Seven Minutes in Heaven

by Eloisa James

  Lizzie stopped crying and looked up at the bishop with the air of a young saint. “Please pardon my silliness.” The lisp was overdoing it, in Ward’s opinion. “My fault is himinous, and if you forgive it not, heaven will not pardon it in the world to come.”

  Himinous? What did that mean?

  He almost missed Eugenia rolling her eyes.

  “Heinous, not himinous,” Eugenia corrected. “A Woman Killed with Kindness, and a most inappropriate speech for you to quote.”

  “I was the prompter for that play too,” Lizzie said, dropping her hands, which had been clasped beseechingly. “My father said that knowledge of good literature could never hurt.”

  The bishop smiled down at her. “You will be a remarkable young woman someday.”

  “Time to make our farewells,” Eugenia said firmly.

  As they walked toward the door, Eugenia and Lizzie in the lead, the Right Reverend Chattersley-Dorfmann looked at Ward over his spectacles. “I gather Eugenia intends to travel on to her father’s estate?”

  “I believe Mrs. Snowe did indicate as much.” Of course, Ward wouldn’t allow Eugenia go today.

  He needed a week with her. No, a fortnight.

  “She is a dangerous woman. So much life,” the bishop said, his eyes steady. “Such charm and beauty, paired with intelligence and energy. I’ve known her since she was a child. Young Lizzie reminds me of Eugenia.”

  “Mrs. Snowe is remarkable,” Ward agreed. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Honor—”

  “Her entire family is extraordinary,” Chattersley-Dorfmann said. “I encounter her aunt frequently; she operates Magdalene House, as you may know. Her husband is with the River Police—a former magistrate for the City of London—but Magdalene House is entirely her own.”

  “An edifying occupation,” Ward said. “Well, I must bid you farewell, with my sincere gratitude for your forbearance with regard to my sister’s foolery, my lord.”

  The bishop ignored him. “I expect you think that I am worried about Mrs. Snowe,” he said, folding his hands over his considerable middle. “In truth, I am worried about you, Mr. Reeve. She’s above your touch, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Ward bowed. “Mrs. Snowe travels on directly to her father’s estate, my lord, but I thank you for your concern.”

  A few minutes later, he escorted Eugenia and Lizzie to the carriage with a mental shake of his head.

  The bishop apparently believed that being a bastard put Ward out of the reach of a good woman, in the same way that it barred him from the church.

  Ward had clear memories of a maid informing him at around six years old that the Bible itself said that no one of illegitimate birth could enter the assembly of the Lord. That was true enough, but her warning that a bolt of lightning would strike him down on entering?

  Not quite so much.

  Unfortunately, he had been young enough that he had taken her advice seriously. A couple of years later, he had refused to enter St. Paul’s Cathedral for his own father’s wedding, though he never told his father or stepmother why.

  In the real world, rather than the ecclesiastical one, his fortune paired with the fact that both his parents came from the nobility meant that his illegitimate birth was practically irrelevant.

  When he climbed into the carriage, Eugenia was leaning forward, elbows on her knees, listening intently to Lizzie.

  “Leonardo da Vinci made drawings of all the muscles,” Lizzie was saying, her peaked face glowing. “Papa bought me a book.”

  “I should like to see it,” Eugenia said.

  The little girl’s face fell. “We couldn’t bring our belongings whilst we made the voyage to see our brother.”

  “A voyage implies that you came over water,” Eugenia noted.

  “Trip,” Lizzie said, with a wave of her hand. Apparently, she had so many synonyms rattling around in her head that she used them indiscriminately.

  “Did you leave other things that you now miss?” Eugenia asked.

  “My books,” Lizzie said. “I took Mama’s veil, and Otis had Jarvis, and that was all that really mattered.”

  “Is there anything you’d like me to retrieve, Lizzie?” Ward asked.

  “There’s no point to acquiring possessions.” His sister rearranged her features into a mask of tragedy. “All golden girls and boys come to dust.”

  “Cymbeline,” Eugenia said unsympathetically, “Misquoted, and irrelevant to this conversation.”

  Lizzie shrugged. “We didn’t have very much. The troupe burnt our wagon after Lady Lisette died, because they were afraid that her illness might have been contagious.”

  Ward pulled his sister in his lap and wrapped both arms around her. “I wish I’d known you were alive,” he said, kissing her hair. “I would have taken you and Otis out of there, Lizzie, I promise you that.”

  He looked up to find that Eugenia was smiling at him.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Would you two mind if I paid a visit to the butcher before we return to Fawkes House?” Eugenia asked, endeavoring to ignore the way her heart was melting at the sight of Lizzie tucked into her brother’s arms like a bird in its nest. “The shop is just across the square.”

  Ward’s brow furrowed.

  “Butchers and bakers are the heart of a village,” she explained. “After the saga of Mr. Biddle’s ‘borrowed’ gold chain, we need him to relay the message that Lizzie was merely fooling. In return, he will be first to know that the vicar is being dispatched to the Antipodes.”

  “I don’t see the necessity,” Ward said. “I have important things to do.”

  “It’s best to nip gossip in the bud,” she said, ignoring his comment and the heated gaze that told her what he considered important.

  “Mrs. Snowe, do you really have to leave this afternoon?” Lizzie asked.

  Ward answered her. “Luckily for us, Mrs. Snowe has kindly agreed to stay with us until we receive a new governess from her registry.”

  Eugenia raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Reeve, is that an attempt to blackmail me into extending my stay?”

  “Absolutely,” Ward replied.

  “But you told the bishop that Mrs. Snowe was leaving directly,” Lizzie said to Ward, crinkling her brow.

  “I didn’t want him to worry that Mrs. Snowe’s visit posed a threat to her reputation,” Ward explained.

  Lizzie shook her head. “He wouldn’t have worried. Widows can do whatever they like. Lady Lisette said so, many times.”

  Eugenia winced. Lord only knew what Lizzie’s mother had been doing during the year or so between her husband’s death and her own. She suspected that the children were privy to far more than they ought to have been.

  Ward tightened his arm around his sister. “Our mother was no guide to proper behavior.”

  “That’s what Miss Midge said,” Lizzie confided. “She said that Otis is a better parent to Jarvis, and I should follow his lead. Which is ridiculous, because no one carries a baby in a sack!”

  Eugenia leaned forward and nodded at Ward. “If you and Lizzie will give me just five minutes, I’ll take care of the butcher and return directly.” She jumped down and closed the door behind her before the two of them could follow.

  Biddle’s Meat was large and airy, as befitted a butcher who served as mayor and was in possession of a gold chain signifying his office.

  It was also empty.

  Ward’s groom gave the counter a sharp rap and bellowed, “Service!”

  The sound of a scuffle was heard from the back and a man who resembled a tightly stuffed sausage appeared, a bloody cleaver in his hand.

  Despite herself, Eugenia fell back a step.

  “How can I help you, madam?” he said, laying the cleaver on the counter and giving her a toothy smile. “I’ve some excellent chickens, and I’m just butchering a cow of the finest quality.”

  “My name is Mrs. Snowe,” she said. “I was hoping to talk to you for a moment about the incident in which young Lord Darcy tried
to hang your chain of office on a rosebush.”

  His fat lower lip pushed out. “I don’t see as there’s anything to talk about. It caused me nothing but trouble.” He jerked his head toward an empty hook. “I put it away safe enough.”

  “A man like you, the mayor of the village, holds great influence over his neighbors,” Eugenia said. “I am hoping that everyone in the village will understand that no theft was intended.”

  A woman hurried from the back. “Robbie, what is—” She saw Eugenia, faltered, and bobbed a curtsy. “Ma’am.”

  “Mrs. Biddle,” Eugenia said. “I am Mrs. Snowe, of Snowe’s Registry for Governesses in London. Mr. Reeve engaged me to find a governess for his wards. I was just explaining to your good husband that Miss Lizzie Darcy managed to convince a particularly naïve dairy maid that she knew a spell for revealing true love. One of your roses was an ingredient.”

  The butcher gave a bark of laughter. “We all heard about the boy who thought himself invisible.”

  His wife turned to him. “Mr. Biddle, why don’t you finish with that side of beef while I talk to Mrs. Snowe.”

  “I didn’t mean to frighten the boy,” the butcher said heavily. “I lost me temper and that’s the truth.”

  “As would anyone in those circumstances,” Eugenia said warmly.

  He took up the cleaver and disappeared into the back, revealing who was the real mayor of the village.

  “Mr. Reeve and I met with the bishop this morning,” Eugenia said with her best smile. “His Lordship believes Mr. Howson is better suited to being a missionary. In fact, he is sending him out of the country immediately.”

  “Gracious heavens, that’s very good to hear,” Mrs. Biddle said. “I never liked him. He didn’t eat a bit of meat, can you imagine? Just cabbage, day and night.”

  “That is certainly peculiar,” Eugenia said. “Miss Lizzie was merely being silly, Mrs. Biddle. She is dazzled by her ability to influence people.”

  The butcher’s wife ventured a smile. “She and her veil are well known in these parts, Mrs. Snowe. I’m sorry Mr. Biddle lost his temper.”

  “Having met Mr. Howson this morning, I believe I put the blame on the vicar,” Eugenia said.

  Mrs. Biddle gave her a beseeching look. “Might you ask Mr. Reeve not to take away his custom? Mr. Biddle has always been one to fly off the handle, but he’s only a blusterer.”

  A deep voice came from the door. “I’m happy to restore custom, Mrs. Biddle, as long as you promise to keep your husband in check.”

  Eugenia whirled about with a gasp. “I didn’t realize you were there!”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Reeve,” the butcher’s wife said, bobbing a curtsy. “The village will be better off without the vicar, and everyone will thank you for it.”

  “Mrs. Biddle,” Ward said, bowing. He took Eugenia’s arm, murmuring in her ear, “I thought you might need support, but I underestimated you.”

  “Once again,” Eugenia said, with satisfaction.

  They climbed into the carriage to the bellow of Ward’s laughter.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Later that evening

  Ward had had enough.

  After they returned from the village, Otis had appeared with a new version of his mousetrap. Ward had thought to lure Eugenia upstairs after the demonstration, but Lizzie had taken the initiative, and with a laughing glance over her shoulder Eugenia disappeared into the nursery, not to be seen again until the children were in bed and Gumwater announced the evening meal.

  So far, the meal had been perfectly pleasant, but if Ward had to watch Eugenia moan with delight over a gâteau au chocolate for another moment, he’d probably spend in his pants like a boy of fourteen.

  He wanted Eugenia and she wanted him. Presumably he should ply her with compliments, lure her upstairs, and kiss her until she wasn’t thinking clearly. But that didn’t seem right. It didn’t fit with the manner in which they talked to each other, with a blunt truthfulness that he’d never before experienced with another woman.

  He decided to come to the point. “Eugenia, do you intend to sleep with me tonight?”

  She laughed aloud, eyes dancing. He felt about her laughter the way she felt about chocolate. It shimmered through him and made him feel like an unschooled lad, raw and unpracticed.

  He set down his wineglass, stood, and moved to her side of the table. She looked up, eyes luminous with amusement and intelligence. “I am considering it.”

  He crouched down beside her, and the laugh died on her lips. “How can I persuade you? I’m tired of talking about inconsequential things.”

  “Cake, sir, is never inconsequential,” she said merrily.

  “Please?”

  Their eyes met. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will, Ward.”

  His hand slipped behind her head and he pulled her toward him, not roughly, but if he wasn’t tasting her, possessing her, inside her, soon, he felt as if he might explode.

  Her mouth opened to his with a sense of rightness that flooded through his limbs. He toppled her forward from the chair into his arms, still kissing, and rose to his feet. “May I feed you more cake later, if I promise to satisfy you first?”

  “If you are still offering only seven minutes,” she said, flicking him a wicked glance from under her lashes, “I’d prefer to finish my dessert now.”

  Her confidence made her glow, as if she were burning through life at a higher pitch than everyone else.

  “Seven hours won’t be sufficient,” he said in a rough voice, putting her on her feet.

  Her smile grew.

  Eugenia had sadly few memories of marital pleasure, if the truth were told. After Andrew died, recollection was so painful that she pushed it away. With time, her memories had become fuzzy, overlaid with nostalgia.

  But this pleasure, the ferocious bliss that Ward sparked in her?

  She didn’t intend to forget this, ever.

  Tonight, she would sleep with a burly, gorgeous man for no better reason than desire. Because he made her laugh, and he made her heart race.

  Not for love or duty, but for pleasure.

  “I would like a tour of your personal chamber,” she said, thinking dizzily that she sounded like a lady of the night. Perhaps a courtesan to a king.

  It turned out that Ward’s bedchamber was enormous, with a huge bed canopied with curtains fringed in gold marooned in the center of the room like a pleasure boat.

  Eugenia stopped short in surprise.

  “It came with the house,” Ward said.

  She turned to tease him, but he had torn off his coat and tossed it on a chair, and was pulling his shirt from his breeches.

  Who cared about his ostentatious furniture? Without his coat, Ward’s shoulders were even broader than she’d thought, muscles rippling beneath the thin linen of his shirt.

  She moved toward him feeling unbalanced, as if she’d drunk the better part of a bottle of wine. He had turned to the mantelpiece to light a candelabra, so she slid her hands around his shoulders from behind.

  Even that slight touch made her thighs clench with longing. She rubbed her cheek against his back, happy to be out of his sight. She felt vulnerable and exposed, as if desire were written on her face for him to read.

  “I love your smell,” she whispered, kissing his neck. It was powerful like the rest of him, the neck of a man who didn’t spend his days in tearooms.

  He turned in her arms. “Eugenia Snowe,” he said, his voice dark and low, “may I remove your gown?”

  “You may—after you remove your shirt.” When she first married, Andrew had had to coax her to undress. Even after three months as husband and wife, she still prepared for bed in her own chamber before welcoming him into her bed.

  That was the memory of a different woman.

  Without a word, his eyes on hers, Ward ripped off his shirt. Eugenia sucked in her breath. His skin was golden, stretched over powerful muscles. His nipples were flat coins flanking the faintest trail of chest ha
ir, leading down a stomach grooved in horizontal ridges.

  “Why do you have these?” she asked, reaching out and touching the muscles.

  “Riding.” Ward stepped closer, crowding her hands so they flattened against his abdomen, reached behind her and began deftly unbuttoning her gown.

  Eugenia spread her fingers, marveling at how white her skin looked in contrast to his. Sliding her hands to the sides of his waist didn’t reveal an ounce of softness. His body was all coiled power.

  At last, her gown loosened, and he pulled it open and forward. Eugenia brought her hands to her bodice and took a step back before she allowed the gown to slide down her front.

  Ward whispered something, a curse or a prayer. She allowed her gown to slip again, until it barely covered her nipples.

  “Eugenia.” His eyes were black with desire.

  “Yes?” Her corset was doing its job, holding her breasts where they could be best admired.

  She fell back another step, until she could feel the warmth of the fire. A king’s courtesan would turn undressing into a performance. She dropped her hands even lower, baring her bosom; the scarlet bows adorning her corset nestled along the lower curve of her breasts.

  “No chemise?” Ward’s voice was no more than a rasp.

  “A chemise would interfere with the line of my gown,” Eugenia explained. She turned around and peeked over her shoulder. “Do you see how the smoothly my gown hugs my hips?”

  She took his groan as agreement.

  “If I let go, this gown will fall straight off,” she said, whirling about so her skirts billowed around her ankles.

  Ward groaned again.

  “You first,” she breathed.

  Ward tore open the placket on his breeches and his cock sprang forward. It was thick and long, bobbing against the base of his stomach as if it had a will of its own.

  “No smalls?” she asked, echoing his question about her chemise.

  He shook his head.

  “Because they would interfere with the line of your breeches?” she teased.