The Game and the Governess (20 page)

You could join me
.

Her eyes shot to his. The words were not said, she was
sure of it. But somehow, they snaked their way into her brain. As if his tone and his throaty tenor, the candlelight and the delicious tart had made the suggestion for him.

She closed her shawl more tightly about her. Took another bite of tart. And replied.

“There are eels in that pond.”

He threw his hands up in the air. “Then I’m doomed to a rather smelly existence. I think I will manage, but what about my poor dinner companions? Or dessert companions, as the case may be. No—I shall simply have to brave the eels—for their sake. And yours.”

“We appreciate your sacrifice.” She nodded sagely.

“What about you?” he then asked. “What is your little silliness of yesterday?” Then an idea sparked to him, lighting his eyes with mischief. “Or, better yet—what is your little silliness of tomorrow?”

“Of tomorrow?” she asked, her interest piqued.

“Yes—what little silliness will go into your boundless reserve of jollity tomorrow?” he asked. “Perhaps teaching Henry and Rose to ride?”

She rolled her eyes. “If only Lady Widcoate would allow it.

“I don’t know,” she mused. “Maybe it will be a swordfight over my honor on the lawn between Napoleon Bonaparte and Julius Caesar.” She smirked at his upturned brow. “Rose enjoys swordfighting over my honor. Or over Nanny’s.”

“It could be seeing the children’s faces when they are in the stables.”

“A tart shared with a relative stranger,” she countered.

“A kiss?”

Her head came up.

“A what?”

Before she could protest any further, her head was in his hands, and his lips were upon hers.

It happened so suddenly, Phoebe didn’t know what to do. One second, he had been sitting over there, leaning his arm on her little desk and watching her eat, and then he . . . he got closer. Then he got closer again, as they were talking. And then, he just . . . dove.

Being kissed was alarming in almost any situation, she decided. But this was not just any situation.

His lips were warm, the pressure against hers a startling persuasion. His hands held her by her jaw—more gently than she had supposed—his fingers sinking into her hair. He likely had no idea he was loosening her braid. The sensation that thrilled down her spine before came back with a vengeance.

And he kept his eyes closed.

Did people kiss with their eyes closed?

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. He pulled away from her, just an inch or two, his hands still molded against her face, caressing her neck, her ears.

“Brilliant,” he murmured to himself, the half-cocked smile in place. “Marvelous.”

Then he leaned in, closing the gap between them, and . . .

And it was at about that time, Phoebe decided she’d had enough.

Before his mouth could claim hers again, before she could be kissed more with eyes closed, she remembered that she had limbs of her own that worked, and hauled back and slapped him.

“Ow!” he cried. “You boxed my ear!” His hands came off her face and flew to his own.

“It was the closest thing available,” she replied hotly, rising so quickly to her feet that she almost knocked her chair over.

“What was that for?”

“What was that
for
?” she nearly screeched. Instead, she managed to keep her voice to a harsh, angry whisper. “What do you
think
it was for? You think you can just barge into my room and ply me with tarts and take advantage?”

“I . . . I wasn’t . . .”

“Oh yes you were, and you well know it!” She called upon the righteous indignation of her profession, shaming him with lack of empathy the way one had to with children.

“We were just talking . . .”

“Precisely. We were just talking. As people who are acquaintances might. What gave you such presumption?” She let herself rant in the most scathing tones, and kept her chair between them. “You have no right! No right at all to force yourself upon a female in the employ of this house, Mr. Turner. You should leave. And think about the consequences of such actions.
Now
.”

He stood, pulling himself up to his full (and inimitable) height. Phoebe held her stance, her shoulders hard and tense, ready to spring if she had to, her face a steely resolve. Her knuckles going white around the penknife she kept in her hand.

Her eyes, however, were not quite able to meet his.

Then . . . he gave a short bow.

“I apologize,” he said, gravity sinking in. “I misunderstood.”

She could have let him go then. He turned and walked away. But something inside Phoebe snapped. And she did not want him letting himself off easily.

“No, you did not.”

He turned again to face her.

“You did not misunderstand. You took
advantage
.”

On that, she did meet his eye. And what he saw there was enough to make his shoulders fall imperceptibly.

But he said nothing. Instead, he let himself out and closed the door behind him.

And Phoebe let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

Good God, she was lucky that worked. Her shaking hands came up to her head. She was completely vulnerable up here with him. Her blackberry-covered penknife would have been of no help. He could have attacked her. Who would have come to her rescue? He could have had no gentlemanly instincts, and instead sought to please himself, and punish her for thwarting him.

She’d heard stories, of course. Of “gentlemen” attacking women of reduced circumstances, thinking they could get away with it. Governesses occupied that in-between space, making them invisible to almost everyone, and therefore vulnerable. But Phoebe had been lucky in her employment—the first family, in Portsmouth, had been fatherless, and Sir Nathan had never given her a second glance, let alone cause to fear for her virtue. Still, she should not have been so careless!

She took two steadying breaths and moved swiftly to her door and turned the lock. Then, for good measure, she placed her chair under the handle, securing it in place.

What other option did she have? she thought to herself. If she moved into the nursery for the duration, Nanny would ask questions, and she would be exposed as a trollop.

If she asked that he be moved to a different floor, it would expose her again, and she would take the brunt of it. There was no question.

How dare he! How
dare
he! She had been right to be wary of him, but she had gone against her common sense when her instincts failed her.
He’s not so bad
, they told her.
He’s not his employer
, they told her.
Maybe it would be nice to talk to someone.

The promise of company and a blackberry tart had lured her into a false sense of security.

Well, she would not fall for it again. If he tried anything else, she would move rooms, no matter what anyone had to say about it.

That settled that. Although she doubted very much she would sleep at all tonight.

Her eyes fell on the remainder of the tart on the table.

At least she wouldn’t have to be tortured by an empty stomach too, she thought, as she lifted up the remaining half and bit into it with a fury.

There always was a bright side, no matter how macabre.

      12

Whist is a different game altogether. One has a partner, and must occasionally take up their cards.

N
ed woke up the next morning feeling like a heel, a sensation he was unaccustomed to. Although, in the three days since he’d been at Puffington Arms, it was becoming a bit more the norm.

He had gone back down the long third-floor hallway to his room after leaving Miss Baker’s. No more than a quarter of an hour had passed in the interim. And yet so much—so little?—had occurred.

He was numb, his heart beating wildly. Odd jerks of anger and shame coursed through him. He had been rejected. Summarily, completely rejected. By the
governess
. Who had no pretensions and no hopes for anything better in life, who was destined for America, of all places, and was pale and thin besides—dimples or no dimples!

He would give it up, he decided. Declare Turner the
victor and then leave this wretched place where he had no hope of winning his wager. Walk right out the door and never look back. Let them do what they like with his mother’s house, he was
done
. Utterly, completely, finally, done.

And with that, he went to bed.

Of course, that was when his conscience—terrible, traitorous thing that it was—began to creep in, keeping him from sleep.

He just kept going over and over those last lines she had said to him.

You did not misunderstand. You took advantage.

Had he? He was fairly certain he had misunderstood. Certainly Miss Baker had been sending out signals all evening that she wanted to be kissed. After all, who made noises like that when they ate blackberry tarts?

Someone who hadn’t had a dessert in years
, his conscience reasoned, and he tried to shut it up by suffocating himself with his own pillow.

Yes, well . . . why would any woman let a man into her rooms?

Although, he had sort of let himself in. To better see the paintings on the walls.

But the way she had looked at him . . .

Had been the way anyone looks at anyone in low candlelight. As if they are trying to see better.

Oh, hell.

The truth was . . . he had not misunderstood. He had been so focused on charming her, and admittedly was beginning to enjoy their strange conversation, that he only let himself see what he wanted to see. Things
he was used to seeing. And now, with the benefit of hindsight and a box to the ear, he could see everything much more clearly.

She had been nervous and reserved. Her posture was unbending, closed off, and relaxed only when they began to talk, putting her at greater ease. She had gradually become less standoffish, that was true, but it was only to the degree that one might say a hermit crab was less standoffish than a lobster.

And he
had
taken advantage of the situation.

Then . . . oh, then! She had cut him down with the firmest of rebukes, and made him feel like the heel he was. Made him know to his core that he was no gentleman.

What he had done was something no gentleman ought to do. That no true gentleman would even think of. He had taken advantage of someone in a weaker, more vulnerable position.

And she had bravely, beautifully corrected him.

He should slink back to London. Though not in anger or frustration.

In shame and disgrace.

But before he did, he had to apologize to her—and maybe get back a granule of his self-respect.

Sleep—what he had of it, anyway—was fitful and unpleasant. He kept waking up, his body aware of every movement and creak outside his door, the old boards of the third floor settling with the night and awakening with the sun. Amazingly, sometime in the night, Danson had brought his clothes back from being laundered and had hung them in the small wardrobe.

He wanted to make sure she went downstairs before
him. He suspected she would anyway, since her day began much earlier than his. While he did want to apologize to her—nay, needed to apologize—he thought it best not to do so up here. She would likely feel much more comfortable if there were people nearby. And so would he.

After all, she might hit him again. His ear still rang a bit.

But the sounds outside his door were undistinguishable as footsteps or simply old creaks, so he waited until it seemed impossibly late, then ducked his head out into the hall.

The door at the far end was closed. Whether it was “still” closed or had been closed after she left, there was no way to tell. Either way, Ned had to take the chance. But just in case she
was
there, he silently pivoted out into the hall on his toes, achingly careful as he closed his door behind him, desperate to not make a sound.

He would have to ask Danson for lessons on how to move silently, Ned thought grimly.

When the latch finally took, echoing in the hall, he moved swiftly to the stairs and snuck down them.

He let himself breathe when he hit the second floor. And he let himself slow down to a normal pace when he hit the ground floor.

First things first. He would go to the nursery and schoolroom and see about locating Miss Baker. If she was not in her rooms still (looking at the hour, how could she be?), he would find her there.

A gurgle arose from his stomach.

Then again, perhaps it would be better if he breakfasted first.

After all, he’d missed out on the blackberry tart last night.

He could pop in to the breakfast room, grab some bacon, and
then
search out the schoolroom. Hopefully he would be able to avoid any of his companions from dinner the night before. He was completely unaccustomed to keeping country hours, so he could only assume, since the sun was up, that people were out and about. Yesterday’s breakfast was so murky in his memory, he half assumed he had woken on Turner’s mare on the way to Hollyhock.