Seven Minutes in Heaven(26)

She had no need to ask how Reeve escaped from prison—an adventure that sounded as if it belonged in a novel, to be frank. He had fought his way out. He had a warrior look about him. She found it irresistible.

Like a Pict, but without all the blue paint.

His letter sounded as if it had been written by a medieval lord ruling over his territory. Fawkes House was Ward Reeve’s fiefdom, and if she were to go there . . .

She might never leave.

Ridiculous though it was, the idea made her shiver with an instinctive sense of danger and something deeper as well. More pleasurable.

May 14, 1801

Dear Mr. Reeve,

No, I will not pay you a visit. To do so would be monstrously improper.

No matter what you seem to think, I am a lady and was brought up to eschew illicit correspondence with members of the male sex. I am not the merry sort of widow.

I will go so far as to tell you, however, that I have never remarried because my marriage was a happy one and I have never met a man who would suit me as well as did my late husband.

It will not surprise you that I am aware your fiancée’s identity. I have heard tales of the Duchess of Pindar’s adoration of her husband, which began at age fifteen, as I recall.

If I may be candid, I believe you to have had a lucky escape. I cannot imagine a lonelier existence than being married to a woman in love with another man. Or, in my case, a man in love with another woman.



She paused and stared into space because a memory of Andrew, laughing across a room in the midst of a soirée, had jumped to her mind.

That particular soirée had been at Buckingham Castle, only a few months after their marriage. They had intended to stay only the requisite forty minutes.

But Andrew had looked at her from the other side of the room, and he’d headed toward her, a little smile at the corner of his mouth. She had hardly been able to breathe, a state her corset made all the worse.

He’d taken her hand and drawn her into the corridor . . .

Eugenia discovered that she was smiling. It was a lovely surprise to find that her heart felt no more than a pinch at the memory, not unbearable sadness.

Perhaps she was ready to let Andrew go? A frightful phrase. But she saw what Harriet meant by it. Let go of the wrenching, vital pain of his loss. Keep the bright, teasing memory of the young man who had adored her.

They had been introduced at her debut ball, after which he blithely ignored her seventeen suitors—among them two viscounts and a duke—and made her fall in love with him using little more than his wicked sense of humor.

And his thighs, to be honest.

Ward Reeve also had legs that a woman could appreciate.

She had to remember that—Snowe’s and the new century notwithstanding—she was a conventional woman. That quality was essential to her sense of self. It was her father who was, or at least, used to be, unconventional.

For her part, she liked conformity. Morality.

My secretary will see to it that Miss Midge receives a new prayer book. May I suggest that if Miss Midge’s personal belongings, or person, were involved in The Incident, that you give her a holiday and transportation to Oxford? Contractually, she is due every other Sunday, but an exception can do much for household cheer.



There was something disquieting about this exchange of letters. Eugenia read over what she had written, acknowledging the uncomfortable truth that her mind was completely engaged by a man whom she scarcely knew. By Ward Reeve’s strength and control, the legs she couldn’t dismiss, his strong jaw and beautiful teeth.

As if he were a horse she were contemplating buying!

But how thrilling it had been to have Andrew’s body at her command. To have him walk toward her with that intent look on his face, as if nothing in the world could satisfy him but her.

Damn it.

Ladies didn’t curse, she reminded herself.

Damn, damn, damn, damn . . .

The quill was back in her hand, unbidden.

My given name is not Henrietta, nor Julietta, although you are correct as regards its extravagance. It is Eugenia, but no one other than my close family ever addresses me as such, and I will thank you to adhere to my wishes in this respect.

All best wishes,

Mrs. Snowe





Fawkes House

Wheatley



May 21, 1801

Dear Mrs. Snowe,

I don’t know whether it was Miss Midge or I who was more disappointed when my coach returned empty. I wish I could tell you that the household has taken a turn for the better, and that Miss Midge has succeeded in her campaign to reshape my siblings into respectable members of polite society.

But I cannot.

This week, Lizzie posed an even greater problem than Otis. Yesterday she staged some sort of hocus-pocus that persuaded one of the more gullible stable boys that he was invisible. The young man intruded on the washhouse when a maid was engaged in private ablutions.