Seven Minutes in Heaven(82)

But Eugenia was so hungry for Ward that she couldn’t think.

Or form sentences.

It felt as if he were torturing her, insisting on every course, peeling an orange so methodically that the peels fell into slow coils on the table. She watched his hands, thinking about those fingers touching her.

Her breath felt hot in her chest, but Ward was genially discussing a dessert wine with Gumwater.

“What do you think, Mrs. Snowe?”

It took her a moment to realize Ward had addressed her. She had grown used to “Eugenia” rolling off his tongue, though he was careful never to use her first name in front of the children or the servants. She ran his words backward in her head and managed to put together a response.

“The hint of walnut is delicious.”

Somehow that word “delicious” came out an octave lower than the rest of her sentence.

Ward froze.

“Monsieur Marcel has made a trifle with apricot crème anglaise to your recipe, Mrs. Snowe,” Gumwater said, his eyebrows jumping as if he’d seen a rat.

Not Jarvis, vermin.

“Would you like me to bring it now?”

“Yes, please,” Ward said, glancing at him—and away from Eugenia.

“You look weary, Gumwater,” Eugenia said, taking matters into her own hands. “Mr. Reeve, surely your butler may retire for the night after bringing the last course? One of the footmen can clear the table later.”

Gumwater cleared his throat with a sound like a dying bullfrog, so Eugenia silently warned him not to speak with a smile that showed all her teeth. He left, closing the door behind him a bit too sharply.

“I’d hate to make an enemy of you,” Ward said appreciatively. “Poor old Gumwater has retreated in great dudgeon.”

Some minutes later, the butler shouldered his way sullenly through the door, balancing a crystal bowl that he plunked down on table between them.

“Your trifle, Mrs. Snowe,” he said, not making the slightest attempt to conceal his irritation.

“Why do you tolerate being treated so disrespectfully?” Eugenia asked, once the man had taken himself away.

Ward shrugged. “An illegitimate child in a noble household quickly learns not to be bothered by servants silently expressing their opinions.”

“You tolerate Gumwater’s insubordination, because servants were impolite to you as a child?” Eugenia was incredulous. “Your father should have sacked anyone who behaved in that way!”

“By the time I was old enough to understand, I was also mature enough to understand that nonsense of that sort doesn’t matter. I had a few skirmishes at Eton, but once the boys saw that I literally didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of my parentage, most of them stopped bothering about it.”

Ward was lounging in his chair the way no gentleman was supposed to do. His hair wasn’t arranged in waves, or powdered, or even hidden by an old-fashioned wig. It was thick and wavy and so soft that Eugenia’s fingers curled into her palm at the memory of clenching them in his hair.

“Eugenia,” he said in a low voice. “You oughtn’t to look at me like that. Not here.”

“But you look delicious,” she said reasonably. He leaned forward and her eyes skated hungrily over his broad shoulders, over his strong neck and the cravat that framed his jaw.

Desire felt like a clawing animal inside her, making her breath catch and heat come into her lips. She clenched her legs against the feeling.

“Please allow me to serve you some trifle,” Ward said.

He stood up and her mouth went dry. Those silk breeches hid nothing, and there was much to hide. Ward plunged a spoon into the layers of cream, sponge, and apricot, and prepared a plate for each of them.

Ladies never licked their spoon. They didn’t close their eyes and nearly swoon, either.

Eugenia did both.

“This is so good,” she moaned, her eyes opening to find Ward staring at her. His eyes were dark, and his hands clenched the edge of the table.

“Jesus,” he said hoarsely. “Have another bite, Eugenia.”

She brought the spoon to her mouth and again closed her eyes. She felt transported by silky cool cream flavored with Armagnac, and the touch of anise that had been her idea.

Ward’s chair shoved back and she heard footsteps. But she didn’t open her eyes, not even when cool silver nudged her lips, prompting her to open for another bite.

“Good girl,” Ward said, his voice rough.

Hands ran over her shoulders, fingers gliding down her arms. She swallowed and took in a stuttering breath.

“A man could lay you down on this table and cover you in trifle, even the pale pink parts of you—or those parts especially—and lick off all that lovely cream,” Ward murmured.