Seven Minutes in Heaven(39)

Ward leaned forward. “How would you change that chocolate cake you just tasted, Eugenia?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I asked. If that cake had been made by your cook, would you be perfectly satisfied?”

“It’s not a question of satisfied,” she said. “It was wonderful. But . . .”

“What would you ask her to do?”

“It would benefit from a touch of cardamom,” she said readily. “Just a crackle of spice. And the texture could be improved. Perhaps by beating for another half-hour, or another egg yolk. Or one might try putting steaming water in the oven during the baking process.”

Ward sat back and grinned at her. “You are a master baker. I predict that at some point you will throw off this façade of respectability—”

“Mr. Reeve!” Eugenia squeaked. “There is nothing hypocritical about my behavior!”

“The pretense of prudence,” he said without a pause, “that stops you from eating the food you most desire. Perhaps you’ll open a pastry shop someday. Like this one.”

Eugenia scoffed. “Nonsense! I can scarcely make a sponge cake, I assure you.”

“I am confident that you could make a success of any endeavor, Eugenia.”

He sounded sincere.

She smiled, trying to ignore the way her heart was galloping, and rose. “I think we’ve had enough sweets, don’t you, Mr. Reeve?”

“I hope I do not shock the ladies in the room,” he said, also rising. “It would be best if we sat back down and talked about something more mundane, like my siblings.”

It took tremendous self-control not to glance at his breeches. Instead, they simply looked at each other, desire hanging in the air like smoke.

But his reference to his siblings struck a chord, and her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh dear,” she breathed, “we forgot to discuss the problem of Lizzie and Otis.”

“We can talk about it in the carriage,” Ward said, and nodded to Mr. Sweeney, who had brought Eugenia’s pelisse.

Ward took it from him and held it as she slipped it back on. His strong hands touched her shoulders, paused for a moment in a caress that made her knees go weak.

She felt different. Freer, as if chains had fallen away. It was ridiculous, but true.

As they moved toward the door, threading their way between now-crowded tables, she heard a growled word behind her. She glanced over her shoulder at Ward.

“The Dowager Duchess of Gilner just entered,” he said. “My grandmother.”

Oh.

Sure enough, Eugenia’s way out of the tearoom was blocked by a hard-eyed old woman with the bearing of one who had once been considered a great beauty.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Snowe,” the duchess said.

Eugenia curtsied. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

The lady’s violet turban was adorned with a plume so long that it swept her shoulder when she turned to Ward. “Mr. Reeve.”

“A very good afternoon to you,” Ward said, bowing.

The lady rested her hands on the ornate brass ball which topped her cane. “I am too old to prevaricate, Mr. Reeve. A Snowe’s governess is hardly enough to qualify your household to raise children of the nobility, insofar as that you are not only unmarried, but illegitimate. I would prefer that you did not contest my petition to the House of Lords. An institution in which you do not belong, I might add.”

“My father brought me up under circumstances similar to those under which I intend to bring up Lizzie and Otis,” Ward replied. “I assume you approved of his guardianship, Grandmother, since you yourself dropped me on his doorstep.”

Eugenia had the feeling this was the first time Ward had used the word “grandmother” in direct address.

Her Grace’s gloved fingers tightened on her cane, the only outward sign of irritation. “I regret that you force me to put the truth in such blunt terms, Mr. Reeve, but you are my daughter’s by-blow, and I fully expected your father to place you in the country.”

The implication was clear. To her, Ward was little more than rubbish, but legitimate children were another story.

“If their other grandmother were alive, she would beg me to raise them,” the duchess added.

Eugenia thought that the late Lady Darcy must be turning in her grave at the idea her grandchildren had any contact whatsoever with the family of the woman who seduced her fifteen-year-old son.

“You are unfit, Mr. Reeve,” the lady concluded. She shifted her eyes to Eugenia. “It is highly irregular of you to take tea with one of your clients, Mrs. Snowe. In your situation, reputation is paramount. Yours is already compromised by your choices.”