Eugenia passed the morning in the kitchen—she and Monsieur Marcel were perfecting a lemon tea cake—after which she and Ward spent the afternoon teaching Lizzie and Otis the finer points of croquet. Neither child had the faintest understanding of good sportsmanship and both thought cheating was a sensible route to victory.

“They won’t be roaming the house tonight,” Ward told Eugenia with obvious satisfaction in the evening. “Lizzie drifted off in my library, and I carried her to bed.”

Eugenia had a sudden image of Ward with a sleeping child draped over his shoulder. But the imaginary girl had a mop of dark curls, the color hers had been before they lightened to red.

For goodness’ sake! She took a hasty gulp of wine. Gumwater padded around the table, serving the meal with hearty, if silent, dislike.

“Your butler abhors me,” she observed, when the man had left. “And frankly he has done nothing to endear himself to me.”

“My stepmother is not fond of Gumwater either,” Ward acknowledged. “He’s capable in the position, though.”

“I can tolerate him for one more week,” Eugenia said, silently willing Ward to invite her to extend her stay beyond the fortnight they had agreed on.

One more week.

Or forever.

“I appreciate that,” he said easily.

Eugenia was trying her utmost to not blurt out a declaration of love that he might not reciprocate. She felt as if her skin were about to burst, as if she were a plump grape, succulent and sweet. Love and lust were jumbled in her mind.

She shifted in her chair. Ward’s eyes narrowed, but Gumwater pushed open the door again, bringing another covered platter. For the remainder of the meal the butler managed to find reasons to keep coming and going, dropping fussy remarks about the provenance of the wine, the paucity of green beans, the exorbitant price of pineapples.

Ward didn’t appear to be irritated. Or to want to be alone with her. He kept up a sidelong conversation with Gumwater. Meanwhile, Eugenia practiced being a lady. Ladies didn’t squirm in their seats.

But Eugenia was so hungry for Ward that she couldn’t think.

Or form sentences.

It felt as if he were torturing her, insisting on every course, peeling an orange so methodically that the peels fell into slow coils on the table. She watched his hands, thinking about those fingers touching her.

Her breath felt hot in her chest, but Ward was genially discussing a dessert wine with Gumwater.

“What do you think, Mrs. Snowe?”

It took her a moment to realize Ward had addressed her. She had grown used to “Eugenia” rolling off his tongue, though he was careful never to use her first name in front of the children or the servants. She ran his words backward in her head and managed to put together a response.

“The hint of walnut is delicious.”

Somehow that word “delicious” came out an octave lower than the rest of her sentence.

Ward froze.

“Monsieur Marcel has made a trifle with apricot crème anglaise to your recipe, Mrs. Snowe,” Gumwater said, his eyebrows jumping as if he’d seen a rat.

Not Jarvis, vermin.

“Would you like me to bring it now?”

“Yes, please,” Ward said, glancing at him—and away from Eugenia.

“You look weary, Gumwater,” Eugenia said, taking matters into her own hands. “Mr. Reeve, surely your butler may retire for the night after bringing the last course? One of the footmen can clear the table later.”

Gumwater cleared his throat with a sound like a dying bullfrog, so Eugenia silently warned him not to speak with a smile that showed all her teeth. He left, closing the door behind him a bit too sharply.

“I’d hate to make an enemy of you,” Ward said appreciatively. “Poor old Gumwater has retreated in great dudgeon.”

Some minutes later, the butler shouldered his way sullenly through the door, balancing a crystal bowl that he plunked down on table between them.

“Your trifle, Mrs. Snowe,” he said, not making the slightest attempt to conceal his irritation.

“Why do you tolerate being treated so disrespectfully?” Eugenia asked, once the man had taken himself away.

Ward shrugged. “An illegitimate child in a noble household quickly learns not to be bothered by servants silently expressing their opinions.”

“You tolerate Gumwater’s insubordination, because servants were impolite to you as a child?” Eugenia was incredulous. “Your father should have sacked anyone who behaved in that way!”

“By the time I was old enough to understand, I was also mature enough to understand that nonsense of that sort doesn’t matter. I had a few skirmishes at Eton, but once the boys saw that I literally didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of my parentage, most of them stopped bothering about it.”

Ward was lounging in his chair the way no gentleman was supposed to do. His hair wasn’t arranged in waves, or powdered, or even hidden by an old-fashioned wig. It was thick and wavy and so soft that Eugenia’s fingers curled into her palm at the memory of clenching them in his hair.

“Eugenia,” he said in a low voice. “You oughtn’t to look at me like that. Not here.”

“But you look delicious,” she said reasonably. He leaned forward and her eyes skated hungrily over his broad shoulders, over his strong neck and the cravat that framed his jaw.

Desire felt like a clawing animal inside her, making her breath catch and heat come into her lips. She clenched her legs against the feeling.

“Please allow me to serve you some trifle,” Ward said.

He stood up and her mouth went dry. Those silk breeches hid nothing, and there was much to hide. Ward plunged a spoon into the layers of cream, sponge, and apricot, and prepared a plate for each of them.

Ladies never licked their spoon. They didn’t close their eyes and nearly swoon, either.

Eugenia did both.

“This is so good,” she moaned, her eyes opening to find Ward staring at her. His eyes were dark, and his hands clenched the edge of the table.

“Jesus,” he said hoarsely. “Have another bite, Eugenia.”

She brought the spoon to her mouth and again closed her eyes. She felt transported by silky cool cream flavored with Armagnac, and the touch of anise that had been her idea.

Ward’s chair shoved back and she heard footsteps. But she didn’t open her eyes, not even when cool silver nudged her lips, prompting her to open for another bite.

“Good girl,” Ward said, his voice rough.

Hands ran over her shoulders, fingers gliding down her arms. She swallowed and took in a stuttering breath.

“A man could lay you down on this table and cover you in trifle, even the pale pink parts of you—or those parts especially—and lick off all that lovely cream,” Ward murmured.

Eugenia was hardly able to breathe.

“That’s not what you want, is it?” he asked.

“No,” she murmured. “Well, perhaps.”

“I know what you want,” he said. “I know what you need.”

A sobbing breath escaped, but she still said nothing, because Ward was drawing her to her feet and pulling her gown up, right there in the dining room. If she kept her eyes shut, this could be happening to someone else.

Some other lady was trembling and helpless in the grip of big male hands that were stroking fire into her legs—no, the fire was already there.

Ward turned her about. “Bend over, Eugenia.” It was a command, but she would have obeyed a suggestion, a hint, anything. She bent over the table, quivering.

His hands ran up her legs, sliding over her arse.

“Do you want me?” A warm, large body covered her from behind. Part of it was hot and silky, and throbbed against her bottom.

“Yes,” she panted.

There was no French letter in the dining room, of course, so nothing came between them. Every inch pulsed as he pushed inside. They cried out in unison, shock radiating to the ends of Eugenia’s fingers and toes.

Her hands curled on the tablecloth and she dimly heard a glass topple. Ward pulled back and thrust forward again.

“I’ve never felt anything like you.” She thought the words were forced through his teeth, because “you” was lost in a groan as he thrust home.

“More,” she said fiercely. She felt shameless in her hunger. For years, she had paid little heed to her body other than to dimly note if she was hungry or tired. Now her priorities had reversed.

His hands slipped to her hips and gripped so hard that she might have bruises. “You want me to take you, Eugenia?”

She couldn’t answer, the words wouldn’t shape in her mouth, but he understood and began thrusting harder and harder. As a child, she’d visited the belfry of St. Paul’s Cathedral when the bells were ringing. Their deep clang had pounded through her, leaving her deafened afterwards.

Now white heat rang through every part of her, roaring all the way to her fingers and toes.

After she stopped convulsing, she discovered she was limp on the table, Ward’s sweaty body curved protectively on top of hers, both of them gulping deep breaths of air. The tremors of that huge pleasure, that great voice, still throbbed in her legs.

“I’ve never felt anything like this,” Ward said, his voice hoarse.

Eugenia had never experienced anything so earthy, so animal-like, so primitive. It turned her into a different woman.

The kind of woman who stands and lets her skirts fall down, takes her lover’s hand without words, and draws him to the door.

Takes him upstairs.