Eugenia walked from the great chamber and then actually broke into a run down the corridor leading away from the room. The moment Ward had spoken her name, every person in the room turned in her direction.

When Andrew died, she never expressed her grief in public. She wept at home; outside, she kept her head high and her eyes dry. Andrew would have wanted it that way.

But now tears were uncontrollably pouring down her cheeks. She caught sight of an open door and turned into a room, mercifully empty, fell into a chair, and tried to breathe.

Her mind was seared with the image of Ward standing before the rows of peers. He hadn’t looked like a gentleman, like one of them.

He’d looked like a king, glancing over velvet-clad lords without a shred of humility. He’d dominated the room from the moment he stood: his face intense, focused . . . commanding. With his words, he had petitioned for guardianship of his siblings, but in truth . . .

He had demanded it. The peers would no more refuse him than refuse the king. The children were his now. Her fear for Lizzie and Otis evaporated the moment Ward began speaking.

She had feasted on the way he looked, her heart yearning, secure in the belief that he was unaware of her presence.

And then—

Then he had stated that he meant to marry her. His eyes had taken on a ferocious intensity as he’d told the House of Lords that she was his, just as Lizzie and Otis were now his wards.

The only sign of tension she spied was when his jaw clenched while speaking of her.

Of the fact she had refused him.

The door opened and Eugenia’s head jerked up, her damp handkerchief clutched in her hand.

Ward stood in the doorway.

“What happened?” she managed, coming to her feet.

“The children are mine,” he said, striding toward her. Without another word, he tilted her head back and covered her mouth with his. His kiss was the equivalent of his speech before all those lords: it was a statement about her.

He had told a roomful of peers that he loved her, and suddenly Eugenia realized that he had said as much to her countless times.

While kissing her.

While luring her into the lake.

While waking her at night to make love a fourth time, and a fifth at dawn.

She returned his kiss with her entire being. She was his, and he was hers, until death parted them. How could she have forgotten that love was the most important thing of all? She, who had learned far too young that one cruel moment could snatch away love forever?

Ward drew back, still without saying a word, gathered her to him and swept her off her feet. Carrying her the whole way, he strode from the room, down the corridor, and straight to his waiting carriage. She was in the carriage before she could think what to say.

But it seemed no words were needed. His arms closed around her again with hungry urgency and he pulled her onto his lap. They kissed until Eugenia’s hair had fallen around her ears and her lips were bee-stung.

When the coach stopped, Ward helped Eugenia to alight on a street lined with large, graceful mansions.

“My London address,” Ward said, drawing her up the walk to one of the most imposing of these.

“I didn’t know you had a house in London,” she exclaimed.

“I bought it before I took the post at Oxford.”

The front door opened as they approached, and a liveried butler bowed as they entered. Eugenia caught sight of cream walls and a spotless marble floor, but Ward guided her straight to a closed door at one side.

“Please close your eyes,” he said, dropping a kiss on her nose, regardless of the butler.

Eugenia smiled, closing her eyes. Perhaps he brought Lizzie and Otis to London and they planned to surprise her. If so, the children were being uncharacteristically silent, because she could have sworn there was no one else in the room.

Finally Ward brushed a kiss on her lips and whispered, “I meant what I said in the House of Lords. I love you, Eugenia. I love everything about you. Everything. Open your eyes, my love.”

Eugenia opened them slowly, savoring the way “love” sounded, uttered in that rough, utterly believable fashion.

The room was filled with cakes. Everywhere she looked—on every surface—were spun-sugar confections of every imaginable variety. Two elaborate swans arched higher than her head. An enormous trifle filled an exquisite crystal bowl, which in turn was surrounded by plates of dainty petits-fours. One platter held a cake shaped like a grotto replete with a mermaid, and another held a many-layered confection topped with dancing, gold-dusted cupids.

Unable to speak, Eugenia turned to Ward, knowing her eyes were round with shock.

“I respect everything you do, and everything you are,” he said, his voice rough. “I want your pâtisserie to be the most famed of its kind not only here in England but in France. I want you to cast Gunter’s in the shade. I want Lizzie to watch and learn from you. Most importantly, I want you to do what makes you most happy.”

Eugenia stared at him as his words sank in. “That’s not what you . . . what you said earlier.”

“I was wrong. Lizzie and Otis don’t need convention or rules; they need you. But I need you most of all.”

Eugenia couldn’t make herself speak.

“I love you, Eugenia Snowe,” Ward said. “I love all of the Eugenias: the prim and proper lady, the brilliant mathematician, the joyous, delicious lover, the owner of a registry, and the future owner of the best tearoom in London.”

Eugenia’s eyes filled with tears and she opened her arms. Their lips found each other, warm and passionate . . . perfect.

Some time later she turned in his arms and looked with wonder around the room. “Did Marcel help you with these cakes? Where on earth did you find all of them?”

“Vander, Thorn, and I crisscrossed London to find all of them.” He hesitated. “It was supposed to be a grand gesture.”

“It is truly a grand gesture,” Eugenia said, awe-struck. She stepped forward to take a closer look at the cake decorated with golden cupids. Each delicacy was more exquisite than the last. And the pedestals were placed at just the right heights to create a perfect display.

“Lady Xenobia India arranged this room,” she breathed. “No one else has her eye for arrangement.”

“Mia was here as well,” Ward said, feeling a bit awkward at the mention of his former fiancée.

“I can’t wait to thank them personally,” Eugenia cried, not looking in the least disturbed by his mention of Mia. “Oh, look at this one!” She reached toward a small cake with a cluster of spun-sugar feathers on top.

Ward’s arm wrapped around her and pulled her against the muscled planes of his body. “Mia is a romance writer,” he said. “She said I needed to make a grand gesture.”

Eugenia leaned back against him, inexpressibly happy. “I love your grand gesture.”

Ward spun her around and their eyes met. “I have something else for you too, from me alone.”

“Mmmm,” Eugenia murmured. She was surrounded by cakes, and she didn’t want even a single bite. She only wanted him.

He gave her a kiss that was measured in the rhythm of their heartbeats. By the time Ward pulled back, Eugenia could scarcely think. “A gesture of my own,” he said, his voice husky.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew . . .

A cake.

A small cake, sunk in the middle and cracked on top. It had the surly look that sweet things get when they’ve been baked too long.

It smelled of chocolate. Burnt chocolate.

“Did Lizzie make this for me?” she guessed, touching the top. Her heart was singing. Those lovely, eccentric, bright children were going to be hers: Lizzie with her too-old, hopeful eyes, and Otis with his inquisitive bravery and deep love for Jarvis.

“Not Lizzie.”

“Otis? I’m impressed!”

“Nor Otis.”

She looked up. Her mouth fell open.

“I couldn’t think of a better way to prove to you that I respect you and adore you—everything about you, Eugenia.”

“You baked me a cake,” she whispered. It was as if time stopped around them, as if the world had shrunk to a man and woman and a small, burnt chocolate sponge.

“That’s actually the second one,” he said. The exasperated tone in his voice startled a laugh from her. “The first one shriveled to the size of a walnut. I left Marcel back at Fawkes House because he won’t speak to me any longer, so I had no help.”

“I love it,” she said, cradling it in her hands. “And I love you.” She came up on her toes and kissed him. His big hands circled her waist, steadying her.

Their kiss was open-mouthed and open-hearted, the kind of kiss that lays people bare and vulnerable.

“You are the most witty, beautiful, and warm person I know,” Ward said at length, and his words went straight to her heart. “Lizzie gave up her veil for you, and Otis would have given up Jarvis. We love you, Eugenia. All three of us love you so much. Without you, we’re a family without a heart.”

He shook his head. “I have to warn you: if you say no to marrying me, you will have to say no again tomorrow, and the day after. I will come back with Lizzie and Otis and Jarvis. You’ll have to say no to Jarvis.”

“Not Jarvis!” Her fingers traced the classically square shape of his jaw.

“Will you marry me, Eugenia? Will you be my bride?”

“Yes,” she whispered back, her voice shaking a bit. “Yes, I will.”

“Will you promise not to be ladylike?” He was holding her tightly, his face buried in her hair.

“Not all the time,” she said, unable to stop smiling.