He kept just enough presence of mind to note the way Eugenia was whimpering, her hands pulling him closer, crying his name over and over until the word dissolved into a scream.
She was as passionate as he was, wild, clawing his back, her body convulsing in pleasure. He savored every moment, then set her on top of him and watched as she braced herself, found her rhythm, laughed down at him.
And rode him until her body convulsed again, driving him to lose control. A rough shout broke from his chest and he gave her all he had.
“A fortnight,” he said, his voice not more than a rasp.
Eugenia turned to look at him, and her lush lips turned up at the corners. She tried to answer, cleared her throat, tried again.
“I’m too tired to depart directly,” she whispered.
“You are exquisite,” he breathed, running his thumb along her lower lip.
She smiled, eyes drenched with pleasure. “I’m partial to you as well.”
They fell asleep wrapped together like puppies.
Or lovers.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Thursday, May 28, 1801
Eugenia woke in her own bedchamber to the sound of Clothilde pulling back the curtains. She sat up, blinking.
She didn’t feel like a fallen woman. Though she had certainly played the part, not least when Ward escorted her to her chamber at the crack of dawn.
“Good morning, madame,” Clothilde said. “I have brought your breakfast tray. Will we return to London today?”
“I promised Mr. Reeve I would stay until we can provide him a new governess. Probably a fortnight.” Eugenia scrambled out of bed. “There will be a hearing in the House of Lords in a few weeks, and the children have a great deal to learn before they are suited for polite society.”
“Ruby is mystified by the two of them,” Clothilde said, ringing the bell to order a bath. “Two of our governesses they’ve had, and still they do not wash behind their ears.”
“I must teach them the rules of address, how to bow and curtsy, how to comport themselves in adult company. And I must teach Lizzie to be herself, not a character from a play.”
“Ruby says the little girl is trop dramatique,” Clothilde said, nodding.
Eugenia had been longing for a new challenge—and now she had one. Her days would be full, and her nights . . . blissful.
She poured herself a cup of tea and sat on the bed, as the tray occupied the only chair. “Have you noticed that this house is strangely lacking in furniture, Clothilde?”
“It is the same everywhere,” her maid reported. “Mr. Reeve bought the house with some furniture, by all reports, and has made no changes. Six bedchambers do not have a stick in them. And, madame, no maids live in.”
“None?”
“Not a one. They come from the village every day. Mr. Gumwater considers women in the house to be a nuisance.” She wrinkled her nose. “I have met others of his type.”
“The kitchen help is all male?”
Clothilde nodded. “Monsieur Marcel, the chef, is from Languedoc, not far from one of my aunts. He has no kitchen maids, not a one. All the same, his bread is magnifique. As good as my mother’s, madame.”
Eugenia felt another surge of happiness. Perhaps she would go to the kitchens and ask if Monsieur Marcel would try a few of her ideas. She had imagined a chocolate cake with a strong ginger flavor. Or a lemon tart with bits of rind to give it extra piquancy.
“I’ll take the children downstairs for their first baking lesson today. Is Monsieur Marcel the sort who will dislike children in his kitchen?”
“No, no,” her maid said. “He is a true Frenchman, so I am sure that he loves children.”
Never mind the fact that Clothilde herself frowned on anyone under the age of ten, owing to their propensity to get dirty.
Eugenia was just out of her bath when a footman delivered a note from Ward.
~Would you like to have Lizzie and Otis at dinner?
She scrawled her reply below his sentence, folded it, and sent it back.
~Absolutely. We must begin instruct them in table manners and polite conversation immediately.
He wrote back.
~I fear that you’ll moan while eating chocolate soufflé—which I have requested for this evening.
She began a new sheet of foolscap.
~The presence of your siblings in the dining room should prevent you from lunging across the table.
Her writing was neat and ladylike, his slanted and fast.
~All I can think about is whether you are having a bath.
An image of his bath leapt to her mind: water glistening on strong, sleek legs, running down the wide arc of his shoulders. She swallowed hard, hesitated, and ignored his provocation.
~Will Otis bring Jarvis to the table?