Seven Minutes in Heaven(70)
“I am most grateful,” Lizzie warbled, and curtsied once more. Otis’s bow involved a waggle of the waist that made him look like a crane with a sprained ankle.
Their French notwithstanding, there was work to be done.
Back in the nursery, Ruby supervised as the children washed their hands and faces.
Then Eugenia took over. “I’m going to leave the room and enter it again. I would like you to imagine that I am the Duchess of Gilner.”
Lizzie’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t like her.”
“A lady never expresses a negative opinion of another person except in private,” Eugenia said. “Greet me as if I was your revered grandmama, come to evaluate the nursery.”
“Do you mean, as if I liked her?”
“That’s precisely what I mean.”
“You want us to lie!” Lizzie cried dramatically.
“I want you to act,” Eugenia corrected her. “At the right time, in the right way.”
Eugenia hadn’t seen Ward all day, and by evening desire glowed in her like a banked fire. The mere thought of him made her knees weak.
She chose a gown that promised more than it revealed, since the children were joining them. It was indigo blue, made of a silk so heavy that it fell like a column to the ground.
“Diamonds in your hair?” Clothilde asked. She hadn’t said a word, but Eugenia knew perfectly well that her maid knew of her affaire. Clothilde plainly approved—she was French, after all—but even after years together, they maintained a certain decorum.
“I believe I would prefer the silver net,” Eugenia said. “If you brought it, that is.”
“Certainly, madame,” Clothilde said, clearly pained by the insinuation that she would make such an error.
“With the silver heels,” Eugenia said.
“The blue slippers would be preferable,” Clothilde said. “In my opinion, silver might convey the impression that you are expensive.”
“I am expensive. I fail to see how that is relevant.”
“Gentlemen like to pretend that their wives will not be a burden on the household accounts. This gives them license to grumble, and pretend to have been deceived in years after.”
“I have no intention of marrying Mr. Reeve,” Eugenia stated. “Therefore, I shall wear the silver shoes and look as if I am expensive as the queen herself.”
“Certainly, madame,” Clothilde said.
“You needn’t wait up,” Eugenia added, taking up the silk shawl that accompanied the gown.
“I hope it is a pleasant evening, madame.” Clothilde’s French accent lent volumes to the prosaic statement.
“I have every reason to believe it will be,” Eugenia said, her smile widening as their eyes met in the mirror.
Chapter Twenty-nine
On coming down the stairs for the evening meal, Eugenia encountered Gumwater, who informed her that dinner would be served in a small chamber off the ballroom. He offered no escort, so Eugenia walked alone across the ballroom listening to the tap of her heels. The room resonated with an empty, windy sound that suggested no one had danced there since the seventeenth century.
She entered the parlor to find Ward alone, elbow on the mantelpiece, staring at the fireplace, his powerful features lit from below, as if he were a medieval warrior at a bonfire, contemplating the next morning’s battle.
It was a good thing that she hadn’t met Ward in her debut season. Andrew had been a glowing, golden boy, but Ward was all man, and not merely because he was burly in comparison to her late husband.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
He straightened. “You.”
Eugenia grinned. “Complimentary thoughts?”
He glanced at the open door. “Lascivious ones.”
They smiled at each other, like two cats sharing a stolen bowl of cream.
“I was also considering whether I would run out of French letters by the end of the fortnight,” he added, clarifying things. “May I offer you a glass of wine?”
He moved over to the decanters on the sideboard. “I’ve banished Gumwater. He’s not used to women in the house and it makes him tetchy. A glass of sherry?”
“No, thank you. A glass of red wine would be very pleasant.” Ladies were supposed to drink sherry before meals, but Eugenia liked to consider that a suggestion rather than a rule.
“Of course.”
“What will you do now that you’re no longer at the university?” she asked.
“I am adapting my paper-rolling machine to steam,” he answered, handing her a glass of ruby-colored wine.
“What increase in page production do you expect?”
He blinked, surprised.