Back in the carriage, Eugenia settled in her seat, feeling as if she’d run the gauntlet. “I see exactly why you want to keep the children under your care,” she told Ward.

“It’s a wonder my mother wasn’t even more cracked than she was,” Ward replied.

Eugenia gave him a sympathetic smile. There wasn’t much to say on that subject. She pulled aside the velvet curtains pinned to the bottom and top of the windows. Clearly, His Royal Highness hadn’t wanted passersby catching a glimpse of himself and Mrs. Jordan inside the carriage.

“Your coachman is headed in the wrong direction,” she exclaimed. “Did you instruct him to return to my house?”

Ward was lounging on the opposite seat, eyes eating her up with burning intensity. “No.”

She was nearly waylaid by the husky growl of his voice, the unspoken promise, but then his response sank in. “I cannot spend the day with you.” Even though the idea sent a pulse of warmth through her stomach.

She plucked the curtain aside again. “That’s Chiswick House!”

“We must be making excellent time.”

All trace of desire fled Eugenia’s body. She sat upright, feeling a jolt of alarm. “What do you mean?”

He smiled at her. “We’re heading for the post road to Oxford.”

The words whirled in her mind until they settled into place. “What? I don’t . . . What are you doing, Mr. Reeve?”

“Kidnapping you.”

She stared at him, trying to read his expression. “Are you joking?”

“Not at all.”

“Did I somehow convey the mistaken impression that I planned to visit your house?” she demanded, her voice rising as anger flooded her.

“You did not. I—”

She cut him off. “You have made an enormous mistake, Mr. Reeve.” She was so outraged she could scarcely form the words. “Turn this carriage around on the instant or I shall have you imprisoned again!”

He leaned forward. “Eugenia, please hear me out. I need your help. I’m damn well desperate. I spoke at length to Miss Lloyd-Fantil this morning, and we agreed that you are my best hope—perhaps my only hope—to keep the children.”

All morning and afternoon his voice had been light—even when it was husky with desire or laughter—but now his words were somber.

She stared at him. “If you need my help so badly, why did we dally in a teashop? Why did you not explain yourself directly?”

“Miss Lloyd-Fantil suggested I take you to Gunter’s while your trunk was being packed.”

“By Clothilde?” Eugenia asked, turning her head as if her maid had magically appeared in the carriage.

“Your maid is following in a separate conveyance, accompanied by the young woman Ruby, Snowe’s housemaid.”

Eugenia gaped at him. “Ruby as well?”

“Miss Lloyd-Fantil told me that Ruby is adaptable and used to naughty children. She’s optimistic that Ruby will be helpful. You see, Miss Midge left her post day before yesterday.”

Eugenia’s eyes rounded. “Voluntarily,” he added. “She declared my house a godless wilderness and my siblings, particularly my sister, to be heathens in word and deed.”

Eugenia felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. Her outrage was dissolving into shock. “I’m—I’m sorry to—no, I’m appalled to hear this. My governesses do not desert their posts without extraordinary justification and ample warning, I assure you!”

“She informed me that Lizzie’s dabbling in what she referred to as the ‘black arts’ was impious, if not blasphemous, especially after she learned of the attempted conjuration of a rabbit,” Ward said. “She also has strong feelings about Otis’s insistence that his pet rat has a soul. Her instruction in evening prayers, for example, foundered after Otis refused to stop praying that Jarvis would enter heaven with him.”

In all the years she’d managed her registry, Eugenia had never had to contend with a circumstance like this. “I instruct all my governesses not to intercede in matters of doctrine. Whether or not rats have souls clearly poses a theological question that we are not qualified to answer.”

She was in shock. She couldn’t believe that Alithia Midge had deserted her post. “She left without a word of warning? Without offering six weeks’ notice?”

“In her defense, given her strong views on religion, she found my siblings dangerous to her spiritual well-being. Yesterday Lizzie refused to pray for her mother’s eternal soul, and informed Miss Midge that if Lady Lisette was in heaven, she’d prefer to go to the other place.”

“Oh dear,” Eugenia gasped.

“After that, Lizzie confessed to deliberately throwing her governess’s prayer book in the lake in an attempt to stop Miss Midge from reading aloud prayers for the dead.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” Eugenia said helplessly. “I’ve placed Miss Midge in two households, and while she isn’t the sweetest woman in my employ, she could be relied upon not to weep or faint.”

“Our next governess must not weep, faint, or pray,” Ward said dryly.

“All the same, this does not justify an impromptu trip to Oxford. I should be at Snowe’s, helping Susan find a third governess for you.”

Ward folded his arms across his chest. “Unfortunately, when Miss Midge decided that her soul was in mortal danger, she unburdened herself on our local vicar, Mr. Howson.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve been attending matins and ingratiating yourself with the local clergy?” Eugenia asked, hopefully.

He threw her a sardonic look. “I’m a bastard, Eugenia. The Church of England refuses to even baptize bastards, so I doubt I’d be welcome at a church service.”

“That’s terrible,” Eugenia exclaimed. “I’m sorry you are excluded.”

“I don’t give a damn. But it is essential that gossip not reach the Duchess of Gilner’s ears, so I need to placate Howson, before his outrage—Miss Midge found a kindred spirit in him—spreads beyond the village. Lizzie and I have an appointment with him tomorrow morning.”

Eugenia turned the predicament over in her mind. Ward was right: rumors of paganism at Fawkes House would destroy his defense against the duchess’s plea for guardianship. “Can you impress upon Lizzie that she can’t talk about your mother’s posthumous locale?”

“She and I have discussed the advisability of allowing people to believe that our mother is sitting on a fluffy cloud singing hymns, even if Lizzie doesn’t agree. I was fairly certain a short morning call to the church would be effective, especially if a large donation was forthcoming. But last night I learned that a bishop is paying a visit to the vicarage.”

“That is most unfortunate,” Eugenia observed.

“I daren’t wait until his visit has concluded. Pastor Howson has strong views about magic—that is to say, he believes in it.”

“For goodness’ sake,” Eugenia said. The shock she’d been feeling was quickly being replaced by exasperation. “I can’t believe that Miss Midge took those silly spells seriously.”

“I don’t believe she did, but she was horrified by my siblings’ indifference to the Anglican faith. Your assistant, Miss Lloyd-Fantil, agreed with me that the formidable directress of Snowe’s Agency would be a valuable support before the bishop.”

“I see,” Eugenia said, nodding. “Nevertheless, that doesn’t explain why you did not simply ask me. You cannot have imagined that I would refuse your request, under the circumstances.” Despite herself, a trace of hurt feelings leaked into her voice.

Ward curled his fingers around her clasped hands. “There was no doubt in my mind that you would come with me.” He gave her a wicked grin. “But I have always wanted to kidnap a woman.”

A startled laugh broke from Eugenia’s lips. “Really?”

He nodded solemnly. “Truly. Dash off into the night—”

“Afternoon,” she corrected.

“Into the afternoon—with a beautiful, witty woman, a bottle of white wine, and a cold roast chicken.”

Eugenia shook her head; this day was growing odder and odder. “Kidnapping as a fashionable pastime?”

“I’ve never done it before. But if you wish, I’d be happy to make it a regular pastime.”

“Just conceive if you had succumbed to this wayward impulse and kidnapped Miss Petunia instead.” Eugenia laughed as her exasperation melted away. “Any woman you kidnap has the right to demand marriage. You have put your future in my hands.”

“I don’t mind being in your hands,” Ward said. A flash of raw, sensual hunger crossed his eyes.

Eugenia felt giddy, as if champagne was fizzing in her veins. She slipped her hands from his and settled back, because it was that or lean forward and kiss him. “You are a lucky kidnapper, Mr. Ward. I am not inclined to marry again at the moment.”

“Nor am I.”

For a moment, a sense of perfect harmony filled the carriage. With a thump of her heart, Eugenia realized that they had just agreed to . . . to something.

When she was about to panic—was she truly certain that she wanted to have an affaire?—she looked at Ward again. He would readily accept it if she changed her mind.

“Miss Lloyd-Fantil assured me that as a widow, you could travel without a chaperone. But if you have even the slightest qualm, we can stop and your maid will join us in this carriage.”

“There’s no need,” Eugenia said.

Ward felt a surge of exultation.

Eugenia was his, and whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not, she would soon be his in all ways.

He felt as lustful as an untried boy, his tool rigid, fueled by desire smoldering low in his belly, his balls sending warning throbs. His response had little to do with how beautiful she was; what he found enchanting was her confidence, her wit. She was ferociously alive—at least, after she dropped the ladylike visage that she wore like a mask.

“I sense you’ve come to a decision,” he said, taking the bull by the horns.

“About what?” She cocked her head and a glowing cascade of red hair fell over her pelisse.

“About us.”

“‘Us’? There is no us.”

But in reality they were communicating without words. The true conversation was unspoken.

I’ll make you blissfully happy, he promised her. Silently.

She raised an eyebrow. But is it worth the possible loss of my reputation?

“There will be an us,” he stated aloud. “You are mine, Eugenia Snowe.”

“I am no man’s,” she said with a shake of her head.

“You were your husband’s,” he said, absolutely certain of that. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that Eugenia had given herself heart and soul.

Blasted Snowe.

He was starting to dislike the fellow, no matter how dead he was.

“I was his, and he was mine,” she said with a lopsided smile.

“Just like a fairy tale,” he answered, not even trying to disguise the growl in his voice.

“Didn’t you mean to offer me a glass of wine from that excellent hamper?” Eugenia asked.

He bent over and pulled open the hamper. “Tell me about him.” He drew out a bottle of wine. “Was he as pretty as you are?”

“Far more so,” Eugenia said, her eyes going a bit dreamy. “He was like Adonis. Every debutante longed to catch his eye.”

“But he chose you?”

“We danced all night.”

“That is like a fairy tale.” He handed her a glass of wine.

She took a sip. “In the fairy stories, the prince doesn’t die saving the princess.”

Ward choked on his wine. “The boating accident?”

“I was drowning and he saved me,” she said, lifting her glass in a clear salute to her husband.

The wine’s flowery fragrance floated into the carriage. Ward watched her throat working as she swallowed. “Can you tell me what happened?”

She twisted up one shoulder. “The sailboat capsized; I didn’t know how to swim. It was so foolish! We were within sight of the shore, but as it turned out, it is possible to drown very close to land.”

The only response Ward could think of was a curse, so he kept silent.

“All these years later, I’ve forgiven myself for surviving, but at the time it was unbearable. I watched him go under and never come up again.”

“He would never have chosen differently,” Ward said, keeping it matter-of-fact. He finished his wine, took her glass, and placed them both in the basket.

Her smile was rueful. “I do remind myself of that.”

The carriage rocked under them, and she shook her head with a sudden impatient gesture. “Why are we discussing such a dismal subject?”

“We are tracing the steps of a particular dance,” Ward said, standing for a moment in the swaying carriage before he sat down beside her. So closely that his leg touched hers.

“A dance?” she asked.

“A dance.” His lips brushed the curl of her ear. She smelled of berries again, not sweet or insipid, but something wilder than flowers, with a bite.

She drew away, and the coolness in her eyes insisted that she didn’t welcome his kiss or the press of his thigh.

But he was learning to read her. To understand her.

When Mrs. Eugenia Snowe felt threatened, she drew her ladylike guise around herself like chain mail.

“In this particular movement of the dance, I am offering myself,” he said. “A gift, though I will admit to thinking that diamonds would look lovely here.”

When Ward’s callused finger touched the hollow at the base of Eugenia’s neck, she felt warm all over, as if he radiated heat. The neck . . . such an innocuous place. But when Ward’s fingers slid slowly, slowly under her ear, his eyes intent on her face, she could feel his touch in all her most sensitive places.

His hand curled around the back of her neck as he watched her for permission. She couldn’t remember desire like this, as if liquid fire ran over her skin. No, that was wrong, she must have felt this with Andrew.

It was a physical reaction, a mating response . . .

“I loved my husband,” she heard herself say.

The caressing fingers paused and Ward nodded, eyes respectful. “I’m certain he was a good man, Eugenia.”

“He was a great man,” she said fiercely. “He was going to change things in the House of Lords. He was—he would have done so much.”

Sweet hunger thrummed through her so strongly she could scarcely believe she had waited seven years to feel this again.

“May I kiss you?” Ward asked.

“Yes.” Her head turned to the perfect angle for his kiss, making it clear to him, but also to herself. She was going to do this thing, this . . .

This step away from Andrew. This step away from death and into life. It was only a small step, but she knew that it would change everything.

She would stop hiding in her office. She would attend balls and the theater—she used to love plays—and someday a man would come along who had Andrew’s elegant charm and joie de vivre.

Not quite yet, though. She would enjoy herself first, learning to live in the world and not in the cloister that was Snowe’s Registry.

As Ward’s lips touched hers, her body shuddered, as if she were waking from a seven-year sleep. She raised her arms and slid them around his neck.

She was no longer married. Or a virgin. Or young. Perhaps she should be clear about the future, though. She didn’t want to hurt him, because Edward Reeve may be one of the strongest, toughest men she’d ever met, but she had the idea he was capable of being hurt.

She drew back just as he was about to deepen the kiss and cradled the strong planes of his face with her hands. “Ward,” she whispered.

Intelligent eyes, ferocious and desirous. “Eugenia,” he replied. Her voice throbbed with desire, but his was calm.

She took a deep breath. She had learned while running Snowe’s that clarity was important. “I may always be in love with Andrew. I am not ready to marry again and I wouldn’t want you to think of me in that light.”

“I understand,” Ward said. He put a hand over hers, braced on the seat between them. “We are considering courtesies that can be exchanged between friends, Eugenia.”

Her gaze darted down to their ungloved hands. His hand dwarfed her slim fingers.

“Friends,” she said, amused by that evasion.

“Between good friends, any number of intimacies might take place, never to be mentioned in public or in company.”

Her hand moved under his like a rescued baby robin fallen from a nest. Even so, he bent toward her slowly, allowing her to turn away if she wished.

She did not wish. In fact, Eugenia held her breath until Ward’s lips brushed hers, and her mouth slipped open on a sigh. For a moment, they merely breathed each other’s air, and then his hand curled around her fingers and the other pulled her toward him, and his tongue slid into her mouth.