“I’ve already eaten more confections than I’ve had in months,” Eugenia protested. On her side of the table were three untouched sweets. On his, five empty plates.
He snorted. “A bite or two of this or that? Mr. Gunter’s pâtissier will weep if all this is sent back to the kitchen.” He reached across the table and helped himself to a forkful of her trifle. It was light and airy, cream whipped with bits of sweet fruit.
“I mustn’t taste any more, because I won’t be able to stop,” Eugenia protested. “I have a terrible sweet tooth, and no self-control whatsoever.”
But the fork was coming toward her mouth. “Just a taste,” he coaxed.
The taste was so sublime that she closed her eyes for a moment from pure pleasure.
“You adore sweets, don’t you?”
She opened her eyes and put a hand to her heart. “This may be the best trifle I have ever eaten.” She plucked the fork from his hand and took another bite.
“That’s why you have all the children learning to bake,” he said, watching her. “You love sweets. You are an epicure.”
“More of a glutton,” she said honestly. “Everyone should be able to make something that gives people so much joy.”
Ward’s face wore an odd expression as he watched her eat. “Describe the taste for me.”
She took another bite and closed her eyes again. “The cream is velvety smooth with just a touch of liqueur. The strawberries are tangy and not too sweet.”
Ward made a sound precariously close to a groan. She opened her eyes and said, “My cook is forbidden to make confections like this. I can’t indulge myself, or my hips wouldn’t let me through the door. No cakes, unless I have company to dine with me.”
Except she never had company, now she thought about it.
“If this were my cook,” she added, surprising herself, “I would ask her to macerate the strawberries in liqueur first, making them even more tart.”
“Your late husband must have plied you with sweets every chance he got,” Ward said.
She shook her head. “Andrew was an ascetic man. It was one of the things that I loved about him.”
Ward nodded.
“My own father, by contrast, has spent most of his life pleasing himself,” Eugenia said, feeling a twinge of disloyalty.
“He must be a happy man.”
“Yes. He is most happy when inventing things. Rather like you, I believe,” she added, wondering if she should have a bite of the chocolate cake.
So she could compare it to the trifle.
“Yes, you ought to eat it,” Ward said, meeting her eyes. “It’s one of the best cakes I’ve ever had.”
“Don’t you dare try to feed me again,” Eugenia said. “It’s lucky we are screened by that fern so no one saw you.”
“Not lucky,” Ward said. “I slipped Mr. Sweeney a pound note.”
Eugenia winced. “Privacy is dreadfully expensive.” But she was glad. She’d hate to know that Lady Hyacinth was watching her, and probably eavesdropping as well.
“Your reputation is important,” Ward said. “I would never do anything that might hurt you in any way.”
Ward wasn’t talking about taking tea together. His eyes were so heated that she lost all desire for the chocolate cake.
“You haven’t told me why you came to London,” Eugenia said, taking a hasty sip of tea. It had gone cold and had that bitterness of tea that has steeped too long.
Ward raised a hand; a second later a waiter was bowing at their side, then hurrying away with the rejected teapot in hand. Ward was the sort of man to whom waiters and their like always paid attention. It was a bit irritating.
“I need advice,” Ward said.
“How are Lizzie and Otis faring with Miss Midge since you last wrote?”
“Therein lies the problem.”
Before he could elaborate, a high-pitched voice interrupted them. “Mrs. Snowe, Mr. Reeve, I trust you will forgive me; I wish to present my darling Petunia.”
Ward looked up warily. On the rare occasions he found himself in the company of ladies—usually at his father’s house—he had a devil of a time with marriage-minded mothers. They seemed to hunt him with all the determined enthusiasm of a foxhunter who’s glimpsed a bushy tail. His fortune clearly outweighed his irregular birth.
What he needed was a portable foxhole.
Next to Lady Hyacinth stood a younger version of herself: the same brown hair, lanky figure, long chin. It couldn’t be easy to be Lady Hyacinth’s daughter.
Especially once you realized you’d inherited the family chin.
“I’m sure you won’t mind if we join you,” Lady Hyacinth said, breaking about ten rules of polite behavior all at once.