“Please close your eyes,” he said, dropping a kiss on her nose, regardless of the butler.
Eugenia smiled, closing her eyes. Perhaps he brought Lizzie and Otis to London and they planned to surprise her. If so, the children were being uncharacteristically silent, because she could have sworn there was no one else in the room.
Finally Ward brushed a kiss on her lips and whispered, “I meant what I said in the House of Lords. I love you, Eugenia. I love everything about you. Everything. Open your eyes, my love.”
Eugenia opened them slowly, savoring the way “love” sounded, uttered in that rough, utterly believable fashion.
The room was filled with cakes. Everywhere she looked—on every surface—were spun-sugar confections of every imaginable variety. Two elaborate swans arched higher than her head. An enormous trifle filled an exquisite crystal bowl, which in turn was surrounded by plates of dainty petits-fours. One platter held a cake shaped like a grotto replete with a mermaid, and another held a many-layered confection topped with dancing, gold-dusted cupids.
Unable to speak, Eugenia turned to Ward, knowing her eyes were round with shock.
“I respect everything you do, and everything you are,” he said, his voice rough. “I want your pâtisserie to be the most famed of its kind not only here in England but in France. I want you to cast Gunter’s in the shade. I want Lizzie to watch and learn from you. Most importantly, I want you to do what makes you most happy.”
Eugenia stared at him as his words sank in. “That’s not what you . . . what you said earlier.”
“I was wrong. Lizzie and Otis don’t need convention or rules; they need you. But I need you most of all.”
Eugenia couldn’t make herself speak.
“I love you, Eugenia Snowe,” Ward said. “I love all of the Eugenias: the prim and proper lady, the brilliant mathematician, the joyous, delicious lover, the owner of a registry, and the future owner of the best tearoom in London.”
Eugenia’s eyes filled with tears and she opened her arms. Their lips found each other, warm and passionate . . . perfect.
Some time later she turned in his arms and looked with wonder around the room. “Did Marcel help you with these cakes? Where on earth did you find all of them?”
“Vander, Thorn, and I crisscrossed London to find all of them.” He hesitated. “It was supposed to be a grand gesture.”
“It is truly a grand gesture,” Eugenia said, awe-struck. She stepped forward to take a closer look at the cake decorated with golden cupids. Each delicacy was more exquisite than the last. And the pedestals were placed at just the right heights to create a perfect display.
“Lady Xenobia India arranged this room,” she breathed. “No one else has her eye for arrangement.”
“Mia was here as well,” Ward said, feeling a bit awkward at the mention of his former fiancée.
“I can’t wait to thank them personally,” Eugenia cried, not looking in the least disturbed by his mention of Mia. “Oh, look at this one!” She reached toward a small cake with a cluster of spun-sugar feathers on top.
Ward’s arm wrapped around her and pulled her against the muscled planes of his body. “Mia is a romance writer,” he said. “She said I needed to make a grand gesture.”
Eugenia leaned back against him, inexpressibly happy. “I love your grand gesture.”
Ward spun her around and their eyes met. “I have something else for you too, from me alone.”
“Mmmm,” Eugenia murmured. She was surrounded by cakes, and she didn’t want even a single bite. She only wanted him.
He gave her a kiss that was measured in the rhythm of their heartbeats. By the time Ward pulled back, Eugenia could scarcely think. “A gesture of my own,” he said, his voice husky.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew . . .
A cake.
A small cake, sunk in the middle and cracked on top. It had the surly look that sweet things get when they’ve been baked too long.
It smelled of chocolate. Burnt chocolate.
“Did Lizzie make this for me?” she guessed, touching the top. Her heart was singing. Those lovely, eccentric, bright children were going to be hers: Lizzie with her too-old, hopeful eyes, and Otis with his inquisitive bravery and deep love for Jarvis.
“Not Lizzie.”
“Otis? I’m impressed!”
“Nor Otis.”
She looked up. Her mouth fell open.
“I couldn’t think of a better way to prove to you that I respect you and adore you—everything about you, Eugenia.”
“You baked me a cake,” she whispered. It was as if time stopped around them, as if the world had shrunk to a man and woman and a small, burnt chocolate sponge.