She stopped.
Ward sighed. It would take time for all the stories to come out. In their own time, Eugenia had said.
“Give me a hug, you two,” he said. “Wish me luck.”
Otis leaped up and hugged Ward. “Good luck!” he shouted.
Lizzie came to him more slowly. “If she comes back—will she be our mother?”
Ward nodded. “I hope so.”
“Give her this.” Lizzie turned jerkily and pulled her bundled veil from under her pillow.
“I won’t be back for several days, Lizzie. I don’t want to take your veil.”
“I am giving it to her, to Mrs. Snowe.” Her peaked face was stubborn, her jaw set.
“Are you ready to stop mourning your mother?” He asked it gently, but thought it ought to be said aloud.
“I never wore that for Lady Lisette,” she said matter-of-factly.
Otis didn’t look up from Jarvis, who had emerged from the tunnel and was triumphantly eating his bread. “She began wearing the veil when Papa died.”
Ward grimaced. “I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t tell you,” Lizzie said.
She pushed the veil into his hands.
Chapter Forty-one
Monday, June 22, 1801
Fonthill
Susan’s answers began to arrive the morning after Eugenia’s arrival. The first letters demurred, but the fourth delightedly agreed to take over Snowe’s.
“I’m always here if you need me, but I intend to find a new challenge,” Eugenia wrote back. She had decided to entice away Monsieur Marcel and become his secret partner in an elegant pâtisserie in Mayfair.
She found she didn’t mind the idea of putting Ward to some inconvenience.
On a personal note, Evan was showing an entirely flattering interest. Never mind Villiers’s suggestion of an affaire, she had the distinct sense that if she gave Evan the slightest push, he would fall to his knees and beg to make her his future duchess.
What’s more, she had got through a whole day without crying. She could add it to the list of courageous things she’d done recently. Learn how to swim, have an affaire, not weep for a full day.
Just as her vision blurred, threatening her newly won award for courage, her bedchamber door opened and Harriet entered, a length of shimmering pink silk over her arm. “Look what I have for you, darling.” She put it on the bed.
“It’s exquisite!” Eugenia exclaimed, blinking away her tears.
“It was to be a surprise for your birthday,” her stepmother said, sitting beside her, “but I decided it was a good time for a present.”
“How on earth did you have it made without fittings?”
“Clothilde gave my seamstress one of your favorite gowns to copy. She’s been sewing madly for the last two days.” Harriet held up the gown beside Eugenia’s hair. “It’s perfect for your coloring.”
The gown was cut from a heavy silk so it would curve around the body and flare slightly at the ankles. A gauze overlay was embroidered with vines that curved and curled like the bordering images in medieval Bibles.
Clothilde entered, smiling. “Is it not délicieuse, madame?”
“Yes!” If Ward saw her in this, he would realize—Eugenia pushed the thought away. “What are all these small beads?” She peered closer. “Silver? Pure silver?”
Clothilde cackled delightedly. “There are shoes, as well, madame.” She held them out.
They were a misty silver silk, with heels and a complex patterns of leaves dotted with silver beads.
“The gown will look very well with the diamond necklace your father gave you when you turned eighteen,” Harriet said with satisfaction. “Remember you left it here to be repaired.”
“I suspect you have plans for when I should wear this magnificent ensemble?” Eugenia said, tracing the delicate embroidery with her fingers.
“Tonight! I’ve engaged a small orchestra and invited the neighbors.” Harriet twinkled at Eugenia. “Evan will not be able to take his eyes off you.”
“I don’t—” Eugenia began, but Harriet was already on her feet.
“The footmen will be bringing your bath in a minute, darling. Now I must go ready myself.”
“Don’t you think diamonds are too grand for an evening at home?” Eugenia asked.
“That necklace was your great-grandmother’s; it is not extraordinary except for its sentiment,” Harriet said. “I think it will make your father very happy if you wear it.”
After bathing, Eugenia stared absently into the mirror while Clothilde fussed with her hair.
What were Lizzie and Otis doing now? It was close to bedtime; perhaps they were in the nursery, playing at draughts and ladders with the new governess. Or Ruby might be overseeing Otis’s bath while Jarvis splashed in his own basin.
It was stupid, stupid, stupid, to feel so hollow around the heart, as if she’d lost a family, rather than a mere lover.
She’d only lost an acquaintance, really.
She felt better when she had on the new gown, with diamonds sparkling around her neck and in her hair. There had been life after Andrew, and there would be life after Ward.
Evan was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, and the startled wonder in his eyes when he saw her was quite gratifying.
“You are extraordinarily beautiful, Mrs. Snowe,” he breathed, bowing as he kissed her hand.
“Please, call me Eugenia,” she said, smiling up at him as he escorted her to the drawing room.
“Darling girl,” her father said, coming forward as they entered, “I have a present for my shining child.” He pulled something from his pocket.
“Oh my goodness,” Eugenia breathed, looking down at a pair of shimmering diamond earrings in his palm.
“They match your necklace,” he said, pressing a kiss on her forehead.
“Oh, Papa,” she murmured, swallowing back tears, because who cried when given diamonds?
Harriet appeared, crowing and laughing, helping her put them on.
“They will glitter when you dance,” her stepmother said. She leaned closer and whispered, “Be very careful, darling, or Evan will fall to his knees and offer you a ring to match your earrings.”
Ward had planned to make the journey to Fonthill in half the time it would have taken Eugenia, hopefully arriving within a few hours of her.
Instead, his elderly carriage got stuck in the mud three times, its ancient wheels good for nothing but a dry road. He finally left it at a coaching inn and rented another, which promptly broke a shaft climbing a steep hill.
By his fifth day on the road, Ward was exhausted from lack of sleep; he hardly cursed when the Royal Mail passed them with a rattling of wheels and a loud horn.
He arrived at the Marquis of Broadham’s estate aching in every limb. When the front door opened, a lean, shrewd-looking butler glanced at him and said, “Mr. Reeve? I am Branson, the marquis’s butler.”
“Have I met you before?”
“The Duke of Villiers predicted that you would arrive yesterday.” Branson opened the door fully. “The marchioness is giving a ball this evening. Would you care to join them, after refreshing yourself?”
Ward stepped into a marble entry where a chandelier blazed with candles. From his left, through large double doors, drifted the sound of stringed instruments and the light, high sound of a woman’s laughter. Not Eugenia’s. He would know her laugh anywhere.
It was a waltz, which meant some man was holding Eugenia, a hand at her waist.
“I’d like to see Mrs. Snowe,” he said, failing to keep his voice calm.
“I regret you are not dressed for the occasion.” The butler’s eyes dropped to Ward’s travel-worn clothing. “I shall have a bath brought to your room immediately.”
Ward’s Hessians were caked with dirt; when the carriage had got stuck in a deep rut a few miles ago, he’d put a shoulder to the vehicle alongside his grooms.
He smelled like sweat, if not worse, and his bree
ches were splattered with mud thrown up by the carriage wheels.
“Please inform her that I wish to speak to her immediately.”
“If you prefer.” Branson nodded at a footman. “Roberts will show you to the morning parlor.”
“I’ll wait here.” Urgency was pounding through Ward’s body. He crossed his arms and fixed the butler with a gaze that threatened violence.
Branson had the wary air of a man who has encountered any number of madmen. “I shall inform his lordship that you have requested an interview with his daughter.”
“I’ll tell him myself,” Ward said. Before the butler could stop him, he flung open one of the ballroom doors and walked through.
Inside, a few dozen people were dancing.
“It’s all right, Branson,” a voice said behind his shoulder. “I can take care of our visitor.”
The butler withdrew, but Ward didn’t glance at the Duke of Villiers. He had eyes only for Eugenia.
She was wearing a gown that made her glimmer from head to foot. Those beautiful curls that had spread across his pillow were piled on her head and held in place with dazzling gems.
Diamonds.
Of course, they were diamonds, as were the jewels at her throat.
Yet the stones faded in comparison to her. The first time he’d met her, he’d thought of a flame: energy and intelligence and beauty in a fiery package no diamond could rival.
“A beautiful woman, isn’t she?” the Duke of Villiers said at his side.
One didn’t snarl at this particular duke, so Ward bowed. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
“Ward,” His Grace said with a sigh. “I wish your father was in England. No, your stepmother would be even better.”
Ward ignored him, watching the dance with arms crossed over his chest. The moment the music drew to a close, he would stride over to Eugenia and carry her out of the ballroom.
No, that was too primitive.
He felt primitive. A man was dancing with his woman, his future bride, his . . . his everything.
“You are scowling at Viscount Herries, the future Duke of Beaumont,” Villiers said, sardonic amusement in his voice. “Dancing, quite possibly, with his future duchess.”
His words went down Ward’s body like molten lead. He’d be damned if Eugenia married a duke, or a future duke, or any man other than himself. “You are mistaken.”
“Well-matched in intelligence—surely you’ve heard that the young viscount is taking a medical degree, regardless of his rank? Their parents are great friends. Well, you would know that—isn’t he your cousin?”
“No,” Ward said flatly. “I am distantly related to him through my stepmother.”
Viscount Herries was as absurdly handsome as his father, the Duke of Beaumont. His features were perfectly even, as unlike Ward’s hard jaw and broken nose as could be. He must be older than he looked, if he was studying medicine.
As Ward watched, the man tightened his grip on her waist and, his eyes fixed on hers, spun Eugenia in a circle. She threw her head back and laughed. It was obvious to anyone that he was deeply infatuated.
Two young girls standing at the side of the room giggled behind their hands, watching the couple dance.
Damn it, Ward’s gut instinct had been right.
The future duke swept her in another circle, Eugenia still laughing, followed by another. One of the girls squealed when she was almost bumped, and Eugenia called a laughing apology over her shoulder.
“None of that matters,” Ward growled at Villiers.
“Both of them to the manner born,” the duke said dreamily.
Ward registered the sentence and growled. “She told you?”
“I’m her godfather,” the duke said, his voice sharpening. “Why should she not tell me about an insult she received from a presumptuous halfwit?” Villiers hadn’t weakened in middle age: he was a predator still.
Not that Ward would ever—He forced his fists to uncurl.
“As it happens, I am virtually your godfather as well as hers,” His Grace continued. “I nearly married your mother, and your father came close to killing me in a duel. Surely that creates a familial bond.”
The waltz was slowing at last.
“That bond gives me the liberty to tell you that Eugenia will have in Evan a man who respects and adores her. A man whose mother, the Duchess of Beaumont, is beloved far and wide for her brilliance, her wit, and her decorum.”
“That wasn’t always the case,” Ward said. It was a lame defense; the fact that the Beaumonts lived apart for many years was trifling compared to his mother’s actions.
“The Duchess of Beaumont is no Lady Lisette,” Villiers said. “What’s more, if Jem—that is to say our host, the Marquis of Broadham—knew that a man had rejected his daughter for being unworthy, he would slay him. Eugenia has wisely kept that detail from him.”
“Are you advising me to leave?” Ward didn’t bother to look at Villiers. Eugenia was curtsying before her partner, who was kissing her hand.
“Notice the way Evan’s leg extends at precisely the correct angle? He’s a born duke, that one,” Villiers said meditatively. “How is your bow? I don’t believe I’ve seen you at many society events.”
Ward’s hands curled into fists again. He’d had enough.
He strode forward, startling the two girls. Skirted a circle of chairs and headed toward the brightly lit dance floor.
The viscount hadn’t let Eugenia’s hand go after kissing it. Like a bath of freezing water, Ward realized that the man may be too young for Eugenia to marry. But he certainly wasn’t too youthful to be a friend—the kind that shares intimacies, as he had so blithely told Eugenia weeks ago.
His boots pounded on the wooden floor, and every person in the room turned to him. Including Eugenia.
She appeared to turn a shade paler but she said nothing. And she didn’t drop Evan’s hand.
“Edward Reeve?” the Marquis of Broadham came up at his shoulder. Taking in his disheveled appearance, he said, “Has something happened to your parents?”
He shook his head. “I came to see Eugenia.”
The marquis’s brows drew together at Ward’s use of his daughter’s first name. From the corner of one eye, Ward saw the marchioness put a hand on her husband’s sleeve.
No one spoke.
He could hear Eugenia’s breathing as she stared at him. He searched for words as her plump lips tightened into a line. But when at last she spoke, she was impeccably polite, as she had promised in their dreadful last conversation.
“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Reeve? I trust the children are well?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Eugenia.”
Just like that, Eugenia dropped her polite mask—and Evan’s hand as well. She folded her arms over her chest as a patch of color rose in her cheeks. “Indeed,” she said dangerously. “What precisely are you sorry for?”
Behind him, someone began ushering the guests—including the future duke—from the room. Ward waited until only Eugenia, her father, and her stepmother remained. Except for Villiers, leaning against the wall like a damned bird of prey.
“I am sorry for the things I said to you.”
“Are you apologizing for implying that I am not ladylike enough to raise Lizzie and Otis?”
The marquis made a sharp movement. “I am,” Ward said. “May we speak in private?”
“No, you may not,” her father snarled. “I shall allow you three minutes to explain yourself, Mr. Reeve, and that owing only to my respect for your father.”
“Nothing has changed,” Eugenia said, eyes fixed on Ward’s face. “I am still the person who runs Snowe’s Registry, and who took your sister to a tent-talk, not to mention teaching her to curse.”
“I was terribly wrong. You’d be a wonderful mother for the children,” he replied, ignoring that litany. He could see she wasn’t softening her stance.
“Lizzie sent you this.” He pulled a crumpled bundle
of black lace from his coat pocket and pressed it into her hands. “Otis thought of sending Jarvis, but I dissuaded him. They need you, Eugenia.” He hesitated and then looked her straight in the eye with all the passion and love he felt. “I need you.”
She looked down at the veil, her eyes stricken. “What made you change your mind?”
“The Duchess of Gilner—”
Eugenia cut him off, her eyes hardening. “She told you.”
“Told him what?” the marquis put in.
“Mrs. Snowe, owner of a registry, wasn’t good enough to be Ward’s wife,” Eugenia said. “I didn’t have the right pedigree or instincts to introduce his wards to polite society.”
The marquis exploded, taking a step forward. “Are you out of your bloody mind?”
“Now that the duchess has told him who I really am, so it’s a different story,” Eugenia said, her eyes scorching. “Now I am good enough to mother the children whom Lisette neglected.”
“That’s not it,” Ward said. “I can’t—I can’t live without you.”
“You could live perfectly well without me,” Eugenia said, her voice echoing in the empty room, “until you realized how much my pedigree would help Lizzie and Otis. And with the case against you in the House of Lords.”
She hated him.
He had imagined many possibilities he would have to overcome, but not that one. Not hatred.
The words came out of him anyway, forced past the gaping hole in his heart. “I love you, and that has nothing to do with your rank.”
“You threw my love back in my face because I wasn’t ladylike enough nor docile enough—and that has nothing to do with rank. That is me. Whatever you are feeling, it isn’t love for me.”
“That isn’t true. I love everything about you, everything that was suddenly gone from my life the minute you walked out of the door,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Your brilliance, your joy, your passion for life: you.”
For a moment he felt hope. He saw her waver. She closed her eyes and he started toward her. Then she looked at him, her resolve firmly back in place. “Whatever your reasons, it doesn’t matter. You judged me, found me wanting, and dismissed me like a street urchin begging for a farthing. It’s your disdain and dismissal of me that I can’t forget,” she said. “Please go.”