Eugenia Snowe was not a reckless woman. She had always lived within clearly defined boundaries, relishing rather than rebelling against the rules of society her father chose to ignore.

But now, in a dark carriage with a man who had abducted her, a rash sense of abandonment welled up in her, spilling to the ends of her fingers.

She wanted Ward Reeve with every fiber of her being. She wanted his burly body, and the burning hunger in his eyes, and the lock of untidy hair that had fallen over his eyes.

He was kissing her with a primal hunger that brought her body to life. And yet she felt like laughing.

That was new; she didn’t remember laughing when Andrew kissed her. Even as she leaned closer, melting against Ward, curling an arm around his neck, she realized why.

This was not making love.

This was making fun.

The delight, exhilaration, whatever it was, went straight to her head. She opened her mouth wider and forgot everything except for the sensual touch of Ward’s tongue, the firm clasp of his hand at the back of her head.

Desire was rougher than she remembered, and yet that unfamiliar joy kept bubbling up along with it.

At length, she couldn’t suppress it any longer, and a gasp of laughter broke from her. He murmured something that she didn’t understand.

She tilted her head so that she could lick the pulsing vein of his neck as her hands moved to his powerful shoulders. “Did you just lick me?” His voice was a surprised growl.

“Mmmm,” she said, licking him again. “I should think that licking is a greeting in some part of the world . . . China, perhaps?”

A warm tongue ran over the curve of her ear. “In a distant part of the world, two people meet each other by . . . this?” His touch sent a wave of heat straight between her legs.

“Perhaps it isn’t all that common,” she murmured.

The carriage swayed and the impetus drove his body against hers. He ran his fingers through her curls and gently tugged her head back. “I reckon kisses are greetings in some part of the world . . . Russia, perhaps.”

She brushed his lips with hers. “This sort of kiss?”

He shook his head. “Deeper, wench.”

“I’m not a wen—” But he crushed her lips between his, raw desire stealing away her words and giving her something else in return.

They kissed until her head was spinning, a warning that her common sense was losing a battle with longing.

“Ward.” It was a gasp, a song, a prayer.

He hummed deep in his throat, and his lips slid across her cheekbone. Under his caress, the planes and angles of her face felt new, as if they were being remade by his touch. By the very way he was exploring her, memorizing her.

Eugenia pulled back; it was that or slide down on the seat and offer her breasts to Ward’s mouth. His face was defined by a strong jaw and eyebrows that peaked in just the right spot to emphasize his cheekbones.

In short, he was devastatingly beautiful. Masculine, but beautiful.

“What may be decent in China or in Russia is not decent in a carriage traveling to Oxfordshire,” she managed. Had she just promised to be indecent with him at a later time . . . out of the carriage?

His wanton grin confirmed that she had.

“Just a minute,” she said hastily.

“I would wait a lifetime for you, Eugenia.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever happens between us, I would rather be spared a flood of empty gallantry.”

“Disturbingly, I didn’t mean it as an empty compliment.”

She put a hand to his chest and gently pushed him away. Her hair had fallen over her shoulders and her lips felt bee-stung. She began bundling up her hair and sticking hairpins in at random.

She didn’t dare look at his face because if that vivid hunger was still in his eyes, she would succumb. Again.

When her hair was more or less secured and her heart had settled back to its normal rhythm, she said, still not meeting his eyes, “Before we reach Fawkes House, I would like to hear how the children are. Were they affected by Miss Midge’s departure?”

Ward’s voice was deep and rough, but he answered. “Otis showed no sign of noticing. He has spent most of the week working on his mousetrap.”

“Is your house infested by mice?”

“I expect so. It’s an old house, after all.”

“You would know. Mice are not silent companions,” Eugenia said. “They chatter and run in the walls; they endlessly plague the kitchen staff; they will eat the candles if they’re left out.”

“A mouse will eat a candle?”

She nodded. “As will a rat.”

“The only rat in our house is Jarvis, Otis’s pet.”

Eugenia gave a shudder. “I hate rats.”

“It’s hard to believe, but I have grown inordinately fond of Jarvis.”

“You haven’t!”

“I have,” Ward said, the corner of his mouth kicking up.

Eugenia shuddered again, involuntarily.

“I understand a lady’s hesitation to be around small beasties, but you seem particularly vehement.”

“I grew up in a house infested by rats.”

Ward absorbed that statement with shock. He had pictured Eugenia as a little girl with rosy curls and porcelain skin and a few freckles on the end of her nose. That child . . . grew up in a house with rats?

He kept forgetting that she wasn’t born into the gentry. Still, he’d assumed she’d grown up on the outskirts of society. The daughter of a vicar, perhaps.

A rat infestation implied a household fallen far below the gentry.

He suddenly realized he was scowling ferociously. “I don’t like to think of you in such conditions.” Had she ever been hungry? The thought bit into his gut like acid.

“I prefer not to remember the details myself.” Her voice had the perfect cadence of a lady’s, but that was part of her mask, the role she had assumed. “I was bitten at the age of eight.”

The acid spread through his veins. “Did you contact rat-bite fever?”

She nodded.

“It’s often fatal.” He was starting to understand her. As a child, all her energy, fierce intelligence, pure joy for life must have focused on escaping her circumstances. No wonder she hungered for the life of a lady.

“I came very close to dying,” Eugenia said. “My stepmother—whom I adore—later told me that she learned how to pray during my illness.”

Ward raked his fingers through his hair. Many houses in England were infested with rats. It was a fact of life.

The little whiskered face of Otis’s best friend leapt into Ward’s mind. Whether she wanted to or not, Eugenia was about to meet a rat.

“How far is it to your house?” she asked.

“Approximately four hours. We’ll be pulling into an inn to change horses in half that time.”

“Would you mind if I took a nap? This wine has made me terribly sleepy.”

She was clearly avoiding further intimacies, but he rejected the impulse to persuade her otherwise. He didn’t want to make love to Eugenia Snowe for the first time in a carriage.

“A good idea,” he said with a nod. “I shall sleep as well.” After all, he didn’t mean to sleep at night.

Though it wouldn’t be appropriate to leap on his guest the moment he had her over the threshold. He ought to ply her with . . . with flowers or something. He’d be damned if he treated her like a courtesan or a merry widow.

Her virtue was as spotless as any lady’s; he’d bet his honor on it. Still, she wanted him.

That was enough to stake his happiness on.