The four of them swam every morning. Eugenia learned to float on her back unaided—though she still didn’t put her face under water. They played enough croquet so that Otis and Lizzie grasped that cheating made the opposing players walk directly off the lawn.

At night, every night, Ward made love to Eugenia with the skill, passion, and endurance of a primitive, profane kind of god, not the one worshipped in the parish church. Certainly not the one that Vicar Howson believed in.

After Howson was dispatched abroad, the vicarage stood empty for a week or so before a young man with yellow hair and cornflower blue eyes moved in, and after that, the butcher’s gold chain was forgotten and all anyone talked of in the village was his eyes.

A letter came and went from Susan. A new governess was to arrive on the following Wednesday. With Eugenia’s blessing, Ruby, who was enchanted by Lizzie and Otis, had decided to stay on as nursery maid.

“They’re not like other children,” she told Eugenia.

“I know,” Eugenia said. “I know.”

The fortnight fell behind her like a fever dream.

One night Gumwater set the dining table as if for a royal banquet, and Eugenia took the children through the entire meal. She invented problematic situations and quizzed them about proper behavior.

“If your hostess spills water on the table, how would you behave? What about if the person to your right becomes inebriated and bursts into song?”

It was only because Ward was a silent witness that she realized how many societal rules dictated that dinner guests ignore the truth or look the other way if a man urinated against the wall, if someone cast up their accounts, or if an irascible guest berated his wife.

Letters flew between Ward and his solicitors as they prepared for a spirited battle over Otis’s guardianship. He mentioned them occasionally, but never shared them. Of course, there was no reason to allow her to read them.

Eugenia wasn’t certain why, or how, but her blissful certainty that Ward had fallen in love with her was fast slipping away.

She was in love. Ward? It no longer seemed so.

One night at supper he mentioned in passing her return to London, as if it meant nothing to him. The day before, she had overheard Ward tell Otis that he and Lizzie would escort him to Eton in the fall.

No mention of her. No glance at her, either. No silent acknowledgment that by the fall their affaire might be regularized.

Every time she felt a burning pain in her heart, Eugenia sought refuge in the kitchen. She and Monsieur Marcel had perfected her tea cake. Not only was that enormously satisfying, but more importantly, she had discovered what her next challenge would be: she meant to open a tearoom.

It would be a tearoom that welcomed children, the only one of its kind. Delicacies would be offered in small portions. A child with Otis’s appetite could eat five or six. Or twelve.

After Ward described how hungry he had always been at Eton, she decided to offer special hampers that could be sent directly to boarding schools. They would include sweets and pastries, naturally, but also hearty meat pies.

She spent hours in the kitchen, trying one recipe after another with Monsieur Marcel’s help. Lizzie often spent the afternoon there as well, stealing raisins and ranking delicacies. In the evening, Eugenia scribbled notes and imagined new combinations of flavors.

“Perhaps you should abstain from the kitchens tomorrow,” Ward said one evening, after Gumwater had brought in a tray holding five different confections.

“I know,” Eugenia said ruefully. “It’s just that one cake leads to another . . . I have an idea or Monsieur Marcel does, and we adjust the amount of butter or other ingredient, and before I know it, we have four versions on our hands.”

“What on earth is enjoyable in that?” Ward asked. “It sounds hot and tiresome.”

“Baking is like mathematics,” Eugenia explained. “I’m fond of numerical problems, and baking demands precision. I promise that nothing will go to waste; we could have a picnic tomorrow afternoon, for example, and Otis would eat every crumb.”

They had their picnic on a linen cloth spread under a willow near the water. After eating luncheon, they lay on the grass reading books until Lizzie fell asleep, using her bundled veil for a pillow. Otis was building a hut of twigs for Jarvis.

Eugenia was drowsily watching drifting clouds from under the shade of her bonnet when a long blade of grass tickled her nose.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Snowe,” Ward whispered. They were scrupulously formal with each other in front of the children, even while swimming.

“Mr. Reeve,” she murmured.

“You are wildly beautiful.” The grass blade was sweeping back and forth over her lower lip.

“Thank you,” Eugenia said, suddenly shy. They rarely spent time together during the day; Ward was usually in the library working on his steam engine, while she instructed Lizzie and Otis, or rattled around the kitchens.

“I wish we had more time together,” Ward said softly.

Eugenia didn’t dare answer; she was afraid that her aching love couldn’t be disguised.

“I received a letter from the dowager duchess yesterday.”

Dread clenched her gut.

“She informs me that she plans to visit,” Ward said, his eyes dark with obvious regret. “I suspect that she will look for ammunition to bolster her case.”

Eugenia reflexively glanced over to make certain that neither child was listening. “When is she expected?”

“This Tuesday.”

“In three days,” Eugenia, shocked to hear how calm her voice was.

“The children will miss you,” he said. “I will miss you. Damn it, I . . .”

He fell silent as her heart pounded in her ears, certain he was about to say something, ask her to stay, promise to woo her in a year, a few years, if need be. Lying awake by his side at night, she’d come up with a thousand possibilities.

“There’s a fair in the village tomorrow,” he said abruptly.

That wasn’t a declaration.

“We could take the children.”

“Certainly,” Eugenia said. Her heart was thudding a dirge because Ward wasn’t going to say anything. He would not ask her to stay, or even promise to court her after he gained legal guardianship of the children.

He meant to say good-bye.

Years of self-control led her to say, with perfect equanimity, “I love country fairs.”

Something flickered in his eyes, and a horrible truth dawned on her: he’d brought up the fair because he expected her to depart directly afterwards.

Just when the silence became unbearable, a shriek echoed over the lawn: “How dare you!”

Ward’s face disappeared from her view as Eugenia sat up. Lizzie was chasing after Otis with a book in her hand.

“What is going on?” Ward called.

“He let Jarvis chew my book!”

“I didn’t,” Otis protested.

Lizzie stopped, hands on her hips, looking unnervingly like a miniature version of the Dowager Duchess of Gilner. The family resemblance was undeniable. “I doubt another rat wandered over and gnawed it!”

“Let’s have some cake,” Ward said. “We’ll have your book re-bound, Lizzie, perhaps with a special binding with your name inscribed on it.”

Eugenia brushed away an unwelcome tear and busied herself by pulling from the basket the assortment of delicacies that Marcel had packed for them. Otis threw himself down and dived for a piece of spice cake, but Lizzie just sighed.

“I no longer care for sweets,” she said, in a voice of doom.

“And why is that?” Ward asked, accepting a plate with a slice of chocolate cake, another of the orange tea cake (not entirely successful), and a sweet bun.

“I watched that spice cake being made. It took hours,” Lizzie said. “Now it’s just here to eat.”

“It can’t have been as much work as a sponge cake,” Otis said. “I thought Monsieur Marcel’s arms would fall off as he beat the eggs.”

Like Lizzie, Ward didn’t want cake. In fact, he’d be just as happy never to taste another dessert, though he would never say such a thing to Eugenia.

Soon she wouldn’t be here to tell.

The thought provoked a surge of emotion so strong he nearly leapt to his feet. He wanted to take Eugenia to his room and make love to her so many times that she’d never—

No. He sensed that if he gave her the slightest hope, Eugenia might wait for him, even through the many years until Otis came of age. That was impossible and unfair.

She deserved to have children of her own, not be the mistress of a man who could not marry her until his young siblings grew up.

“I thought Snowe’s governesses taught children how to bake a sponge, not a spice cake,” he said, controlling his untidy emotions.

“Not just a sponge,” Lizzie said importantly. She counted on her fingers. “I can make sponge, orange cake, jelly roll, sweet buns, and lemon tart.”

Ward turned to Eugenia, frowning. “You led me to understand that children are required to learn how to make one cake.”

“I can do one,” Otis said, with his mouth full.

Eugenia glanced at him, and he swallowed and said thickly, “Sorry.”

“I’ve been in the kitchen almost every day,” Lizzie said. “I asked Mrs. Snowe to name her tearoom ‘Lizzie’s Teas,’ but she says no. When I grow up, I shall open a shop and name it ‘Lizzie’s Emporium.’”

“What tearoom?” Ward demanded.

“I am thinking of opening a tearoom,” Eugenia said. “Did I not tell you, Mr. Reeve?”

No, she bloody well did not tell him. Was she planning to serve people tea herself? Show Lady Hyacinth to a table?

He was careful to keep his voice even. “Mrs. Snowe, I wonder if you would care to walk toward the lake?”

“Jarvis ought to go home to his box and take a nap,” Otis said. He had finished three pieces of cake and he looked sleepy.

“I expect he was exhausted by ingesting the history of the Punic wars,” Lizzie said acidly.

“Children, why don’t you return to the nursery?” Eugenia asked, rising. “Inform Mr. Gumwater that our picnic is finished, if you please.”

She had a governess’s trick of asking questions that were actually indirect orders, so Otis immediately turned to go.

“Otis,” Eugenia said.

He paused. “Oh.” He came back and made a fairly credible bow. “Thank you for a most enjoyable picnic, Mrs. Snowe.”

She nodded. “It has been my pleasure, Lord Darcy.”

Lizzie dropped a grand curtsy. “It is such sweet, sweet sorrow to part after this enchanting interlude.”

“Overdone,” Eugenia said, but she smiled and touched Lizzie’s hair before the child ran away.

As Ward looked on, she knelt and began collecting the luncheon debris and placing it in the basket. No lady would do such a menial thing.

“Please refrain,” Ward said, more sharply than he intended. “That is the servants’ responsibility, to be carried out by a footman, not by you.”

She rose again and met his eyes. “May I assume you are angry because you believe that Lizzie has spent too much time in the kitchen?”

“You told me that Snowe’s children never again touch a kitchen implement. And yet you have apparently given Lizzie ambitions to open an emporium, as if she were a baker’s child who might well spend her life in a kitchen.”

He didn’t raise his voice, but he also didn’t try to disguise his exasperation. “I’ve explained how important it is that Lizzie, in particular, be brought up a lady. I trusted you, and instead you have taught her a trade.”

A stark moment of silence passed between them. “I apologize,” Eugenia said at length. “I had no intention of undermining your efforts. I assure you that Lizzie is, and will be, a lady.”

“Not if she says ‘bloody hell’ in a ballroom and follows that by announcing her plans to open a shop. Damn it, Eugenia, I think it’s wonderful that you established a registry office. I’m sure your tearoom will surpass Gunter’s and be the most fashionable in London. But Lizzie won’t have your life, don’t you see?”

Eugenia did see.

Ward had never made explicit precisely how he felt about her profession—but he wouldn’t have, would he? He needed her. Two governesses had failed him; he needed someone to instruct Lizzie and Otis.

No, that wasn’t right. That bitter comment didn’t represent reality.

Ward did respect her. She simply hadn’t comprehended the extent to which he believed that her ownership of the registry was of more consequence than her birth. In essence, he agreed with the Duchess of Gilner that Eugenia was no longer a lady.

“What if Lizzie tells our grandmother of her ambitions?” Ward demanded, as if he’d read her thoughts. “The House of Lords will not be sympathetic to the fact that I allowed my mistress to keep my sister in the kitchen, training to be a pâtissier!”

Eugenia felt a sharp pain in the region of her heart. “I am not your mistress,” she managed.

“Lover, if you’d prefer,” Ward said.

Apparently, to him, it was a distinction without meaning. But not to Eugenia. Lovers were on a par with each other and money never changed hands. A mistress, on the other hand, was a dependent.

She would never be a kept woman of any man.

“We can impress discretion upon Lizzie,” she said, rallying a calm tone. “I would add that your sister seems to believe that merely being in the kitchen while something is baking is the same as knowing how to make it. I can assure you that she has not had an apprenticeship in baking.”

“The distinction is immaterial,” Ward growled. He ran a hand through his hair.

God, she’d been such a fool. She thought that giving Ward her body proved that she belonged to no man, but he obviously saw it otherwise.

She drew herself upright and met his eyes. No one could shame her unless she allowed it. She had learned that harsh lesson when some of the dowagers—such as the Duchess of Gilner—had sneered at her for opening Snowe’s.

“There is nothing less ladylike than being anxious about one’s status. You would do well to remember that when you are tutoring Lizzie in what she may and may not say to the duchess.”

His jaw flexed.

“A lady may bake a cake simply because she wishes to, which is one of the reasons Snowe’s governesses teach it. A lady can straighten the picnic basket if she knows that the butler is slothful and won’t come down until the plates are swarming with ants. A true lady can do virtually anything she wishes without it having any effect on her status—except, perhaps, have an affaire with a blooming idiot!”

Another moment of silence, punctuated only by the irregular chirps of a sparrow.

“I take your point,” Ward said. “In the main, you are right, but the rules are more strict for those on the margins, Eugenia, as surely you know.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I gather my ownership of Snowe’s puts me on the margins.”

“No,” he said, his face implacable. “I’m saying that if the news emerges that Miss Lizzie Darcy spent her early life in a traveling caravan with Lady Lisette, people will watch her like a hawk for evidence that she does not fit her station.”

Eugenia was wrestling with her temper. Ward was a deeply protective man, fighting for those he loved. His ideas were wrong—owing to the fact that he had been scorned by servants, and by boys at Eton.

Their scorn didn’t matter to him, because he had never given a damn.

The same was key for Lizzie was well. If Lizzie comported herself with perfect confidence and poise at her debut, she would set the rules, not follow them. But if she radiated anxiety, the vultures would circle, waiting for mistakes.

She, Eugenia, would simply have to manage that debut. Even if her relationship with Ward was long over.

He took a step toward her. Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss into her palm. “I don’t want you to go.”

She drew her hand away. “Yes, you do, because you are right: if the duchess were to discover our intimacy, she would use it to disqualify your guardianship.”

“Gumwater is loyal to the bone. He would never tell anyone, and he controls the household.”

Hopefully, that was true. “I shall depart tomorrow morning,” Eugenia said.

He visibly flinched. “I don’t want tonight to be our last together.”

“You received the duchess’s letter yesterday, so you were already aware of that,” Eugenia pointed out, head high. “I think I would feel more comfortable if I left as soon as possible.”

His jaw tightened. “We just agreed to take the children to the fair.”

Eugenia bit her lip, willing tears not to come. Part of her wanted to flee, but another, larger part, couldn’t bear the idea of leaving. Not just Ward, but Lizzie and Otis. “In that case, I shall leave the following morning,” she said, somehow managing to keep pain out of her voice.

That evening Eugenia fell asleep waiting for the soft click of the door opening, the rustle of sheets being pulled back, the touch of callused fingers on her cheek. She woke in the night to find that she was panting, trembling with desire.

“May I?” Ward’s voice was soft in the darkness, so tender that she could fool herself into thinking she heard love.

She pressed a kiss on his mouth by way of answer. Her nails dug into his rock-hard arse as he held her steady, hands clamped on her hips as he pumped into her, driving her to euphoria, letting her rest for a moment, before silently driving her higher again. And again.

He came one last time with a desperate groan, his eyes raking her face in the faint light of early dawn.

He left without words. Perhaps there were none to be said? Her feeling for him was irrelevant.

The four of them swam that morning as if nothing had changed, and after luncheon, set out for the fair in Wheatley. Within moments of arriving, to Eugenia’s dismay, they split into pairs. Lizzie wanted to visit the animal pens and Otis was interested in—if offended by—a game called bat-a-rat.

Eugenia would have liked them to stay together. She was shot through with anguish at the idea of her coming departure. But Ward merely bowed and left with his brother.

She and Lizzie examined all the hens for sale, while Lizzie pointed out the fact that blood went right down into their feet. Apparently in some breeds, you could see the veins.

“Some people eat chickens’ feet,” Eugenia told her. “Or consider them a good-luck token. My father has a large collection of curiosities, among them a necklace of chickens’ feet worn by a tribal chief in the American wilderness.”

“I would love to see that,” Lizzie told her, tugging her on to the next tent.

Eugenia nearly said, “You shall, some day,” but she stopped herself.

“Let’s go to that lecture,” Lizzie cried, pointing.

A placard outside a tent read, A Discussion of Chemistry in Proof of the Scientific Sublime, being given by a Famous Scientist and Diffuser of Useful Knowledge.

“Diffuser?” Eugenia said dubiously.

“Come on,” Lizzie said, tugging at her hand. “It’s already begun!”

Eugenia looked around for Ward, but he was nowhere to be seen.

The tent was small and crowded with men who frowned at them, but when met with Eugenia’s most peremptory stare, quickly vacated two seats in the last row.

Ten or so lines of chairs were arranged in a tight semicircle facing a man with a shock of ferocious black eyebrows.

“It’s Mr. Gumwater!” Lizzie squealed.

Ward’s unpleasant butler, it seemed, had a secret life in which he diffused useful knowledge for the royal sum of tuppence a head. Famous scientist, indeed!

“I can learn whatever he has to say at home for free,” Lizzie hissed. “Let’s go.”

Eugenia whispered back, “It would be rude to leave now, as it would make a commotion. If possible, a lady should never hurt people’s feelings at the expense of a small inconvenience to herself.”

Lizzie subsided with a sigh. “Being a lady is tiresome. And I can’t see.”

Eugenia pulled her onto her lap. “How’s this?”

“Better,” Lizzie said, leaning against Eugenia’s shoulder. Ruby had pinned Lizzie’s veil against her shoulders as if it were a cape and rolled it up under her pelisse, so her little frame felt particularly bony.

These days the veil, like Jarvis, was ever-present but mostly invisible.

Gumwater was holding forth about the composition of water, something about the affinity of oxygen for elements other than hydrogen.

Eugenia let her mind wander. She was trying to decide whether she and Ward should speak again, more frankly, before her departure.

But what could she say? “Why don’t you want me to stay?” sounded plaintive and humiliating. It wasn’t the right question.

Ward wanted her. His lovemaking had only become more passionate, if that was possible. They hardly slept; last night she had awoken to find him stroking her, her sleepy body already flying toward release.

The question was whether he loved her.

Suddenly Lizzie began shaking with laughter. Indeed, the whole audience was laughing. Eugenia frowned and tried to concentrate, but her mind refused to hold on to facts about decomposition in the state of water.

Let alone understand what was funny about it. She missed that joke, and Gumwater turned to the mysteries of chemical affinities.

Obviously, her feelings were stronger than Ward’s. Her skin prickled with embarrassment at the idea.

If that was the case, she didn’t want to hear it said aloud. The humiliation would be devastating.

Lizzie was laughing again; Eugenia’s arms tightened around her. She felt a near unbearable sadness at the thought of leaving in the morning. She would have been a good mother to Lizzie and Otis. They liked her and trusted her.

Eugenia, better than anyone, would have been able to navigate the choppy waters of Lizzie’s debut, shaping Miss Darcy’s season in such a way that her parentage was viewed as an immaterial fact, far outweighed by her beauty, her composure, and her fortune.

She rested her chin on Lizzie’s hair, wondering if Snowe’s was the main reason Ward was sending her away. If he didn’t raise the subject, she had to say something. If only to assure him that she would discard the idea of a tearoom if he sincerely believed it would imperil Lizzie’s future.

If she said nothing, she would regret it for the rest of her life.