Seven Minutes in Heaven(96)

He stumbled and nearly fell against the wall of the corridor. It felt as if he’d been shoring up a seawall with sand, and the tide rushed in.

Now the truth slammed into his head like that tide. All those ideas he had, about the kind of woman he should marry, a woman who was a proper lady? They were all rubbish. Worthless.

He had been focused on whether Lizzie would be able to marry well—why? In order that his sister could turn into someone like the duchess—or Lady Hyacinth, for that matter? A person who talked about others in such a withering fashion? So that Otis could marry a lifeless young woman like Lady Hyacinth’s daughter?

God forbid.

The best person to help him raise Lizzie and Otis was the woman whom they loved, and who loved them in return: Eugenia.

Equally importantly, he loved her. He loved her more than life itself.

It was true that people like the duchess were rude to Eugenia—but only because she was too intelligent to be confined by their narrow strictures. They were rude to her and scorned her . . .

The way he had.

Regret punched through him, searing his heart. His body. This is what anguish feels like, his brain helpfully told him.

He felt as if he’d walked naked into a snowstorm and the consequence was frostbite, a cruel pain in his limbs, and a huge, tearing loneliness in his heart.

A strangled rasp burst from his chest. Damn it, this was unacceptable.

He had hurt Eugenia. Cut her to the bone. He ran an unsteady hand through his hair and forced himself to continue walking toward the staircase.

None of the things he’d thought to be important truly mattered. He had thought he wanted a demure wife, but he didn’t. Eugenia broke all the rules.

He had wooed Mia, asked for her hand in marriage, and now he understood that she had been right to leave him: he hadn’t felt enough for her.

The honest truth was that he had been mildly irritated when he discovered that Mia had married a duke in his absence. He had congratulated himself on comporting himself like a gentleman, and relinquishing his fiancée without violence.

Yet the mere thought of Eugenia with another man made rage course through him. He would never be able to marshal civility if he saw her with a new husband.

He reached the top of the flight of stairs and started down. Beauty, laughter, intelligence like a flame, the berry scent that was hers alone, the way Eugenia screamed when he gave her pleasure . . .

Anguish, he discovered, was not unlike a case of pneumonia he’d had as a child. His limbs throbbed in tandem with the pain in his chest.

With an effort of will, he forced himself to nod to the footman standing by the door to the drawing room. He would see the duchess and then he would repair this. Somehow.

There had to be a way by which he could be with the woman he loved and still win guardianship.

His grandmother was perched on the edge of a chair, her eyes fixed on the mantelpiece clock. He bowed. “Please forgive me for not attending you immediately, Your Grace.”

“I have been waiting for an hour and forty-three minutes,” the lady said in a voice that could have kept frozen one of Gunter’s ices.

“I apologize,” Ward said, seating himself without being asked, because he had the feeling that the duchess would prefer he stand in front of her like a schoolboy being reprimanded.

“Where are the children?” she demanded, clamping her hands around the knob handle of her cane.

“Their nursery maid will bring them down shortly.”

She pounced on that. “Nursery maid! Hadn’t you engaged a Snowe’s governess?”

“Miss Midge left, but we are expecting a new governess tomorrow.”

“When did the governess leave?”

Her eyes had a distinct resemblance to Jarvis’s, though Otis would not like the comparison. “A fortnight ago,” Ward said.

“So you—”

“Miss Midge left her position without giving notice, and Mrs. Snowe very generously agreed to take her place until a substitute could be arranged. She only left us yesterday. I believe you’ll see a remarkable difference in the children’s behavior.”

“If Mrs. Snowe managed to teach Otis to bow, I shall be astonished,” the duchess said acidly. “She acts as a governess on occasion, does she? The Countess of Sefton will be interested to hear it.” Her tone turned from disdain to satisfaction, which struck Ward as ominous. “I suppose you have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“I confess I do not,” Ward answered. The duchess smiled toothily, like a shark wearing a pearl necklace.

“Lady Sefton, one of the patronesses of Almack’s, did not revoke Mrs. Snowe’s voucher after the woman opened her registry, although obviously she ought to have done so. It hardly need be said that those who engage in trade are not welcome at Almack’s.”