The Game and the Governess (29 page)

“I was?”

“Marvelous. I’ve never seen anyone talk to . . . an earl that way. And he deserved every word heaped upon him.”

Yes, the Earl of Ashby deserved to hear her vitriol—even if she had unknowingly directed it at someone else. Ned would rail at himself later, but right now . . . right now, he found himself caught in the pair of light blue eyes that suddenly met his, and in the pair of hands that he had been holding this whole time.

“Out of everyone I’ve ever met, in my entire life, you have the most cause to have a grievance with the world.” He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand, the skin soft and exposed. He had never seen the governess out without her gloves before. “Why aren’t you angrier?”

“I suppose I can’t help it.” She shrugged and gave a tentative smile, a rogue dimple peeking out from its hiding place. “After my father died, I could have given into anger. I could have made it so I seethed and was bitter and let it eat me up inside. But I had a teacher who told me that I should not let it break me. That I still had a right to happiness. Instead, I decided to work toward something. America. And I decided to be happy.

“Yes, happiness is a decision. And it is an easy one to
make when everything is going your way, but when it’s not? I saved my soul by finding silly things to laugh at every day. Until it became habit. Until all I want to do every day is enjoy it.”

He held her eyes then, those clear blue eyes that spoke of summer skies and bald honesty.

“Even with the sadness I have known or the silliness of the Widcoates, I still find something every day that makes me happy.”

An easy decision to make when everything is going your way. But when it’s not?
Those words sank into Ned and he felt them to his bones.

Had he ever decided to be happy? Or had he just let everyone tell him he should be?

“And what is today’s happiness?” he asked, suddenly wanting a bit of her joy. “Today’s bit from your boundless reserves of jollity.”

Her eyebrow went up. “So far, very little has come forward that impressed me. But the day is still quite young. My students have only just finished their breakfast. I’m sure something will come along.”

“I’m sure it will. For me as well. And when I finally come across that thing that makes me smile today, I will think of you.”

“Why?”

“I suppose I won’t be able to help it,” he said, with a shrug to mirror hers. His mouth quirked up at the corners. And suddenly, her eyes, which had been so steady on his, glanced down to his mouth.

And stayed there.

He had her hands in his, their warmth and strength spreading through him. Her eyes on his mouth inevita
bly led to his eyes flicking to her mouth. It was parted slightly, a light gasp revealing that when she wasn’t pressing her lips into a hard line, they were actually pink, a few shades darker than her pale skin. The lower lip was fuller than the upper, a slight dent in the center giving her a natural pout. And there was a freckle, just underneath the left side . . .

It wasn’t a thought per se which swept down from his brain to all points of his body. It wasn’t that formed. But once the notion was there—the feeling . . . no, the
want
—he could not escape it.

“Until then,” he rasped, his throat suddenly dry, “perhaps I can give you something impressive the rest of the day can try to live up to.”

Her eyes flew up to his. And then . . . one delicate eyebrow lifted.

Giving him permission.

“And what would that be?” she said, before he swooped down to capture her mouth with his.

This was nothing like the last time. There was no surprise, no strangeness, no folly. This was reverence. This was something he wanted. Wanted desperately enough to forget his place, and hers, and just let them be.

This was the first kiss that she’d deserved before.

Gently, he brought his hands up to her face, let his fingers dance across her soft skin. Her hands went to rest lightly at his waist. He took that as the invitation to close the distance between their bodies, taking a half step forward, the edge of her skirts dusting the toes of his boots.

This warmth, this drug, that came from the touch of lips to lips. The scent of skin. The intoxication had
been brewing between them for days now. He wanted everything said and unsaid between them.

He let his eyes flutter open for a moment, just a peek, and then he broke into a smile when he saw Phoebe’s eyes were open too. But instead of a languid glance, she was staring at him.

“Phoebe,” he chuckled, pressing his forehead to hers, “you’re supposed to close your eyes, darling.”

“Oh! Right,” she replied, unable to hide her grin. “I was wondering about that.” He then did something he had been wanting to do for days, but didn’t know it—he let his thumb graze across the dimple in her cheek.

Yes, it was real. Deliciously, wonderfully real.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

“What?” she asked, her voice no more than a breath.

He grinned. “For once, the teacher is the pupil.”

And then, watching her eyes fall shut, he kissed her again. But there was no reverence this time. This time he pulled her to him, chest to chest, wrapping his arms around her body and holding her there. The length of him went hard with need, and he fought back every impulse to crush her to him, bury himself in wool skirts until he could feel her yielding body beneath.

Her hands tightened on the coat at his waist, her kiss became stronger, more certain. He knew what she was feeling, what she was fighting toward, and gently urged her mouth open.

This felt so . . .
right
. More right than anything he’d felt in a long time, Ned thought. She fit against him perfectly, and while she was unschooled, she was an exceptionally fast learner. And he knew, knew to his toes,
that when he broke the kiss, he would mourn the loss of it, and then celebrate it the rest of the day.

Because it was a moment of happiness.

He tried to hold on to the moment for as long as possible, but before he knew it, Phoebe had pulled away, and inches of intolerable space existed between them again.

His eyes opened lazily and found hers. Her face was flushed, her breath short, but her eyes—oh, her eyes were focused. Direct.

“You’re . . . you’re not still trying to win your wager, are you?”

Ned froze. “The wager?” His voice came out harsher than he intended.

“Yes,” she said cautiously. “The one where you have to kiss someone?”

He should have been relieved. He should have remembered the lie he told her to conceal his other lies, and smiled and joked about it. But instead, he abruptly released her. Took two steps back. Straightened his coat and trousers over his uncomfortable anatomy, and . . .

And stared.

She was so lovely. He hadn’t seen it before. Either he had been blind or she had refused to allow him to see it, but her tight bun had been ravaged by his hands. The flush of her cheeks spread down her neck and disappeared at her throat under the high collar of her gown, which heaved in staccato breaths. Her lips were bruised by his kisses, and her mouth parted, wanting more.

And then there were her eyes.

And the question in them.

“Excuse me. I should not have . . . I should go.” He
gave a short bow, turned on his heel, and moved quickly back toward Puffington Arms.

He couldn’t answer that question. Not out loud. Whether she knew it or not, Phoebe Baker had asked something that threw Ned off his game and made him more worried than he could say.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t been thinking about the wager. It hadn’t even crossed his mind.

      17

A badly played hand will always have consequences.

I
knew you were determined to win, Turner,” Ned sneered under his breath. “I did not know you were a liar and a deceitful bastard as well.”

“‘Liar’ and ‘deceitful’ mean the same thing,” Turner drawled in his natural accent as he dismounted from Abandon in front of Ned’s mother’s dilapidated cottage. Now that they had finally lost the rest of the group, they could speak more freely.

After the business of the morning, it had been an easy decision to forgo whatever banal pleasures had been planned for the day of rustication and
finally
get down to the business of business. After all, the entire reason they were in Hollyhock was to decide what to do with the house. And now that it seemed Turner’s attempts to thwart Ned in the courting of the governess had failed, best to get it over with as soon as possible.

But when the rest of the party was told of the earl’s
plans over breakfast, they did not mourn his loss, as expected. No, they instead decided to accompany him.

“Oh, yes!” Lady Widcoate cried. “It will be lovely. Won’t it be lovely, my dear?” She leaned over to her husband, who seemed taken aback not only because the earl and his secretary wanted to go into town, but because his wife was inviting everyone else along too.

“Well, after all, the Hollyhock festival and Summer Ball are mere days away—and as ladies, it is our duty to shop,” the countess purred, raising her cup of tea to her lips.

This sparked no small amount of enthusiasm from the other girls.

“Oh! I can get hair ribbons!” Clara cried, before blushing furiously.

“And I need new gloves—my good pair ripped while playing croquet.” This from Minnie.

“You were playing croquet in your evening gloves?” her aunt asked, aghast.

By the time Sir Nathan had declared, “A good day for an outing! Fennick will be well pleased to see us all coming down the lane,” there was little to be done but go along with the scheme.

Indeed, Mr. Fennick had been well pleased to see the party. Luckily, the outing was unannounced, so the entire town and their banners were happily off doing other tasks, preparing for the festival. Stalls and carts were being readied in front of shops on the main road, bunting was being sewed, games constructed.

Still, Sir Nathan insisted on stopping and informing Mr. Fennick and Mr. McLeavey. But McLeavey was off visiting some poor soul who needed religion, so the
party—consisting of the lone carriage bearing the crush of six women and a supremely uncomfortable Sir Nathan, with Ned and Turner on horseback—pulled to a stop in front of Fennick’s offices on the main road of Hollyhock.

“My lord! Mr. Turner!” Mr. Fennick cried. “Can it be that you’ve made a decision at last?”

“Not quite, Mr. Fennick,” Turner answered, with a quick look to Ned.

“Not that much has changed since you came by the house yesterday.” Sir Nathan guffawed. “And the day before that. And the day before that.”

Mr. Fennick shot daggers at his compatriot in the business venture. Then he turned his overeager smile back to Turner, who was caught off-guard and uneasy yet again by the way he was looked to.

“Er . . . But I intend to tour the property and come to one.”

“Excellent! I shall just grab Mr. McLeavey and Dunlap and escort you!”

“No!” Turner said abruptly. “I mean, that is—”

“Mr. Fennick,” Ned broke in, saving Turner from being rude again, despite his current dislike of his old friend. But he had things to speak to Turner about, and an audience would not do. “I have to congratulate you on your business prospectus. It is very well written and lays out the plans for the town’s conversion into a bathing retreat most admirably.”

Mr. Fennick blinked in surprise, but then nodded. Ned continued, smiling smoothly. “However, the decision of what to do with his mother’s property is an emotional one for the earl, and therefore, we must beg
that we be allowed to contemplate the matter on our own.”

While he looked disappointed, Mr. Fennick nodded in agreement.

“Right, Fennick!” Sir Nathan immediately changed tack. “Don’t want to go bothering the man too much when he’s got a decision to make.” Then he leaned over from his seat in the carriage and whispered to Ned, next to him on Turner’s mare. “Remember, it will be worthwhile for everyone if this deal is made. You included.”

And since they were in the middle of town, surrounded by all the shops that the ladies could possibly wish to frequent, it was as good a place as any for the group to separate: the ladies to their shopping; Sir Nathan stepping out of his gig and into an immediate hushed argument with Mr. Fennick, likely about the pros and cons of changing their overtly enthusiastic approach to courting an earl so far; Ned and Turner to ride toward Ned’s mother’s cottage.

Luckily, any trepidation he felt at seeing the house again was muted by his red-hot rage at Turner.

“I don’t care if ‘liar’ and ‘deceitful’ have the same meaning—they both apply!” Ned said, dismounting. He kept his voice to a harsh whisper—until they were inside the house, there were too many possibilities for being overheard.

Turner just sighed. “I didn’t break any of the rules we laid out. I did not impugn you in any way, or myself. I did not reveal our true identities. My play was fair.”

“And underhanded. Where would you get the money anyway?”

“Your bank extends a small floating fund that I can sign out in your name. To be used to pay off less substantial creditors and the like.” Turner jiggled the door handle of the old house, tried to get it to turn.