The Game and the Governess (36 page)

“I was like that, as a boy,” Ned had said, his memory focusing back to his youth and the festival then. “I would eat tarts and marzipan at the festival until I became comatose.”

“You had a summer festival where you grew up?” she asked.

“Er, yes,” he replied, catching himself. “It was much like Hollyhock’s, actually.”

“Tell me about it.”

And so he did. The entire day—hell, the past ten days—had been like stepping back into memory. He told her what he remembered. Of the smells of fresh baked goods, of him being eight and watching the Punch and Judy show three times in a row. Of being exhilarated by the excitement of the day . . . and then, of his mother, bright-eyed and happy to be among friends and seeing her son enjoy himself.

“It sounds like a rather charmed youth,” she sighed, when he finished. “You were very lucky.”

“Yes,” he agreed, slowly. He had been lucky. Even then. Even before he was “rescued” from poverty by his great-uncle. He had been lucky, because he’d had his mother, and summer, and Hollyhock.

“Of course, that excludes the time I went into town with my entire body painted in mud, proclaiming I was a savage American Indian, and tried to requisition a pony from the smithy.”

She laughed, that high sparkling laugh, and it carried them into the assembly hall.

And that was when the laughter—and conversation—stopped. Her nerves reclaimed her. The idea of being escorted by a man, to an assembly, presented as something other than a governess . . . well, it could not be truly surprising that her bravery fled for a moment.

“Come,” he said, offering her his arm. “We do not want to miss the dancing.”

They moved through the crowd, already raucous—the townsfolk having already gathered, the vicar talking with the butcher and his wife, the ladies of the Bathing Committee situated in a corner, making their opinions known with nods or furtive whispers, as little old ladies are wont to do. Mr. Fennick was chatting with a tenant farmer, wearing his Sunday best. It was all and everyone, and no one seemed to take notice of the earl’s secretary and a governess as they passed by.

They made it to the large hall of the assembly rooms just in time, where a string quartet had been placed and the floor cleared for dancing.

At the top of the hall stood Turner in his earl’s
disguise, his face a perfect frown, only his eyes betraying his fear. Next to him were the Widcoates, the countess, Mrs. Rye, and her charges. As the fanciest people here, they seemed to be holding court, both attracting admirers and keeping everyone at arm’s length.

Ned’s brow came together in a scowl. If he had been up there, he for certain would not be
repelling
people. He would be doing his best to bow and smile to everyone who met his eye.

“What are you thinking?” Phoebe asked. “Your face just became a scrunched-down line.”

His eyebrow winged up. “A scrunched-down line? What on earth does that mean?”

“You know . . .” She demonstrated, bringing her brow down and squinting, making him laugh out loud, and attracting a few eyes to them.

Again, Phoebe froze up.

“You mustn’t worry so,” he whispered to her. “You are at a party, and acting with absolute decorum. There is nothing to make anyone think ill of you.”

“I . . . I know,” she replied, trying to smile again. “I am not used to being . . . seen.”

“Seen? By whom?” he asked, his voice like honey. “Have you not yet realized, Miss Baker, that we are the only two people here?”

And for the barest of moments, time stopped.

Just then, Sir Nathan, at his wife’s urging, came forward to address the crowd.

“My wife informs me that it is time for the celebration to commence!” Sir Nathan boomed, and was rewarded with robust cheers. He held up his hands to quiet the crowd. “Now, usually, Fanny and I lead you
all out onto the floor, but today, we have a very special guest, who will choose his Summer Lady, with no doubt a discerning eye.”

Ned watched as Turner stepped forward and gave a short bow, then began inspecting all the women in the audience.

“Look at them,” Ned whispered to Phoebe. “Positively in knots to see who is going to be picked.”

He nodded to where Minnie, Clara, and Henrietta stood next to Mrs. Rye. Indeed, they did seem to be preening—albeit at the behest of their chaperone. He nodded at Minnie, leaning over to whisper in Phoebe’s ear.

“Oh, yes, he’s going to choose me! I can shoot better than any other girl!” he said, mimicking Minnie’s bravado. Then, of Henrietta, “He’ll choose me. Then I can tell
everyone
.”

“Shh . . .” Phoebe tried, but she could not hide the smile pinching at the corners of her mouth. “They are nice girls—don’t be cruel.” Then, after a moment, “Besides, everyone knows that Lady Widcoate is the one to be chosen. She claims the title as hers every year because, as she says, she is the only woman there who is actually a lady and . . . I doubt Sir Nathan would survive the night if he did not choose her.”

Ned stifled a chuckle. “You’re right. Lady Widcoate is preening harder than anyone.”

Just then, the lady in question fluffed the ostrich feather jutting out of her turban, causing Phoebe and Ned to both smother a laugh. Unfortunately, it was just as Turner happened to be passing by, in his selection process for a Summer Lady. He shot them both a hard
look, obviously disappointed that Ned was here, and that Phoebe had made the decision to join him.

For a brief moment, panic shot through Ned when he thought Turner might very well have the audacity to choose Phoebe to dance with. Possessiveness shot through him as he surreptitiously sought her hand and held it tight in his.

Phoebe was
his
Summer Lady, damn it.

Fortunately, Turner let his cold gaze glide over them, and moved directly to . . .

The countess.

Of course, Ned thought, as Turner led the countess out onto the dance floor, a crown of flowers placed upon her elegant coiffure, much to the mottled embarrassment of Lady Widcoate and the disappointment of Mrs. Rye.

“Oh, dear,” Phoebe murmured as the quartet struck up a waltz. “I wonder how that will go over.” But then she shrugged. “It likely will be smoothed out. He’s an earl. And in her pocket.”

“Yes,” he mused. Deep in her pocket, Ned would say. Turner practically had stars in his eyes.

Poor sod.

When the first turn was made about the room, other couples were invited to join in, led by Sir Nathan and a subdued Lady Widcoate. Ned, Phoebe’s hand already in his, took what he wanted and brought her out onto the floor.

“I am going to claim the first two dances with you,” Ned whispered in his ear. “I would claim all the rest if it were allowed, but the little old ladies in the corner would not like it.”

A blush spread across her cheeks as she put her hand
on his shoulder, and they began to move in time to the music.

“And I would claim you for the rest of the evening,” she replied, humor threading under her words, “if only you were not so frightened of old ladies in corners.”

He grinned. “You know that if I were the earl, you would have a crown of flowers on your head. I’d choose you as my Summer Lady.”

“I’m glad you’re not the earl.” She sighed, her eyes fixed over his shoulder. “And I’m glad I wasn’t chosen. At least to spare my feet the trouble.”

Ned let his eyes follow Turner about the room. The man was glancing in their direction frequently, his mind not on his dancing. And it should have been, because Turner was fairly atrocious. The countess was doing him a great favor covering for him, but there was no mistaking his cloddishness.

“God help Letty,” he murmured to himself as he took Phoebe through an expert turn.

Her eyes lit up like the dawning sun, her face flushing again with pleasure.

“You are a very accomplished dancer.”

“I am a man of many hidden talents, I’ll have you know.”

“And just how many of those hidden talents will be revealed this evening?” she asked, archly.

Something in him sparked to attention. Was his meek little governess playing at being a saucy minx? His body stirred with awareness.

She blushed again, looking down at her feet in a way that no knowledgeable woman would. And Ned felt his body quiet. Of course she wouldn’t make such
an insinuation. She was too good, too innocent for that.

Instead, he took her through another turn and replied, “That depends on what the next dance is.” He pitched his voice to a comic whisper. “I am an utter phenomenon at the quadrille.”

She laughed again, her eyes clear and lovely, lifted to his. And Ned was suddenly overcome with a thought that blocked out all other thoughts in his head, widening like white light and blinding him from anything or anyone else in the room.

No matter what, his life would have led to this moment. If he had stayed in the village and never been made the old earl’s heir, they would have met here. He would have owned his mother’s cottage, had some sort of profession, and he would have known Phoebe Baker as the governess of the Widcoate children. They would have danced here.

Or, if he had still been the earl, but a better one—one who had caught Mr. Sharp and prevented him from ever meeting her father—they would have met in London, during her season. He and the light-haired girl with dimples and laughing eyes would have danced at Almack’s, or in some other elegant ballroom.

Or they could have met this way, and spent this night, dancing in this assembly hall.

Something . . . strange flopped over in his chest. This, he realized, was where he was supposed to be.

But more than that, this was where he
wanted
to be.

THE WHOLE NIGHT
had been absolutely magical. There was no other way to describe it.

And, as a teacher, Phoebe was never short on words.

After that first waltz, and the following quadrille, at which Mr. Turner was as much a phenomenon as promised, they moved to the side of the room, where Ned fetched her a glass of summer punch. Then Mr. McLeavey came forward and asked Phoebe to dance.

She was astonished. She had never even considered that she would be asked to dance at this ball. She had expected to shrink into the background when not with her Mr. Turner.

But she hadn’t. She didn’t.

She was
seen
. And, as odd and uncomfortable as it was at first, there was something marvelous about it. After the vicar, Mr. Dewitt, who ran the milliner’s shop, asked her to dance. Then one of the local tenant farmers. She was in no way the best dancer, nor the most popular young lady there—but she was one of them. She was included.

And it was all thanks to him.

When she was dancing, usually Mr. Turner was too—but he was incredibly circumspect, only taking up respectably married ladies, and once even one of the little old ladies from the corner. The only young, marriageable woman he danced with was herself. And when they were not dancing, they were side by side, talking about the dance, the night, their lives. And laughing.

Lord, did Mr. Turner make her laugh. He broke through the wall of sternness she had built over the years, the one that let her keep her sense of humor to herself. He made it all come out. Wide smiles, happy trills, indelicate snorts. She was happier in his presence than she had been in . . . in her entire life, she realized.

And he made her throw caution to the wind, and try for boldness. Although he seemed unable to recognize it when she did. She tried to remember what it was to play coy, to be seductive. But then again, she had never had the opportunity to be coy or seductive in the first place.

But it was important because . . .

She wanted more.

“Will you ask me to dance again?” she had said, in between sets.

“I have already danced with you thrice,” he admonished. And indeed, he had stolen her away for a reel, pushing the boundaries of what is proper.

“Well, if not here, then . . . somewhere else,” she tried, attempting to be subtle.

“Any time, any place,” he said gallantly, bringing her hand to his lips. But that was all.

Perhaps she had been too subtle.

In fact, she was at that moment trying to decide what her next tack should be, while dancing with a young navy man on leave who was visiting his family. Phoebe was trying to think of just what it would take to get Mr. Turner’s lips away from her hand and toward her mouth, and debating the various dark corners and walks and maybe even the carriage ride home (although she would never be able to face Kevin the groom again) where such a transference could occur, when the music ended and the pleasant young navy man made to escort her to the edge of the floor.

And he would have done so, too, if the Earl of Ashby had not been standing in his way.

“Miss Baker,” he said on a smart bow, as the young
navy man made a judicious exit. “Are you enjoying your evening?”

She was so stunned she could barely squeak. They had not spoken directly since he tried to buy off his guilt in the library days ago. And while she no longer felt hate and anger at the man, she was under no compunction to like him. She would have been perfectly happy never to speak to him again.