“No, something more sturdy. I intend to go for a walk in the park.”
Clothilde groaned. “Madame, there is mud from yesterday’s rain.”
“You needn’t come with me,” Eugenia said. “Ladies my age have no need of a chaperone.”
“That is true,” Clothilde said, brightening. She hated mud, rain, dirt, and anything else that posed a threat to her immaculate appearance.
“You are larger in the bosom than you were when this dress was ordered,” she observed a minute later, wrestling Eugenia’s bosom into place.
“My breasts look like two cream buns on a tray,” Eugenia said, regarding herself in the glass. “If they keep growing, they’ll end up the size of ostrich eggs.”
“Ostrich? What thing is that? Your décolletage is most attractive. Unfortunately, there are no gentlemen to be seen at this hour.” Clothilde sniffed disapprovingly.
“I should like a new wardrobe,” Eugenia said, making up her mind. “From the modiste who dresses the Duchess of Villiers.”
“Oh là là,” Clothilde cried, helping her slip into her merino pelisse. “An excellent choice! Now, now, madame, you will meet the man.”
“The man?”
“A man.” Clothilde gave a Parisian giggle. “Or many men!”
Eugenia crossed the road and walked into the park, ambling off on a brick path. While she’d been hidden in her office, spring had come to London. Everywhere she looked there were masses of spring green and clumps of pale purple violets.
With one surreptitious glance to make certain she was not observed, Eugenia stepped from the path and crouched down in order to gather a fat handful of violets.
She had the vague sense that they were edible, though she doubted her cook knew—
Wait.
She froze. She wasn’t alone.
In front of her, a pair of stout boots came into view. The owner of those boots presumably had an excellent view of her bosom, not to mention her purloined posy.
A dark, gravelly voice washed over her like the smell of brandy in a small room. “Mrs. Snowe, may I help you to stand?” His hand was large and powerful: the quintessence of all the things she enjoyed about men.
No glove.
Of course, Ward Reeve probably never wore gloves.
She put her gloved hand in his bare one and allowed him to draw her to her feet. “Mr. Reeve, this is a surprise.” She had liked his smile when they first met. But now, after their exchange of letters, it was different: deeper, warmer . . . intimate.
A gallant would raise her fingers to his lips, fall back and bow, perhaps with a flourish. Ward did none of these, but simply held her hand tightly as he said, “You would not come to me, so I had to come to you.”
Eugenia could feel herself turning pink. She pulled her hand away. “I have no advice to offer you, Mr. Reeve.”
“Shall I collect your violets?” Without waiting for an answer, he bent down and gathered most of them in one sweep. His thighs strained against his tight-fitting breeches. Sunshine made his hair gleam with hints of gold.
He rose and presented the violets to her. “I consider myself extremely fortunate that Snowe’s doesn’t merely dole out governesses to various households, but offers them support throughout their employment.”
“Yes, well—”
Ward slipped his hand under her arm and guided her back onto the footpath. “Your assistant, Miss Lloyd-Fantil, was kind enough to point out your house, and your butler directed me here. May I escort you to tea at Gunter’s, Mrs. Snowe?”
For goodness’ sake, why had Ward’s fiancée run off to marry another man? Eugenia was having trouble not simply nodding in agreement to everything he said.
It was his voice and his eyes.
She had the feeling that, had he disappeared on their wedding day, she would have waited for him.
For years.
Just as she was doing for Andrew, she thought uneasily. Waiting for a man who would never come back.
Ugh. She pushed away the thought and focused on Ward’s face again.
“Even though you claim to have no advice, you could choose the right concoctions to dazzle my siblings into obedience.”
“I—”
“Miss Lloyd-Fantil assured me that you had no appointments today.” His coaxing, deep voice brushed over Eugenia’s skin like silk. He drew a little closer, and she smelled a mixture of leather and soap.
And man. Man sweat, to be utterly frank.
It was demoralizing to realize that she wasn’t a good woman after all.
Apparently all her conventional behavior was simply a façade, because in his presence her limbs felt heavy and her skin prickled.
“Very well,” she said, “I suppose we could go for tea.”