Damn it. She was irresistible.
“Who was that woman when we came in?” he asked her, after the story of the blue boy was over. “The harridan who implied that you shouldn’t be allowed out of the registry office and claimed she’d met me, although we have definitely never met.”
“That’s Lady Hyacinth Buckwald,” Eugenia replied. And, at his blank look, “You haven’t heard of her?”
He shrugged. “I don’t go into society, and my family knows I loathe gossip. So, no.”
“She knows of you,” Eugenia said mischievously. “Or at least, she knows of your fortune. The poor woman has four daughters to marry off. I think Petunia is second eldest.” She pursed her lips. “Theirs is an unblemished family line. Petunia might be the solution to your prayers.”
“No,” Ward stated without hesitation.
“Lady Hyacinth doesn’t care for me because I removed her governess after Boris—her husband—chased the poor woman around the ballroom at eight in the morning.”
“Is it the time of day relevant?”
“His behavior was inexcusable at any hour; the time of day simply magnifies his transgression. One feels that a gentleman ought to be doing . . . doing whatever gentlemen do in the morning.”
“The poor sod is likely desperate,” Ward said. “Putting Boris to the side, I assure you that gentlemen are prone to chasing women around at eight in the morning.”
“Be that as it may, they should never chase their governesses!”
One moment her eyes were flashing at him with amused, sophisticated desire, and the next she was as prim as a patroness of Almack’s. Or at least what he imagined those ladies to be.
It was almost as if there were two Eugenias. One real, and one . . . not precisely unreal. The perfect lady and the real Eugenia.
That ladylike Eugenia was surely the result of pure will, inasmuch as she hadn’t been born to the position. Her performance was quite impressive; he actually felt like applauding.
He genuinely liked and admired her. She’d not only made a life for herself following the death of her husband, but presumably a prodigious fortune with Snowe’s Registry.
She was fascinating.
Damn it, if he didn’t have to marry a gentlewoman for the sake of his siblings, he would give serious thought to courting her.
No matter what, he meant to pursue her. The truth of that was throbbing through every limb. Eugenia would be his. He would make love to her until this flame between them burnt out. Hopefully it would take only a night or two.
There was nothing to stop them but the eggshell-thin layer of respectability to which she clung.
Thinking of that, he gave her a slow smile, so suggestive that she froze, fork halfway to her mouth.
She blinked at him and carefully put down her bite of cake, uneaten.
“I don’t think you’re listening to my diatribe about gentlemen who consider a governess to be fair game simply because she lives under the same roof.”
“No,” Ward admitted.
Eugenia knew that smile. Was there any woman who hadn’t seen that particular smile on a man’s face, if not on many men’s faces?
Ward had apparently come to the conclusion that she was his for the taking.
The problem with that—well, the problem with that, obviously, was that she was a respectable widow.
“What are you thinking?” she asked warily.
His eyes stayed on hers, happy and alert. A cheerful, anticipatory look that most married women knew.
Perhaps not every married woman. Perhaps not Lady Hyacinth.
“I’ve just realized how much I like you,” he said.
“If you are thinking of chasing me around a ballroom at eight in the morning, or any other time, dismiss the thought,” Eugenia said, trying in vain to ignore the melting sensation in her stomach.
“I am a respectable widow,” she clarified. “It’s essential to Snowe’s Registry that my reputation remain as such. Nothing unbefitting, no matter the hour.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “As such? Sometimes I feel as if I’m talking to a dictionary when I’m with you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my sentence construction,” she said, a bit stiffly.
Ward nodded. “Not at all.” His eyes were dancing.
“The more important thing is that whatever conclusion you’ve drawn, Mr. Reeve, you’ll have to discard it. I mean that.”
Ward leaned forward, his eyes intent on hers. “You must stop calling me Mr. Reeve, or I shall do something drastic.”
Eugenia couldn’t stop herself; the corners of her mouth twitched into a smile.
“There it is,” Ward said, settling back. “That smile of yours means that you will call me Ward. And I shall call you Eugenia, so that’s settled. I notice that you haven’t tried the strawberry trifle.”