Seven Minutes in Heaven(76)

“I doubt it,” Eugenia said. The hurt in her eyes was changed to unruffled composure. “You’d be surprised by how earthy women can be in conversation.” She turned away to retrieve her dressing gown and pulled it on.

“The ladies who rule polite society,” Ward insisted, “are fickle, if not cruel. Lizzie could forfeit her chance for a good marriage with a single mistake.”

“If your sister does not express her feelings of anger, she will constantly try to express other people’s—and her penchant for dramatics will not be viewed sympathetically.”

“Lizzie needs to think like a lady,” Ward said. Damn it, he was having a conversation with his mistress—about his little sister.

That just wasn’t done.

“Lizzie needs to put in words her feelings about your mother,” Eugenia said.

“She can do it without profanity,” he pointed out. “Ladies must act as such, all the time, Eugenia. It’s—”

He stopped, aware he was about to say something she might take as an insult.

“Lady Lisette is dead,” Eugenia said, after pausing to see if he cared to finish the sentence. “Lizzie tried hiding her face—and her anger—behind that veil, but it’s not helping.”

“She doesn’t hide her face for that reason,” Ward said. Though in truth he wasn’t sure why his sister wore the veil. “The more important point is that ladies do not belch out lists of vulgarities.” His gut twisted at the line he had to draw between them, but he had no choice. “The children are my responsibility. I have to conceal the fact that Lizzie knows such vulgar words.”

Eugenia dropped down on the side of the bed, and looked at him, clear eyes sober but not indignant. “Would you like me to leave, Ward?”

“No!” The word shot out of him with such force that she couldn’t mistake his sincerity. “God, no, Eugenia. You’re . . . you’re making this ordeal bearable. Please.”

“I want to be very clear about what you’re asking. You wish to shield your sister from anything that can possibly be construed as ill-befitting the behavior of a lady.”

“Yes.”

“As such, you are dismayed that I allowed Lizzie to curse. Do you feel the same about our excursion to the kitchens?” Her face was perfectly composed, but her fingers fidgeted with the tie of her dressing gown.

“Eugenia—” he began. “I’ve bungled this. I didn’t mean to make you angry or to hurt your feelings.”

“I am not angry,” she stated. No one could look more placidly ladylike than Eugenia, when she wanted to be.

Just as no lady could be as ferociously real as she was, when she wanted to be.

Noticeably, she said nothing about hurt feelings. She must often be hurt by the abrasive insouciance of the aristocracy—witness his grandmother’s rudeness and Lady Hyacinth’s slights.

“Lizzie’s debut will be challenging,” he said, trying again. “We have our mother’s wretched behavior to overcome, and my irregular birth. I am complicating her marital future by not allowing the duchess to raise her.”

Eugenia shook her head. “We both know that the Duchess of Gilner would not be a good choice.”

“My point is that Lizzie has to be more ladylike than—than the queen. Her comportment must bamboozle women such as Lady Hyacinth into thinking she is conventional. She has to appear a true lady in every respect.”

“I assure you that my reputation as the head of Snowe’s will benefit Lizzie. You kidnapped me for that very reason, remember?”

Eugenia was sitting in a pool of sunlight, the tangled hair about her shoulders making her look wild and debauched, nothing like a lady. He couldn’t bear the idea that she might think he’d kidnapped her for any motive other than the one now roaring through his limbs: blind, fierce desire.

With a growl, he dived at her and pulled her against his body, taking her mouth in a ravenous kiss. She was unresponsive for a moment, but then her body melted against his and her arms circled his neck.

He pulled back, looked into her smoky eyes. “Unless you want me to flaunt my own command of profanity—which far surpasses my sister’s—you won’t suggest that I have any motive for having you in my arms except the obvious.”

“Which is?”

He pulled her up so her legs curled around his waist. “If I watch you taste one of Marcel’s desserts, I damn near come in my breeches.”

He loved her cool logic and her dizzy delight . . . but most of all he loved her laughter. He pushed the thick arch of his cock against her. “Forgive me?” he whispered roughly. “I feel guilty about Lizzie. It’s not only that I’m a bastard . . . you and I are lovers now. Even though there are children in the house.”