Seven Minutes in Heaven

by Eloisa James

  Her stepmother, Harriet, had managed, more or less, to rein in her father’s love of surrounding himself with interesting people. In the years since they’d wed, she had introduced him to the quiet joys of a more sedate family life.

  But a good marriage meant compromise. While Fonthill no longer housed courtesans—or rats, for that matter—it was still frequented by intelligent, eccentric originals who were the marquis’s personal friends.

  “We have twenty-two to dine,” the butler informed her, as he took her pelisse. “Your parents will be tremendously pleased to see you, Mrs. Snowe. They have not yet retired to dress for the evening meal. You will find them in the small salon, if you would like to greet them.”

  “Thank you,” Eugenia said, glancing at herself in a mirror. The woman who looked back at her was tired, but not visibly broken-hearted.

  The small salon was light-filled and airy, its doors open to the lawns behind the house. A chessboard in mid-game covered one table, knitting was thrown over a chair, and stacks of books were everywhere.

  As she entered, three people turned in her direction: her father, her stepmother, and her godfather, the Duke of Villiers.

  “What’s the matter?” her father barked, and Eugenia ran straight into his arms, her face crumpling against his shoulder.

  “Nothing,” she said a moment later, pulling herself together.

  She turned from his embrace to Harriet’s. Her stepmother met her eyes searchingly and murmured, “We’ll talk later, darling.”

  “Your Grace,” Eugenia said, curtsying before Villiers.

  “Eugenia,” he said, bowing and kissing her hand. His drawl was unaltered by age, although his thick hair was now white, made whiter by contrast with still-black eyebrows. “My dear, you are more exquisite than ever. My duchess will be almost as happy to see you as I am.”

  “This is a true pleasure,” Eugenia said, smiling.

  They had been friends ever since she was a precocious young girl with no acquaintances her own age.

  Even if Eugenia hadn’t loved the duke for himself, she would have adored him for bringing her future stepmother into her life. Years ago, he had brought Harriet on a visit to Fonthill, albeit disguised in male attire.

  Her father wrapped an arm around her shoulder and she leaned against him, letting comfort sink into her bones. “How are your children?” she asked the duke.

  “Infernal,” Villiers replied, his casual tone failing to conceal his pride. “I hope that your appearance signals a decision to rest from your constant labors with that registry of yours?”

  “I am hoping the same thing,” Harriet put in.

  “It is time for a new challenge,” Eugenia said, nodding. “I am giving Snowe’s to my assistant.”

  “We are so proud of you for creating the registry,” Harriet said. “But it’s time to live your life.”

  “I’ll miss it,” Eugenia admitted.

  Her father’s arm tightened. “We have missed you.”

  “I know how to minimize any sadness you feel about leaving Snowe’s,” Harriet said. “Stop by the nursery. Our children are squabbling with His Grace’s, and even our magnificent Snowe’s governess is powerless to quell the storms. Every time I approach the room, I hear screams.”

  “My youngest has been grumpy ever since the vicar’s seduction of Miss Bennifer,” the duke said. “It was like a bad play: one moment we had a Snowe’s governess, the next she was stolen by a man of God.”

  “I will be happy to visit the battlefield,” Eugenia said. But first she had to change for the evening. No one could remain long in the presence of the Duke of Villiers in a crumpled traveling gown.

  She had a burning desire to prove to Mr. Edward Reeve that she was the most ladylike woman in all England, and never mind that he was back in Wheatley.

  “To the manner born?” She would . . .

  The thought trailed off. Ward never attended social events and presumably would not do so until Lizzie’s debut, years from now.

  Still, she would find a way to show him exactly what he had thrown away.

  The moment she entered her bedchamber, Clothilde clapped her hands. “A future duke is in residence!”

  “Who is that?” Eugenia asked warily, as her maid began to unbutton her traveling gown. Clothilde couldn’t be referring to Villiers’s heir—the boy was either away at school or in the nursery.

  “Viscount Herries, the eldest son of the Duke of Beaumont.”

  It took a moment to identify the man in question. “Evan? Evan is younger than I am!”

  Clothilde shrugged. “He is a grown man. That is the best way, madame. Trust me on this. Men do not age like good wine.” She crooked her finger into a C. “Useless to a woman by the time they’re forty.”

  Bathed, draped in silk, and feeling much more herself, Eugenia came downstairs to find the formal drawing room empty but for Villiers, now wearing a magnificent burnt-russet coat with tawny buttons and black trim.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked.

  “They have traipsed off to the kitchens,” His Grace said. “Entirely your fault, I must add.”

  “Someone made a cake!” Eugenia said, delighted.

  “A child of mine, baking,” Villiers marveled. “Almost inconceivable, and one only hopes not stomach-churning. Shall we stroll together, my dear?”

  They processed slowly down the long room, Eugenia’s arm tucked under the duke’s elbow.

  “So, Goddaughter,” he said, “who was the lucky man?”

  Eugenia let out a startled laugh.

  Villiers turned his head; wise, sinful eyes laughed with her. “Would I not notice that my beloved goddaughter has cast off her widow’s weeds and become a woman again?”

  Eugenia felt herself turning pink. “This is a most improper subject of conversation.”

  “The only kind that interests me,” Villiers remarked.

  “Does his name matter? It is finished.”

  “Names always matter.”

  Her father and Harriet entered at the far end of the room, accompanied by a group that included children.

  Villiers promptly steered her to a sofa. “I trust you will not insult me by asking if I can keep a secret.”

  “Edward Reeve,” Eugenia said with a sigh.

  “Ward?” Villiers’s eyebrow arched. “He has had a trying year.”

  “Oh, did you know of the children?”

  Silence. Then, “I have not. That young man has been quite busy if he fathered multiple children out of wedlock. Were these children conceived before he betrothed himself to the young lady who is now the Duchess of Pindar?”

  “I should have made myself clearer. Lizzie and Otis aren’t his.” She told him about Lady Lisette’s marriage.

  “That woman never failed to surprise,” the duke said, in a tone of disapproval. “Do I understand that the children appeared on Ward’s doorstep, after which he turned to you for a governess?”

  She ended up telling him everything.

  “Good old Chatty,” Villiers said, when she’d finished her story. “What a stroke of luck that he was in the vicarage. It sounds as if the girl is a version of her mother, albeit sane. Do you know that I almost married Lisette?”

  Eugenia’s eyes widened. “What a terrible mistake that would have been.”

  “For more than one reason.”

  “Lady Lisette instead of Eleanor. The mind boggles. I would never have imagined it.”

  Villiers gave a visible shudder. “Unthinkable. Was it the children that put you off Ward? I can scarcely tolerate my own, so I heartily sympathize if you were overwhelmed by the idea of taking on Lisette’s orphans.”

  “I know how much you love your brood,” Eugenia said, slipping her arm back into his. “You cannot fool me.”

  “I do love them,” His Grace said, as if admitting a dark failing. “But they are dirty, they often smell, they grumble, and they do not show proper respect for their elders.”

  “Villiers blood runs
in their veins,” Eugenia said, gurgling with laughter. “Surely that explains, if it does not excuse, them.”

  “Absolutely not,” His Grace rejoined. “Do you know what my own heir told me last week?”

  That heir, Master Theodore, was eleven and a miniature version of his father, down to the arrogant nose and biting intelligence.

  “He said I was too old to wear puce,” Villiers said moodily. “When did certain colors become the exclusive province of the young? He’s a mere stripling yet dresses as if he were a man of eighty. All in black and white, like a chessboard.”

  “I trust you immediately ordered a pair of puce gloves for him? And perhaps a coat to match?”

  When Villiers smiled, his entire face changed, and Eugenia saw—not for the first time—how fortunate it was for the male half of society that the duke was so much in love with his wife. “My dear Eugenia, you are a genius. I’ll have the measurements taken under the pretense of cutting yet another black coat.”

  “In truth, I would be very happy to mother Lizzie and Otis,” Eugenia confessed.

  “What on earth did that young fool do to force you to leave him?”

  “He didn’t want me,” she blurted out.

  The duke looked down at her sternly. “Let’s begin with basic truths, my dear. Unless Ward prefers men—which I doubt—he wants you.”

  “We had a very enjoyable interlude,” she said, striving for a nonchalant tone. “But he has the new responsibility of raising Lizzie and Otis.”

  She stopped. It was humiliating to confess.

  “It’s this damn hierarchy, isn’t it?” Villiers said, sadness threading through his voice. “Only after taking my children under my roof that did I understand just what it means to be illegitimate. I’ll never forget one of my sons telling me in a fit of rage that he would have been better unborn.”

  “I am so sorry to hear that,” Eugenia said.

  “He was wrong,” Villiers said sharply. “The old ranks are falling by the wayside, and new money is shaping new hierarchies. Look at my eldest: Tobias made a fortune and married Lady Xenobia. Didn’t Ward make a fortune on a paper-rolling machine? I recall his father crowing about it.”

  Eugenia nodded.

  “If the man doesn’t want to marry a woman of higher rank than he,” Villiers said with asperity, “he ought to do it for the sake of those children. The boy has a title.”

  She took a deep breath. “It’s the opposite. Ward is of the opinion that Snowe’s Registry has damaged my standing as a lady. He thinks my lost status would be detrimental when it came time for Lizzie to marry.”

  Villiers was silent a moment and then barked with laughter. “You must be joking.”

  “I’m not. Granted, he doesn’t know my rank—he thinks me a former governess, and told me he had to marry someone ‘to the manner born.’ But more importantly, he doesn’t like the fact I opened a registry. I kept making stupid mistakes,” she said wretchedly. “I think the worst was when I unwittingly took Lizzie to a tent-talk.”

  “A tent-talk?” The duke sounded fascinated. “I haven’t sat through one of those rank little gatherings since I was a boy fascinated by hearing the word ‘cock’ said aloud.”

  “I didn’t listen,” Eugenia confessed. “I had no idea what it was until later, when Lizzie asked Ward why it was funny that a bed could fit two men and one woman. You can laugh,” she said, responding to his snort, “but Ward was outraged. The talk advertised itself as a lecture on the chemical composition of water, but Lizzie emerged with questions about ‘male froth.’”

  “I might be a wee bit angry myself,” His Grace said. “All the same, it sounds as if Ward has turned into a self-righteous prick.”

  “No, he hasn’t!” Eugenia said, surprising herself with her vehemence. “He’s doing his best to be a good guardian. He’s utterly determined to provide the children with a conventional life.”

  “His mother was Lady Lisette,” Villiers said, after a moment. “I suppose that’s where he got the idea that he should marry someone who conforms in every respect.”

  “It’s truly ironic,” Eugenia said shakily. “I was the most conventional woman of my acquaintance until I opened Snowe’s.” A tear slid down her cheek and she dashed it away.

  “It was just that sort of foolish reasoning that led me to the excruciating folly of nearly marrying Lisette,” His Grace said with a sigh.

  He drew her to her feet and held out the crook of his arm. “Your father will be worried that I’m giving you evil counsel.”

  “Have you evil counsel?” Eugenia asked as they began to make their way back across the room.

  “Certainly,” Villiers said, a devilish glint in his eye.

  “Tell me what to do,” Eugenia said, wanting to hear that she should go back to Ward and fight for love.

  Not that she would listen.

  “Take a close look at young Evan—Beaumont’s son,” Villiers said. “He’s over there by the door, looking bored because he doesn’t know you’ve joined the party.”

  Eugenia sighed. “He’s younger than I am. I mean to find a husband who is at the very least my age.”

  “Oh, not to marry,” Villiers said gently. “You’re not ready for that.”

  Eugenia gasped. “You are wicked, Your Grace!”

  “You have had a run of bad luck, my dear, but in truth, a woman’s first man after a tragedy such as Andrew’s death ought to be an antidote to grief, and from what you have told me, Ward fulfilled his role in that respect. But the second must be for pure pleasure. I suggest Evan. And finally, the third: a new husband. In due course, I shall propose a few candidates for your consideration.”

  “I shouldn’t look for a husband now?”

  Villiers had the kind of smile that only a very bad man could give a woman. “You are a widow; so why not be a merry one?”

  “I’m glad that you are happily married,” Eugenia said, squeezing his arm. “I would have succumbed to a lure had you thrown me one.”

  He snorted. “You are entirely too young for me, my dear. A decade between yourself and Evan is nothing, but the gulf between us is insurmountable. Did you know that Evan is an excellent horseman?”

  “I did not,” Eugenia replied.

  “Consider the results of regular and vigorous physical exercise,” the duke said, voice grave but eyes dancing. “It develops the body in such attractive and useful ways. Of course, he has brains as well. The lad can’t play chess worth a damn, but he knows an absurd amount about medicine.”

  “I shall take it under advisement.” Eugenia leaned closer to kiss his cheek. “You are the best of godfathers.”

  “I am enormously fond of you, my dear,” Villiers said. “We all want you to be happy.”

  “I shall be,” Eugenia promised.

  As they neared the group at the end of the room, Villiers said, “I trust that Ward taught you the value of a French letter?”

  “All the different colored ribbons,” Eugenia said, her smile wobbling before she caught it.

  “You are ready for adventure,” the duke replied with satisfaction, steering her straight toward Beaumont’s heir.

  Evan was nothing like Ward.

  Ward was big, muscled, and broody, whereas Evan was tall and lanky, with cheerful blue eyes. He stood to greet them, displaying just the aristocratic, boyish appeal that Andrew had worn so gracefully.

  Eugenia extended her hand, and he kissed it.

  There was no mistaking the glow of admiration in his eyes. If she wished to be merry, she had the immediate sense that Evan would be happy to help.

  Chapter Forty

  Fonthill

  There was one thought in Ward’s mind: he had to bring Eugenia home, before she met someone else.

  He needed a carriage. Now.

  It was a pity he’d dispatched with his racing curricle, because he could have caught up with Eugenia—who was trundling along in comfort in his large coach. The old traveling coach that had come with the estate wo
uld have to do.

  Eugenia had said that she loved him. But that look in her eyes when he sent her away, that desolate look . . .

  What if someone was consoling her at this moment? Someone who wasn’t a bastard, in name and behavior?

  His jaw set. She was his. He had hurt her, but he’d do anything to change that. He just had to—

  How much could you hurt a woman before she turned her back?

  What is unforgivable?

  He went to the nursery to bid the children goodbye. Otis calmly accepted his explanation that he was going to fetch Eugenia. “Ruby will be with you and the new governess should arrive in a day or so.”

  But Lizzie’s too-old eyes met his with a sobering doubtfulness. “Are you certain that she’ll come back with you?”

  He sat down. “No, but I hope so.”

  Otis had made Jarvis a tunnel with folds of cloth and was trying to lure him through with a piece of bread. “Why did you allow her to leave?”

  “I wasn’t certain that she’d be the best mother for the two of you.”

  “That’s silly,” Otis said, at the same time Lizzie said, startled, “For us?”

  “I was wrong.”

  “She saved my life,” Otis said, “that’s what mothers do.”

  “What?”

  “When I jumped into the water, she swam to get me and went into the weeds and under water, though she doesn’t like putting her head under. It was all Jarvis’s fault.”

  Ward swallowed hard. He had as much as accused Eugenia of allowing Otis to swim in deep water, which was as absurd as everything else he’d said to her.

  “Jarvis saved himself,” Otis added. “I told you that.”

  Ward had never asked Otis for details about his illicit swim since he’d been hell-bent on avoiding thoughts of Eugenia. He hadn’t wanted to utter a sentence that had her name in it.

  “She saved your life,” he repeated.

  “That doesn’t mean she’ll come back with you,” Lizzie said. “Papa saved your life, Otis, and he—”