Seven Minutes in Heaven(86)
He didn’t raise his voice, but he also didn’t try to disguise his exasperation. “I’ve explained how important it is that Lizzie, in particular, be brought up a lady. I trusted you, and instead you have taught her a trade.”
A stark moment of silence passed between them. “I apologize,” Eugenia said at length. “I had no intention of undermining your efforts. I assure you that Lizzie is, and will be, a lady.”
“Not if she says ‘bloody hell’ in a ballroom and follows that by announcing her plans to open a shop. Damn it, Eugenia, I think it’s wonderful that you established a registry office. I’m sure your tearoom will surpass Gunter’s and be the most fashionable in London. But Lizzie won’t have your life, don’t you see?”
Eugenia did see.
Ward had never made explicit precisely how he felt about her profession—but he wouldn’t have, would he? He needed her. Two governesses had failed him; he needed someone to instruct Lizzie and Otis.
No, that wasn’t right. That bitter comment didn’t represent reality.
Ward did respect her. She simply hadn’t comprehended the extent to which he believed that her ownership of the registry was of more consequence than her birth. In essence, he agreed with the Duchess of Gilner that Eugenia was no longer a lady.
“What if Lizzie tells our grandmother of her ambitions?” Ward demanded, as if he’d read her thoughts. “The House of Lords will not be sympathetic to the fact that I allowed my mistress to keep my sister in the kitchen, training to be a pâtissier!”
Eugenia felt a sharp pain in the region of her heart. “I am not your mistress,” she managed.
“Lover, if you’d prefer,” Ward said.
Apparently, to him, it was a distinction without meaning. But not to Eugenia. Lovers were on a par with each other and money never changed hands. A mistress, on the other hand, was a dependent.
She would never be a kept woman of any man.
“We can impress discretion upon Lizzie,” she said, rallying a calm tone. “I would add that your sister seems to believe that merely being in the kitchen while something is baking is the same as knowing how to make it. I can assure you that she has not had an apprenticeship in baking.”
“The distinction is immaterial,” Ward growled. He ran a hand through his hair.
God, she’d been such a fool. She thought that giving Ward her body proved that she belonged to no man, but he obviously saw it otherwise.
She drew herself upright and met his eyes. No one could shame her unless she allowed it. She had learned that harsh lesson when some of the dowagers—such as the Duchess of Gilner—had sneered at her for opening Snowe’s.
“There is nothing less ladylike than being anxious about one’s status. You would do well to remember that when you are tutoring Lizzie in what she may and may not say to the duchess.”
His jaw flexed.
“A lady may bake a cake simply because she wishes to, which is one of the reasons Snowe’s governesses teach it. A lady can straighten the picnic basket if she knows that the butler is slothful and won’t come down until the plates are swarming with ants. A true lady can do virtually anything she wishes without it having any effect on her status—except, perhaps, have an affaire with a blooming idiot!”
Another moment of silence, punctuated only by the irregular chirps of a sparrow.
“I take your point,” Ward said. “In the main, you are right, but the rules are more strict for those on the margins, Eugenia, as surely you know.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I gather my ownership of Snowe’s puts me on the margins.”
“No,” he said, his face implacable. “I’m saying that if the news emerges that Miss Lizzie Darcy spent her early life in a traveling caravan with Lady Lisette, people will watch her like a hawk for evidence that she does not fit her station.”
Eugenia was wrestling with her temper. Ward was a deeply protective man, fighting for those he loved. His ideas were wrong—owing to the fact that he had been scorned by servants, and by boys at Eton.
Their scorn didn’t matter to him, because he had never given a damn.
The same was key for Lizzie was well. If Lizzie comported herself with perfect confidence and poise at her debut, she would set the rules, not follow them. But if she radiated anxiety, the vultures would circle, waiting for mistakes.
She, Eugenia, would simply have to manage that debut. Even if her relationship with Ward was long over.
He took a step toward her. Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss into her palm. “I don’t want you to go.”
She drew her hand away. “Yes, you do, because you are right: if the duchess were to discover our intimacy, she would use it to disqualify your guardianship.”