Seven Minutes in Heaven(81)

Ward said nothing in reply, and they were back at the house and up the stairs before she untangled her thoughts about what ladies could and couldn’t do.

Once again in her chamber, he set her down. But there was something she had to clarify before she rang for a bath. “Ward, you are aware that I’m a lady, aren’t you?”

Ward stared at Eugenia, not knowing what to say.

What was she asking, exactly? She had freely told him of the prostitutes she’d met as a child, of her aunt’s directorship of Magdalene House, of her uncle who was in the Thames River Police . . .

On the other hand, she currently lived in an elegant house in the smartest neighborhood—though she had paid for it herself.

What made a lady? He himself was illegitimate, but he had never considered himself defined by that, any more than he was by being the son of aristocrats.

If he refused to define himself by the circumstances of his birth, he shouldn’t define Eugenia by hers. Nor his mother: for all her lineage and privilege, Lady Lisette had been no lady.

There was only one possible answer. “Of course I do. What I see before me,” he said, “is a very chilled, shivering lady.” He pulled the cord to summon her maid. “Who shall have a hot bath and later some champagne.”

Her mouth curled into a smile.

“It’s not every day that a lady overcomes her worst fear.” He brushed a kiss on her lips. “You are a remarkable woman, Eugenia.”

Ward needed a few minutes after he’d left Eugenia’s chamber to work out why he felt as if walls were closing around him. Then he remembered that just before she’d asked him about her status as a lady, Eugenia had said, “There’s more to us than desire.” His gut clenched uneasily.

There could be no “us.”

She was a delight, a revelation, a pure pleasure. She was a lady and yet not, given the scorn with which the likes of his grandmother and Lady Hyacinth greeted her.

He had to establish distance between them. He couldn’t endanger Eugenia’s heart; she had already lost one lover.

Actually, it was probably all in his imagination. Likely she didn’t give a ha’penny for him. Eugenia Snowe was a woman of common sense. They were enjoying each other with the kind of unbridled enthusiasm that came naturally to people who have been deprived of bed play.

They would always have a special tenderness between them.

That worked, he decided, yanking down his breeches.

Freed from the wet cloth, his erect cock bobbed against his stomach. His body didn’t give a damn about the plans he was making for sharing nostalgic glances with Eugenia at some time in the future.

It wanted her, to own her, take her.

Keep her.

Oh, bloody hell.





Chapter Thirty-three





Friday, June 5, 1801

A week later



Eugenia passed the morning in the kitchen—she and Monsieur Marcel were perfecting a lemon tea cake—after which she and Ward spent the afternoon teaching Lizzie and Otis the finer points of croquet. Neither child had the faintest understanding of good sportsmanship and both thought cheating was a sensible route to victory.

“They won’t be roaming the house tonight,” Ward told Eugenia with obvious satisfaction in the evening. “Lizzie drifted off in my library, and I carried her to bed.”

Eugenia had a sudden image of Ward with a sleeping child draped over his shoulder. But the imaginary girl had a mop of dark curls, the color hers had been before they lightened to red.

For goodness’ sake! She took a hasty gulp of wine. Gumwater padded around the table, serving the meal with hearty, if silent, dislike.

“Your butler abhors me,” she observed, when the man had left. “And frankly he has done nothing to endear himself to me.”

“My stepmother is not fond of Gumwater either,” Ward acknowledged. “He’s capable in the position, though.”

“I can tolerate him for one more week,” Eugenia said, silently willing Ward to invite her to extend her stay beyond the fortnight they had agreed on.

One more week.

Or forever.

“I appreciate that,” he said easily.

Eugenia was trying her utmost to not blurt out a declaration of love that he might not reciprocate. She felt as if her skin were about to burst, as if she were a plump grape, succulent and sweet. Love and lust were jumbled in her mind.

She shifted in her chair. Ward’s eyes narrowed, but Gumwater pushed open the door again, bringing another covered platter. For the remainder of the meal the butler managed to find reasons to keep coming and going, dropping fussy remarks about the provenance of the wine, the paucity of green beans, the exorbitant price of pineapples.

Ward didn’t appear to be irritated. Or to want to be alone with her. He kept up a sidelong conversation with Gumwater. Meanwhile, Eugenia practiced being a lady. Ladies didn’t squirm in their seats.