Seven Minutes in Heaven(32)

“His Royal Highness apparently agrees with me that ignoring unpleasantness doesn’t make it go away.” His eyes took on a wicked sparkle, and he drawled, “After all, no matter how much polite society would like to pretend otherwise, such pots are in daily use in the most respectable of households.”

“Stop that!” Eugenia said, though she couldn’t hold back a smile. “You forget that I come across naughty boys all the time in my line of work, Mr. Reeve. At your age, one should aim for behavior suited to a grown man.”

He laughed. “I haven’t been labeled ‘naughty’ in years. I actually think that Clarence’s idea is rather gifted in its simplicity. This way Dorothea stomps on her detractors every time she enters the carriage. Or she would have, if Clarence had accepted delivery of the vehicle.”

“Why did you not have the scene painted over?”

Ward shrugged. “It made Otis laugh so hard that he almost coughed up his breakfast. Laughter is all too rare in the house at the moment, so if we have to tread on a few royal chamber pots, I’m happy to oblige. I’m more worried that the boy will grow up feeling inferior, considering the dimensions of the royal appendage.”

His laughter went to Eugenia’s head like a third glass of sherry. She almost—almost!—retorted something about how disappointment is a woman’s lot in life.

Susan would make a jest like that, but it was untrue in Eugenia’s case; Andrew had been more than appropriately accoutred, according to what she’d learned from marble statues of Greek athletes.

“Why did His Royal Highness decide against the carriage after having it designed to his specifications?” she asked instead. The seats were Spanish leather, and every detail was exquisite, if flamboyant.

Andrew wouldn’t have liked it. She wasn’t sure whether he would have loathed the chamber pot or the royal tool more, but she knew that the mounting box would have been repainted a sober black before the carriage ever drew up to their house.

The shiny trim would have been ripped from the exterior. The velvet tassels embellishing the curtains would have been exchanged for something more somber.

“Clarence couldn’t afford it,” Mr. Reeve said. “Must have outrun his allowance again.”

Eugenia glanced at him from under her lashes. Her stepmother had suggested that she double her fees since Mr. Reeve was outrageously wealthy. She hadn’t. Snowe’s would never profit from the misfortune of two orphans.

“Luckily, I can afford it,” Mr. Reeve said, guessing her train of thought.

“How pleasant for you,” Eugenia said coolly. She was one of the richest woman in London, but she kept it to herself.

Mr. Reeve leaned forward and touched her knee. “I just wanted you to know that I am financially solvent.”

“In—in my—that is entirely irrelevant,” she spluttered.

He sat back and grinned at her. “I’m happy to hear it.”

“Finances have no part in our discussion of your siblings’ misbehavior,” she managed.

“No, but I wanted to make a point.”

“Quite,” she said. Perhaps he was offering . . . surely he wasn’t offering her money? A clammy feeling broke out all over her. Men had made improper proposals in the past, but no one had actually offered her carte blanche.

“Happily, Snowe’s fees will not bankrupt me.” But his eyes caught her face and his expression changed. “What have I said?”

She swallowed. “Nothing at all,” she croaked. Of course, he hadn’t intended anything of the kind. She was being a fool.

A fiendish grin spread over Ward’s face and he leaned forward again. “I do believe that you thought I had made a respectable widow an offer, as if she were a lady of the night.”

She cleared her throat. “Certainly not.”

“Mind you,” Ward went on, paying no attention to her feeble denial, “that gown does rather put your assets on display, like apples for purchase in front of a theater.”

Eugenia narrowed her eyes at him. “Even given your disdain for polite discourse, Mr. Reeve, you should avoid such an invidious comparison.”

“You are far too marvelously endowed to be likened to apples,” he said, nodding agreeably.

She must be going a bit mad, because she heard herself say, “Earlier today, I was thinking that they’ll be the size of a pair of ostrich eggs in a few years.”

His eyes glittered with a dark emotion that she had no trouble interpreting, though she hadn’t seen it for years. Lust.

Desire.

“All mankind lives in hope,” he said. A husky note in his voice made her want to both leap toward him—and out of the carriage.