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 hair, 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.

“When I was in prison, my smalls became infested with fleas. I threw them out and never used that particular garment again.”

One of those big hands took hold of his manhood and slowly stroked its whole length. Eugenia’s heart quickened at the sight. Her eyes fell lower and his legs were—well, they turned her mouth dry with one glance. They looked carved from warm marble, like those of a Greek athlete poised, javelin in hand.

He stopped just before her, his hands rounding her bottom. As if he somehow knew exactly what would make her dizzy, his right leg slid between her legs and he pulled her forward, grinding her softness against his thigh.

She shocked herself with a panting breath. “That feels. . . .” His thigh was pressing a fold of silk against her most private part.

“Drop your gown, Eugenia,” he said in her ear. She heard his order through a blinding flash of sensation from his touch, his smell, his tongue on her ear.

She hadn’t even realized that her fingers were still clenched. She looked at him, dazed, and he pried open her fingers and pulled the gown so it slithered to the floor.

She whimpered as he pushed his thigh back between her legs, unprotected by a barrier of silk. “You like that,” Ward growled.

Eugenia couldn’t find her voice so she nodded, blood thundering through her veins.

He pressed again, harder. “Do you want more?”

In answer, she leaned forward and licked him at the join of his thick neck and shoulder.

“Hell,” Ward groaned, his leg abruptly straightening, pitching her against him. His mouth pushed hers open roughly, possessing it without warning or apology.

Eugenia wound her arms around his neck and tilted her head, giving him everything, loving the way Ward plundered her mouth, his tongue thrusting deep, making her legs tremble and her breath turn to frantic pants.

He tore his mouth away and looked down, a curse spilling from his mouth.

Eugenia’s corset barely reached her waist. Her only remaining garments were pale silk stockings held up by garters with red bows, and her favorite heeled shoes.

Glancing down, she saw pale skin, curves, and the tuft of red hair that covered her most private place.

“There are no words to describe you,” Ward said, his voice strangled and rough. “You’re so damn beautiful, Eugenia, like Venus and Diana in one woman. No man could see you without falling to his knees and begging.”

“Begging for what?” Eugenia asked achingly.

“This,” Ward said, falling to his knees.

Surprised, Eugenia looked down. Was he about to? Andrew had . . . but only months into their marriage, under the covers, and a very few times.

“Oh my God,” she breathed as Ward drew her legs apart and his warm tongue ran over the tender flesh on the inside of her thigh.

She held her breath.

When his tongue touched her again, a broken cry came from Eugenia’s lips, and her knees shook so much that she fell against the chair at her back. Ward’s hands tightened on her legs, holding her steady as he licked and teased, sending streaks of bliss through her.

Eugenia’s mind tumbled from one thing to another, from the acute waves of pure sensation rocking her, to the sight of his bunched thighs crouched before her, to his rumpled chestnut curls, to the way harsh breaths expanded his chest.

Another delicate, twisting caress with his tongue and she sank to her knees. “I want to touch you too,” she gasped.

“Not here.” Ward leaned forward and scooped her into his arms, coming to his feet in one smooth movement.

Eugenia pressed kisses on his shoulders, loving how they flexed as he carried her across the room to the great bed as if she were light as a meringue.

Her heart was thudding and her body racing with erotic pleasure. All the same, she couldn’t suppress a wide smile. Was she meant to be feeling this bubbling laughter, even as a bead of sweat ran down the back of one knee?

Ward laid her on the bed and leaned over her, arms braced on either side. “I see that you are a drunken lover.”

“I scarcely had a glass.” She arched up, kissing his chin, toeing off her shoes at the same time.

“Drunk on this,” he said, taking her hand and wrapping it around his tool, his hand enclosing hers.

Eugenia felt her eyes growing wide. It had been years . . . she’d forgotten what a man felt like, silk and smooth and hard as rock all at once. Extraordinarily alive, pulsating in her hand.

She tightened her grip.

Ward growled, shifting his weight onto the bed, thrusting into her hand.

“I had forgotten,” she breathed.

He pulled back and her hand slid away. “No talk of your husband,” he ordered. “Not in this bedchamber, Eugenia.”

“I wasn’t referring to him in particular.”

A flicker of surprise in his eyes as he drew her stockings down her legs, tossing them to the side.

“No, I haven’t slept with anyone else.” She stretched her arms over her head. Her breasts bobbled, catching Ward’s attention, just as she meant them to.

“Just now you kissed my cunny before touching my breasts,” she said, thinking about that.

Ward’s expression was sending ripples of pleasure through her. Since his legs straddled hers, Eugenia widened her legs just enough to rub against his hair-roughed thighs.

A grin curled the corners of his mouth and he bent over her again. “Your wish is my command. But first . . .”

One of his hands ran down her side, pausing for a second to grip her hip, clenching possessively. “I love this curve.”

The hand slid straight down into the sleek warmth between her legs.

Eugenia squeaked and wriggled, arching against the callused, broad finger stroking her. She felt as if little flares of heat were sparking through her, so scorching they should be visible in the air.

“You are going to tell me what you need, aren’t you?” Ward’s voice came from some deep part of his chest. Commanding her.

“Yes,” she gasped, her breath ragged and harsh.

He kept his hand where it was, but bent his head to her right breast. She froze, waiting . . . waiting . . .

“Eugenia.”

“Please!” She was shivering all over. “I wish—I’d like to touch you.”

A smile ghosted over his mouth. “Anytime.”

“Why are you so much larger than other men?” Her hands slid over his shoulders.

“You seem to like it.”

“That’s not the point. You are not what I imagined an Oxford don to look like.”

“When I was thrown in prison, there was nothing to do. I started to plan an escape from the moment the door locked behind me, of course, but it took a few weeks. I passed the time as productively as I could. I discovered that I like physical exertion.”

He did something with his fingers, and the flash of heat that streaked through her body made sweat spring out on her brow.

“Enjoy that, do you?” Ward murmured.

Eugenia couldn’t even answer because at that moment Ward lowered his body onto hers and finally, finally, put his mouth on her breast.

Andrew—no, she would not think about Andrew!

Men loved her breasts.

Ward loved her breasts.

His hands shaped their heavy weight as his mouth moved from one to the other, as if they were two presents he was determined to enjoy at the same moment. His tongue trapped her nipple, made her moan and squeak and writhe against him.

“Ward!” she cried. She had managed to raise one knee but the other was trapped under his body. And she wanted . . .

He looked down at her and a giddy smile broke out all over her face. This was more fun than she’d had in years.

“Drunk,” he said, with obvious satisfaction, bending over and rubbing her nose with his. Then he slid his tongue in her mouth.

It was strangely erotic to find that he faintly tasted of her.

“More?” he asked, lifting up his head. His eyes were heavy lidded, sensual in a way that made her arch again, impatiently.

“Would you like the same?” she gasped.

“I want everything. I want to taste the two of us intermingled.” Ward shifted his hips and the broad head of his cock slid over her sleek opening.

“Tell me,” he commanded her, one hand possessively encircling a breast, his words muffled because he was suckling her hard.

“Oh, please,” Eugenia cried, feverish and desperate. “Please come inside me.”

“One moment,” he said, reaching over to the small table at the side of the bed.

“What’s that?” she asked, coming up on one elbow.

“A French letter,” he said, “a condom for preventing conception.”

“We needn’t,” Eugenia said. “It takes repeated effort and time to conceive a child; I was married for months.”

“That is not what my father taught me,” Ward said, not bothering to close the drawer. “Apparently I am the result of a single encounter.” He held something that looked like a wrinkled sausage casing with an incongruous ribbon stitched at one end.

“You keep it right there . . . in your bedside table?” Eugenia had the queasy realization that she was likely only the latest of several, if not many, women who had visited this bed and listened to Ward’s smoky commands.

He was slipping the thing over himself but he looked up and grinned at her. “Are you imagining me as the master of a harem?”

Eugenia’s brows drew together. “Not precisely.” She peered at what he was doing. “That looks very uncomfortable.”

“You might conceive a child if I don’t wear it.” He slid it back off and held it up. “The function is fairly obvious.”

She pulled her legs to the side and came to a sitting position. “I never conceived during my marriage. Although I suppose there is a risk. Perhaps we should reconsider—”

She began sliding toward the edge of the bed, but she broke off with a squeak when Ward grabbed her wrist. A second later she was flat on her back beneath him, one of his big hands locking both of hers over her head.

“You won’t force me if I have changed my mind,” she said, looking up at him. She might be unwilling, but her body wasn’t. It was trembling all over, longing for his touch.

It took all her resolve not to arch upwards again, to beg for his body.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was dark, implacable and he was looking into her eyes so deeply that she felt as if he could see to the bottom of her soul.

Maybe . . .

No.

She had to keep her self-respect, and allowing that thing inside her would make her feel dirty. Soiled.

“I understand that your life is different from mine,” she said, trying to explain in the least objectionable language possible. “I am not suggesting in the least that having that—that object in your possession indicates moral turpitude.”

For a moment he just stared at her, and then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Moral turpitude?”

Eugenia gave him a little frown. “I am trying to be tactful.”

“Just be honest,” he suggested.

“I don’t want that French thing inside me.”

His eyes went to the object in question. “You dislike them?”

“Actually, I’ve never seen one before.”

“Well?”

“I prefer not to.”

“Why not? I promise to give you pleasure even wearing it.”

He shifted. He was rubbing against her and despite herself, her knees fell open and she sucked in a breath. But she reached down and pushed him away. “Don’t touch me with that!”

It provoked a flash of frustration that she’d not seen in his eyes before. He came up on his knees, straddling her thighs, and said, “Eugenia, I must ask you to explain yourself.”

“I suppose I am more scrupulous than most,” she said desperately.

“I don’t know you well enough to compare.”

“I don’t want that thing inside me after it’s been inside other women!” she burst out. “I expect you’ve washed it, but I don’t care. I apologize if you think me overly fastidious.”

Ward stared at her for a second and then silently reached into the little drawer in the table by the bed, which was still hanging open. He withdrew a handful of French letters, and let them rain down on the bed.

They fell all over her breasts and belly, thin and slippery, sewn at the top with ribbons of different colors.

“I would never reuse one,” he said. “But more important, no woman has been in this particular bed, or indeed in any other bed containing me, for almost two years.”

“Oh,” Eugenia gasped. “I’m so—I’m happy to hear that they are only used once. But why were you so abstinent?” In the back of her mind she began to catalogue the reasons a healthy young man might avoid the opposite sex, none of them good. Her stomach churned.

Ward looked at her and burst out with a bellow of laughter. “No, not illness. Are you always this distrustful?”

She cocked her head, feeling gladness spread through her like warm honey. He didn’t have a disease. “It’s a consequence of Snowe’s. I can assure you that running a registry would cure anyone of optimism.”

“Even given my brief acquaintance with Otis and Lizzie, I see your point,” Ward said. He gave her a rueful smile. “I was betrothed to Mia for a year, and I had wooed her for months before that. The betrothal ended when I was thrown in prison, and shortly thereafter, my brother and sister appeared on my doorstep.”

Eugenia ran a hand along his cheek. “You have had a trying year.”

“That’s an understatement,” he said, lying down beside her and turning his head, a sinful gleam in his eyes. “Don’t you think it’s high time someone made me feel better?”