Seven Minutes in Heaven

by Eloisa James

  Mia was small, but she obviously wasn’t allowing her out-sized husband to intimidate her. Ward considered giving her a congratulatory kiss, but that might push Vander too far.

  “I want to make certain that Ward wins the hand of Eugenia Snowe,” Mia continued. “I’ve only met her twice, but I thought her absolutely enchanting.”

  “Everyone does,” Ward said.

  Well, with the exception of his grandmother.

  “You must make a grand gesture,” Mia said earnestly. “Something Mrs. Snowe would never expect. Something that will make it clear that you love her more than you possibly could any other woman, that you treasure her just as she is.”

  “I made one,” Vander said. He had both arms around his wife now.

  “What did you do?” Ward inquired.

  “I wrote a poem.”

  “You wrote a love poem, because I write novels about love,” his wife declared. “It was your way of telling me that you respected my profession.”

  From Vander’s twitch, Ward was pretty sure that His Grace hadn’t been considering his wife’s novels when he wrote that love poem.

  He let a sardonic smile touch the corners of his mouth so that Vander realized that Ward had a hold over him.

  The duke narrowed his eyes.

  “You must do the same,” Mia said, blithely unaware of the silent conversation occurring over her head. “Your grand gesture has to convince Eugenia that you value and respect her as an intelligent woman with remarkable accomplishments.”

  “What is he supposed to do?” Vander asked. “Hire another governess? From all accounts, he sacked one of her governesses and the other quit. It would be hard to demonstrate respect for Snowe’s Registry after that.”

  “Ward has to make a huge gesture,” Mia insisted. “There’s India! She’ll help.” She started waving frantically.

  Ward turned as Thorn Dautry’s wife, Lady Xenobia India, joined them.

  “Hello, Mia darling,” India said, dropping a necessarily shallow curtsy, since she was obviously carrying a child. “Mr. Reeve, it’s a pleasure to see you. And Vander, you’re looking a bit peevish this evening.” She went up on her toes to kiss the duke.

  “Where’s Thorn?” His Grace growled, by way of greeting.

  “Here,” came a laconic voice. Ward had not seen Thorn Dautry since he and Vander had helped him rout Mia’s uncle, the scoundrel who’d had him thrown in prison.

  Now he thought of it, if that old crook hadn’t died, he might have had to thank him for stopping his wedding to Mia.

  “India,” Mia cried, “Ward needs our help. He has to make a grand gesture to convince Eugenia Snowe that he truly loves her.”

  “Does he truly love her?” India peered at Ward. Whatever she saw in his eyes must have satisfied her, because she turned back to Mia and said, “Flowers?”

  Ward shook his head. “Not extravagant enough.”

  “Excellent!” Mia said, clapping her hands together.

  “What?” her husband asked.

  “Ward has something in mind. I can tell.”

  It seemed he was making a grand gesture.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Tuesday, June 30, 1801

  The House of Lords

  Palace of Westminster

  Ward had barely reached the seat beside his solicitor when a parade of a hundred or so scarlet and ermine clad British peers filed in and took their places along the benches on either side of the Lord Chancellor, who was presiding over the session.

  His father had complained that most of those seats remained empty even during the most important bills—but not today. Not in light of the fascinating news that the notorious Lady Lisette had mothered children, legitimate children, with the late Lord Darcy. That was news enough, but the fact that Lady Lisette’s mother was sponsoring a private act demanding guardianship of those orphaned children?

  The peers crowded on the benches like peas in a cartload of pods.

  Ward’s grandmother was seated with her solicitors to the right of Ward. She did not spare him a glance.

  The case opened with ceremonial blather. A Proclamation of Silence was followed by a turgid list of articles and circumstances and general foolishness, until the private act pled by Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Gilner, of the County of Surrey, was called.

  Her interminable plea drew to a close with an unambiguous statement: the young Lord Darcy and his sister should not be brought up by a man of illegitimate birth who, while he was to be congratulated for his profitable innovations in machinery (leaving the distinct impression that Ward had been whittling knife sharpeners or the like), had nevertheless been imprisoned in the recent past.

  As soon as the word “prison” was uttered, a buzz rose from the benches that sounded like enraged hornets on the move. Neither Ward nor Mia had ever made public the reason he’d deserted her at the altar, disappearing the night before their wedding ceremony.

  The duchess’s learned counsel concluded with a satisfied waggle of his periwig. “Her Grace feels that there can be no possible comparison between herself and Mr. Reeve when it comes to the ability to properly raise a young peer of the realm, an orphan whose mother has been tragically taken from him.”

  Lizzie was not mentioned.

  Ward’s head solicitor bounded to his feet with an eagerness that corresponded to the acclaim he was receiving by leading this particular case. He launched into an erudite discussion of the fact that Lord Darcy’s will assigning guardianship of his children to Ward had been proved in the Court of Chancery.

  Fair enough, but everyone in the room knew that was irrelevant. A private act could invalidate Lord Darcy’s will, as it had overturned others.

  What this case came down to was a show of force on both sides. The Duchess of Gilner had carefully marshalled facts in order to attack Ward’s person.

  Ward had chosen to marshal people.

  One by one, his solicitors called peers to the witness box. Some of them were waiting in the witnesses’ benches, but a few made their way from the peers’ benches. The Duke of Pindar’s explanation of Ward’s wrongful incarceration led to a gale of chatter. The Duke of Villiers answered questions in a sardonic drawl, reminding the assembly of his own illegitimate children and daring them to imagine that his offspring would be unsuitable parents.

  Few people in all London were foolish enough to go against the Duke of Villiers, especially when he was shoulder-to-shoulder with one of his oldest friends, the Duke of Beaumont.

  “In fact,” Villiers concluded, “this is a monumental waste of time, and someone needs to state the obvious. I came to know Lady Lisette very well during my wretched, foolish attempt to court her. That was long before she eloped with a young, very young gentleman, of course.”

  The Duchess of Gilner had been staring at her gloved hands throughout the witnesses’ testimony, but she looked up at that.

  Ward flinched. In his soft, yet implacable way, Villiers was about to tear his grandmother to shreds. Lady Lisette was no one’s dream of a parent—and her failures were about to be laid at the duchess’s feet.

  Ward didn’t want his grandmother ravaged by the duke.

  Before he thought the better of it, he stood.

  Villiers stopped in mid-sentence. “I cede my speech to the man of the hour.” He stepped down from the witness box.

  Ward walked over and entered the box.

  “This is most unusual,” the Lord Chancellor said, his peruke of white curls listing precariously as he watched Villiers return to his seat beside the Duke of Beaumont.

  “My solicitors are prepared to call many more witnesses to the bench,” Ward said, “but the Duke of Villiers has an excellent point.”

  “I gather you would like to make a statement,” His Lordship said dryly.

  Ward turned to the assembly. He hadn’t looked at the peeresses’ section. He didn’t look now either, but he knew Eugenia was there. She may hate him, but she loved Lizzie and Otis.

  “
I knew Lord Darcy many years ago and he was an extraordinarily kind and guileless young man,” he said. “Perhaps those traits made him vulnerable to my mother’s courtship, if one might call it that. I have learned from my half-siblings that he grew to be a superlative father.”

  Rustling from the benches.

  “Lord Darcy raised his children to be as gracious and thoughtful as he. For example, though they had little formal schooling, they know Latin and speak French fluently. He was a better father than many of us could hope to be, protecting and caring for his children under extremely disadvantageous situations.”

  The hum in the room turned to dead silence.

  “I am honored by Lord Darcy’s trust in me,” Ward said quietly. “While I could never have imagined that my school friend at Eton would become my stepfather, I am honored to be part of his family, and I wish to carry out his last wishes to the best of my ability. The Dowager Duchess of Gilner has questioned whether an unmarried man should be allowed to raise children, so I will tell you that I have plans to marry.”

  Even the rustling of the peeresses’ finery and the swish of their fans had stopped.

  “I am in love with Mrs. Eugenia Snowe, and I mean to marry her,” he said, his eyes ranging over the benches of men before him. “She may refuse me. I will ask her again. If she refuses me yet again, I will raise Lizzie and Otis by myself, because I shall not marry another woman.”

  His words hung in the air, and finally, finally, Ward allowed himself to look toward the peeresses’ benches—only to see Eugenia’s back as she left the chamber.

  A deep breath seared his lungs. She had rejected him. His muscles clenched and his hands curled into fists. He had to follow her—

  He couldn’t follow her.

  “My half-siblings are mourning their mother and father,” he said instead. “Lizzie, who is nine years old, has chosen to wear a veil, in order to hide her grief from the world.”

  There was a collective murmur of sympathy from the room.

  “I would ask you not to take my siblings from me,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Not only was it Lord Darcy’s wish, but when she contracted a lung ailment and understood she was dying, our mother, Lady Lisette, instructed that her children be brought to my house.”

  His grandmother was staring up at him, her brow knit.

  “I know that many of you despised my mother—our mother—and I fully understand your reasons. Lady Lisette was a deeply troubled soul. With my knowledge of her character, I was confident that my siblings had been woefully neglected. I am happy to reassure you that, although they had an unusual childhood, they were loved by their mother, as well as by their father. I will give you but one example: young Lord Darcy has a pet rat named Jarvis.”

  A gasp went up from the peeresses’ bench.

  “Our mother sewed a tiny velvet cloak fit for the opera for Jarvis, and a satin cloak in case he received an invitation to a ball. Lizzie and Otis were loved by her to the best of her ability. Her wishes should be honored.”

  His grandmother moved sharply.

  He glanced down at her, and back to the chamber at large. “I am blessed in that my father, Lord Gryffyn, and my stepmother, Lady Gryffyn, raised me as one of their own children. If they were not abroad, they would be here at my side. I hope to raise Lizzie and Otis with the same care and respect they gave me.”

  With that, he made his way back to his bench, looking neither at his grandmother nor his solicitors. He just sat, his gut churning. He was absolutely certain that the vote would go in his favor.

  But Eugenia had walked out. She had rejected him. He felt as if a hole had been blown in his chest, but there was nothing to do but sit, bleeding silently.

  How had it gone so wrong? How could he have been so stupid? She had said she loved him . . . if only he had taken her in his arms at that moment.

  If Eugenia truly loved him, wouldn’t she have smiled when he declared himself before the assembled aristocracy?

  The Dowager Duchess of Gilner stood. She didn’t move toward the witness box or look at Ward. Instead, she told the Lord Chancellor in the firm, fluting voice of the aristocracy, “I withdraw my plea for a private act.”

  There was a collective gasp. She stared straight ahead, so Ward saw his grandmother in profile. He recognized that nose: he saw it every day in the mirror.

  “Very well,” his lordship said, and without further ado, he stood up. “This session of the House of Lords is dismissed.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  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.