemen’s clubs and the odd tea shop that deigns to serve a bitter, boiled brew when it serves coffee at all. In France, the coffeehouses are superior.” He hoped he didn’t sound like a pompous ass.
She seemed to take his condemnation of British coffee in stride. “It seems we both enjoy learning the history of our beverage choices,” she said.
Henry chuckled. “I’m glad you will give coffee another try.” He was startled to discover it mattered to him that she like it. “I suppose, while we wait for the coffee urn, you had best tell me what occurred with Lady Madeleine. I hope it was only a misunderstanding.”
Amity lowered her head a little, puffed out her cheeks, and then blew out the air, which Henry found charming.
“I do not think I misunderstood Lady Madeleine when she said if there was anything she could do to bring Rare Confectionery to a swift end, she would do so.”
Henry frowned. That sounded so passionately forceful for Madeleine, he could hardly credit the words. He’d never seen her worked up about much except her dislike of oranges and dogs. Nonetheless, he didn’t doubt Amity was telling the truth.
When she took a deep breath and sighed, he realized he was staring at the intriguing upper swell of her fine bosom barely visible at the neckline of her gown.Did her creamy skin tone continue over her entire body?
Worse, she caught him at his inappropriate scrutiny, for when he looked again at her face, she was staring directly at him.
He coughed. “That sounds so unlike the composed lady I know. Can you tell me more?”
Reluctantly, Amity gave him a summary of what her sister had said.
With difficulty, Henry refrained from laughing. “And your fearsome sister said all this because you gave Lady Madeleine a few samples. How would your sister treat me if she knew I sat here with twelve chocolates I haven’t paid for?”
Amity blushed. “That’s entirely different, my lord. I am trying to bribe you into rescuing our shop.”
He couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up in him and burst out. It was especially nice when the chocolatier, herself, joined in.
“Frankly,” she said, “that’s the first time since I saw the back of Lady Madeleine leaving our shop that I have felt the least bit of levity.”
“I understand your concern, but I don’t see how Lady Madeleine can destroy your business.”
Amity opened her mouth to tell him how when his butler entered with the coffee service. They paused their discussion until they were alone again. Or as alone as two people could be with an eavesdropping maid in the corner.
Before they went back to the unpleasantness of Lady Madeleine, though, Henry couldn’t deny he was eager to learn whether Amity enjoyed his coffee. He always bought the finest beans and didn’t let Cook boil the water for too long.
“I have a regular drip pot from France,” he told her, “as well as a flip pot, but Cook doesn’t like using it as much. She says it is too ‘fiddly.’ Do you know the kind I mean?”
His chocolatier shook her pretty head.
“It has three tin chambers hooked together into one so you can heat the water in the bottom one, and when it has barely boiled, you flip it over, like so.” With his hands, he demonstrated. “Thus, the water goes through the coffee in the center chamber and down to the bottom. But, as I said, Cook prefers the usual drip one.”
He poured coffee into both their cups. “I like it with a spoonful of sugar and a splash of milk. May I?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “I’ll try it however you like it.”
Henry stirred it for her and handed her a cup and saucer. This coffee ritual felt intensely intimate as their fingers touched, and he was pleased to be sharing it with his chocolatier.
Amity looked at him over the rim as she took a sip, leaving him mesmerized by the shining depth of her brown eyes.
“I’ve been to Café Mange Mereds,” he couldn’t help boasting. “It is the oldest coffee house in Paris, and I think this is just as good right here in my home.”
She closed her eyes and took another sip, still without saying anything.
He was practically holding his breath to hear her opinion. Finally, her eyelids fluttered open, and she sent him her lopsided smile, making his heart squeeze painfully.
“It is utterly delicious,” she stated. “Not bitter or burnt like the coffee I’ve drunk, nor in the least gritty.”
“Gritty?” He grimaced. “You must have had badly made coffee indeed.”
She nodded. “Compared to this, it was swill. This is bright-tasting and smooth. It lacks any plant taste of tea, which some, like my parents, may not appreciate, but I find it refreshingly different. In a way, it reminds me of my beloved cup of chocolate. Perhaps with even more milk in this coffee, it would be the difference between plain chocolate and milk chocolate.”
