Seven Minutes in Heaven(9)

Ward shouldn’t be teasing a respectable former governess, but Mrs. Snowe was irresistible. That peony pink in her cheeks was the prettiest thing he’d seen in weeks.

And she was widowed, after all. He never flirted with married women, or members of his household, but she wasn’t his servant, no matter how much he had paid her for Lumpy’s lachrymose services.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have mentioned my lack of companionship,” he offered. Her scent was sweet and elusive . . . like dewberries. Tiny berries that smelled sweet but were tart on the tongue.

“Gentlemen do not bemoan their lack of companionship. Nor, I might add, do they speak of excrement in the presence of ladies.”

He let out a bark of laughter. She was tart, indeed. “I can tell what you’re thinking, Mrs. Snowe. You think that I need a governess.”

“It’s too late for you,” she said roundly. “More to the point, I’m afraid that it’s also late for your siblings. How can your brother possibly go to Eton if he’s had no schooling whatsoever?”

“Otis will learn anything required in no time,” Ward said. “Both children are remarkably intelligent.” After a pause, he qualified reluctantly, “Not that I know any other children their age.”

She smiled at him—for the first time?

When she smiled, her whole face changed.

Every damn bone in Ward’s body—including his most private one—flared with heat. Mrs. Snowe had eyes, a nose, a chin . . . all the ordinary features every woman had. But that smile turned her face into the most beautiful he’d ever seen.

Maybe they weren’t ordinary features.

Red lips. Porcelain skin. Hair the color of autumn leaves on fire. She was speaking and he should be listening, but instead he was—

What the hell was he doing?

Simmering with desire for a governess, albeit a former governess? He’d lost his mind. At least she was a widow; he’d truly disgust himself if he found himself lusting after a married woman.

He’d never felt this madness when he was with Mia—

He seized on that idea with relief.

This all had to do with his former fiancée. He’d been rejected. This extreme wave of desire was the result of that unpleasant surprise.

It explained the insistent beat of his heart, which echoed right down his body to—

It made sense.

More or less.

He’d always enjoyed bedding women, and clearly the months of abstention during his betrothal to Mia had taken a toll. He needed to take a mistress.

Or perhaps make an appointment with a cheerful, welcoming tart. A woman who expected nothing but guineas, and would be surprised by pleasure.

With an effort, he wrenched his mind back to the present.

“Miss Lumley is capable of teaching both of them everything they needed to know,” Mrs. Snowe was saying. “She is an excellent teacher of Latin, history, and etiquette—as well as crucial skills such as how to run a household, play tennis, and bake a cake.”

“Bake a cake!” Ward said. “Why on earth would they be taught that particular skill?”

Eugenia watched as Mr. Reeve’s face cooled into that of an offended peer. Susan was right: he had a distinct resemblance to an earl.

“I can assure you,” he stated, “that my siblings have no need for culinary skills. I had a succession of governesses as a child, but not one ventured into the kitchen.”

“Snowe’s children all learn to bake a sponge cake,” Eugenia explained. “Baking requires concentration and precision, and it has the potential for serious injury. Children enjoy it.”

He gave her a wry smile. “Knives. Fire. I suspect I would have loved it.”

“I suppose that you were a very naughty child,” Eugenia observed, despite herself.

“‘Wicked’ was the word most often employed,” he offered. That smolder in his eyes should be outlawed. It sent a frisson, a little shock, right down to her toes.

Occasionally she would catch a glimpse of a gentleman turning the corner in front of her, and something about the set of his shoulders or the gleam of his hair would make her remember the excitement she felt on seeing her husband for the first time.

No gleaming hair here. Mr. Reeve had tumbling brown curls that he clearly hadn’t done more than glance at. Probably no valet.

Definitely no valet, she amended, glancing at his neckcloth, which was tied with a knot. Not a gentlemen’s knot, but the knot children learned how to tie.

“Snowe’s cakes have become something of a secret code,” she said hastily. “An excellent way by which Lizzie and Otis can fit in with their schoolmates.”

Mr. Reeve shrugged. “They show no signs of anxiety about their manners and are, in fact, astonished when dealt a rebuff. I doubt the ability to bake a sponge cake will prove a magic talisman.”