The Game and the Governess (35 page)

“She’s got twenty minutes, at most,” the greedy maid said. With that, Nanny pulled Phoebe into the tiled bathing room, where she discovered a bath—a fresh bath of steaming water, waiting for her.

“What is this?”

“Your bath, silly!” Nanny cried proudly. “Everyone will assume someone else got to it first. But you had better hurry up while the ladies are still napping.”

Phoebe’s mind was torn between wondering where Nanny had gotten a whole shilling and reveling in the brilliance of a bath of her own, when Nanny shoved a towel into Phoebe’s arms and commanded that she get herself in the water. “Time is ticking, girl—and don’t you go keeping your Mr. Turner waiting like this! Such trickery is for finer ladies.”

Then Nanny squeezed Phoebe’s arm and shuffled out the door.

Phoebe luxuriated in the bath for as long as she could.
The curls of steam and the release of tension from the long, lithe muscles of her back could not completely block out the fear of being caught . . . but still, it was the most marvelous twenty minutes of her life.

She hastily threw her dress back on and toweled her hair, abandoning the delicious bath just in time. Lady Widcoate’s maid had been about to knock and looked relieved to see her dressed. She carried the bundle of her undergarments as she moved to the third-floor staircase at the end of the hall.

By that time, most of the gentlemen had returned; she could hear their low tenors downstairs in this house of women. She was briefly worried that she would run into Mr. Turner in their shared hall again. She did not wish him to see her in her current state of disarray. But he was not there, and she closed the door to her rooms swiftly and latched it, letting her back fall against the door in relief.

Then she caught sight of herself in the reflection from one of the framed pictures on the wall. Goodness, was that really her? She looked so . . . different. So
awake
. Cheeks flushed red with the warmth of the bath and the run up the stairs. Eyes bright with anticipation. Her wet hair hanging down her back, but loose on her head, framing her face, making it seem softer. She reached forward, took the picture off the wall. Strange as it may seem, yes, it was she. Younger looking, lovelier seeming. But it was she.

Putting the picture back, she inspected her body as she had her face. Not having put on her undergarments, the practical gray dress clung to her damp body, transforming it into something sensual, alluring. And though she was still much too thin for fashion, the small
curves she did have were apparent now. She ran her hand over the high gentle curves of her breasts, the kick of her hip.

She looked like a woman.

The heavy gray dress felt different against her skin, she realized as she sat on the bed. Or perhaps it was her skin that felt different, as if a million points on her body were waking up to feeling, to sensation.

It was a sensation she had felt only a few times before. When Mr. Turner kissed her in the lane. When they’d spent a few moments on a sun-streaked afternoon just
being
with each other on the other side of those doors.

And when he’d kissed her hand mere hours ago, in front of all of Hollyhock.

This feeling—this
awake
feeling—crawled across her skin and settled low in her belly. With every occurrence it made her want it more. And then beyond it.

Because something told Phoebe that there was more, much more, beyond it.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps in the hall. Mr. Turner was back, his footfalls as distinctive to her as his lopsided smile. Her heart skipped a beat, her body tingling with memories of before and anticipation of what was to come.

A wicked thought crossed her mind. What if she went out into the hall now? What if she let him see her like this? Disheveled. Wanton. She bit her lip. Her hand fisted in her skirts, drawing the material up, exposing calf . . . then thigh. Oh, she could imagine the look on his face. She could see it changing from shock to appreciation to lust.

Lust. Her mind pulled up on the reins of her imagi
nation. Lust. That’s what this was, this wanting. Or at least, it was certainly part of it.

At the age of twenty-three, Phoebe was not a child. She was not a green girl fresh out of the schoolroom. However, she had not the sophistication that other young ladies her age enjoyed. Mostly, she had put thoughts of men and romance and lust out of her mind, in her quest to meet her goals. But now . . . now those long-dormant thoughts were waking up.

She
wanted
him. The way bodies clamored for each other. For touch. And it should have scared her. It should have brought her up short and made her rethink stepping outside her door ever, let alone going to a ball. But it didn’t. It made her strangely . . . happy.

Happy that little part of herself that thought of men and romance and lust was not gone. That she was fully human, and not someone who could or would have to live without it. And more than anything, it made her happy that this was happening now. With him.

She had to hold her hand over her mouth to keep her laugh from being heard in the hall. She was someone who tried to find the humor in the everyday, who looked for a moment of happiness. And for once, the thing that made her happiest was . . . herself.

The footsteps in the hall paused. Then she heard Mr. Turner’s door open and click shut. Her chance to shock him had passed. Ah, well. But, as she grabbed her old wooden comb, she knew she would have another chance. One that she needed to get ready for. When he saw her in her blue gown, her hair pinned up loose and lovely.

And she would not only shock him—she would stop his heart.

      21

A winning hand is not in the cards. It is in how they are played.

I
t is truly amazing what some bunting and flowers can do,” Ned mused, filling the silence that settled in between him and Phoebe the moment they entered the hall.

“Hmm,” she replied, her eyes wide, her face going slightly pale.

“Who’d have thought that mere hours ago, Sir Nathan had fallen asleep in that corner over there?”

“Hmm?” she asked, tearing her eyes away from the crowd of the hall and turning to him. “Sir Nathan was . . . ?”

“Right over there.” He nodded toward a corner. “Rumor has it that’s where Kevin the groom found him, a chicken leg in one hand and a tankard of ale in the other, taking a nice little snooze, waiting to be ferried home.”

She gave a little laugh, and a smile broke out over her
face. And every muscle in Ned’s body relaxed. It would be all right, he thought. She had come back to him.

The night—up until they had walked into Hollyhock’s assembly hall—had been going perfectly. After Ned got back from town, he took the opportunity of the mad jumble in the house to take a quick jump in the pond. Eels aside, he found it quite bracing. It also had the effect of calming him down, the excitement of the evening already making him want to jump out of his skin.

He had been to other balls. He had seen the inside of Carlton House and Almack’s, and the grandest ballrooms in Grosvenor Square. He had danced with ladies dripping in diamonds and drunk brandy that the king of France would have killed for. But for some reason, this country dance shone brighter in his imagination.

Dinner had been a sparse affair, served early, to accommodate everyone in the house who was free to go to the ball. All of the ladies had trays sent up to their rooms so as not to interrupt their preparations. So, at table it was just Ned and, curiously, Minnie Rye, who held much less interest in the dance than her younger cousin and friend did. She was also not as wary of him as the other girls were, and prattled on happily with tales of the horrid process of choosing flowers, and how peonies had been outright rejected. Dinner, it was needless to say, was over quickly.

Once he was dressed and ready (thank goodness for Danson’s willingness to bend the rules this once and thus see him outfitted correctly), he waited downstairs with the other gentlemen for the ladies to arrive. The countess led a procession of silk-clad ladies, all frippery
and curls and excited energy. The countess, of course, was smooth and sophisticated, and in other circumstances, she would be the woman whose attention he sought. But tonight, he kept his eyes glued to the stairs, waiting for Phoebe.

“Maybe the girl came to her senses,” Lady Widcoate sniffed in a false whisper to her sister.

“Let us hope,” the countess replied, much more quietly, with a look to Turner, as they made their way toward the door.

Turner shot Ned a look, as if he intended to stay back—but his threats to hold fast to Ned’s side were empty. For tonight, at least, he was firmly in the possession of the countess, and when she made to go to the carriage, he had to follow.

And while it made him grind his teeth, Ned knew they were wrong. She would be coming. He just had to wait.

The rest of the party had in fact departed by the time she made her way downstairs, and when she did so, it was in a rush.

“I’m so sorry!” she said as she flew down the stairs. Relief flooded through him. “I fell asleep and I had to borrow hairpins from Nanny, and she told me not to make you wait, and I went and did it anyway and . . . and you are not talking, so now I feel even more foolish.”

He blinked at her in astonishment. “I am not saying anything because I am dumbstruck by how lovely you look.”

And she did. The periwinkle silk of her gown brought out her clear blue eyes. The dress itself was a
few years out of fashion, but she had obviously kept it in pristine condition, a reminder of a previous life. And it fit her beautifully, far more beautifully than that heavy gray wool ever could.

She looked . . . young. Funny, he had never really considered her age before. Given what he had learned about her past, she would be no more than twenty-three now. But this was the first time she looked it—or perhaps, even younger. The tiny puffs of her sleeves would have been childish on less well-formed shoulders, the soft swell of her breasts made him realize just how
female
she truly was.

Her hair was pinned up loosely, allowing some girlish curls to escape at her temples. A plain blue ribbon wound about her crown, and he wondered if it was new; if she had spent some of her precious funds on something as frivolous and yet important as a hair ribbon.

And she was blushing. He took her hand in his and bowed over it, bringing the ungloved skin to his lips.

“And yet there is something missing,” he said, feeling the corners of his mouth pinch with humor.

“There is?” she asked. He watched her mind cycle, running over a mental inventory of everything that could possibly be missing.

“Indeed, but it can be quickly remedied.” He brought from behind his back a (slightly) haphazard nosegay of summer wildflowers.

Her smile broke wide as she took the flowers from him and, like all women everywhere, buried her nose in them.

And promptly sneezed.

“They are . . . very fragrant,” she finally said, once the sneezing subsided. “But lovely. Absolutely lovely.”

“Come,” he said, relaxing a bit. “We have a dance to attend.”

And so, they walked out of the front door, down the steps, and into . . .

“Where do you think you’re going?”

She turned. “The dance?” she said with a raised eyebrow. “We shall have to walk quickly, to make up for my tardiness.”

He pulled her back up a few steps.

“Indeed, you have made us incomparably late,” he remarked drolly, earning him a sideways glance. “But we are not about to walk to Hollyhock. Certainly not in that dress.”

Just then, a carriage rolled around the corner of the house, pulling to a stop in front of Ned and Phoebe.

“This is for us?” she asked, her eyes popping out of her head. “Where did it come from?”

“I rented it in Hollyhock,” Ned said simply. “I have to confess, I saw Mrs. Rye renting one for tonight. Since all those dresses would be smashed if everyone rode in Sir Nathan’s carriage, as evidenced by this morning,” he explained. “And I thought, ‘That is a marvelous idea.’”

“Well,” Phoebe said, “here’s to Mrs. Rye!”

“Are you two coming, or what?” Kevin the groom said from the driver’s perch, the top hat of his formal driver’s uniform sitting high on his head.

“Kevin?” Ned asked, confused. “Aren’t you supposed to be driving the Widcoates?”

“I traded with the driver you hired. Sir Nathan will never notice.” Kevin winked at them. “I figured I’ve
been your chaperone half the time, I’m not going to miss this now.” He looked up at the sky, dipping into purple and black, stars beginning to shine beyond the old oaks. “And we had better get moving, lest you miss the first dance—when the earl chooses the Summer Lady.”

With a smile and a shrug, Ned handed Phoebe up into the hired hack.

As they rolled along, Kevin the groom kept an easy pace and let them enjoy the ride, the night, the company. They talked along the way—Ned asking Phoebe about how she’d enjoyed the festival that day, and she telling him all about how Rose had wanted to play every game and win every prize, and Henry wanted to try every single sweet.