The Game and the Governess (42 page)

“I don’t care,” she said quickly.

“You will, though—”

“No I won’t.” She shook her head. “Edward, I have been one of those cosseted young women like Minnie or Clara or Henrietta, not a care in the world, and looking down at everyone else. And then I tumbled from that
pedestal, and I faced the world’s derision for it. Hell, even my own family—my mother’s side—saw me as something other than myself. You think I would judge you for not being of a certain social level?”

She stepped closer, raising her eyes, the stubborn faith he saw there nearly unmanning him. “When you talked about your home, the forest or the festival you enjoyed growing up, you would hesitate, and were vague, and I could tell that you were not telling the complete truth.”

“You could tell?” Ned rasped.

“I teach children. It trains one to spot the fibs.” She smiled at him. “But Edward, I do not care if there was no festival in your little town in Lincolnshire, or if there is no mill. I don’t care if you are the child of chimney sweeps. I could never hate you.”

“Phoebe, it’s not that sim—”

She cut him off with a kiss, threading her hand through his hair, bringing his head down to hers, and melding her body against his. He let his arms come up behind her, envelop her. He fell back against the wall in the small room, taking her with him.

“I could never hate you,” she breathed, her mouth coming away from his for the barest of moments. “Because I love you too.”

Ned felt something wonderful, truly wonderful, settle into his chest, around his heart. It made him feel like flying. It made him want to hold her tight forever. But more immediately, it made him want to kiss her again.

So he did. Hard and long, with no reservation now, no fears. Because if she loved him . . . surely that was all that mattered.

What did not matter was clothing. In fact, what they wore was little more than an annoying hindrance. He wanted to get closer to her, as close as he could. His fingers roamed over her body, gathering her skirt in his hands, pulling it up and up, until finally he found the skin at the back of her legs underneath all of the fabric. She sighed beneath his touch and it drove him mad. Drove him to lift her, wrap her legs behind his back, and press her against the wall.

“Phoebe.” He forced himself to pull his head back. “Are you sure?”

“Sure?” she asked.

“Sure about me.”

“Sure that I love you,” she replied. “And sure that I want this.”

That was all he needed. He moved quickly, diving into her with abandon, losing himself in everything Phoebe.

She could feel him, Phoebe realized, a thrill running through her. She could feel
everything
. The hardness, the pulse. He did not withhold himself from her this time, and a hasty jumble of fingers at the buttons of his pants had him springing free, and the hot length of him pressed against her, wanting entry, wanting more, wanting permission.

“Tell me,” he growled. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” she moaned. “I want you.”

They had no time. They only had each other. With all his heart and absolutely no finesse, he took what he wanted.

And she gave it. Took him in, her body balanced between the wall of her small room and her Mr. Turner’s strength. He stretched her.

And when the pain lanced through her, she hid it behind a kiss.

Although it didn’t fool Ned. He saw it, felt her tense around him, and he wanted to kill himself for it. But it was too late for that. He was already too far gone to stop himself now, let alone commit suicide. It would have to wait, because right now, he wanted all of it. The fast, intense pleasure that was threatening to overtake him. He grabbed hold of her bare bottom, his fingers digging into the flesh there as he moved, watching in awe as she rose and fell, sliding against the wall with the motion of his thrusts.

This is too much
. Her mind fought against the feelings that threatened to consume her. That rush of sensation that she had felt only last night, now more familiar but just as frightening. It was this moment, having him like this, that she had wanted, yearned for, and despaired of in her mind all at once. She wanted to stay here, stay with him . . . but the more she fought it, the stronger it got, and suddenly she could not hold herself in any longer.

Ned could tell the moment she began to come, nudged over the edge and beautiful to behold. He let go of his own control then, and gave as much of himself as she had given of her.

All that was left in the space was their breathing, slowing gasps of air, each bringing them closer back to earth. Her eyes met his, wide with wonder, dark as midnight with desire fulfilled.

And then . . . she smiled at him. And he could only smile back. Lopsided and happy.

“You should let me down,” she whispered.

“Give it a moment,” he said, not wanting to let her go.

“It cannot be comfortable for you, holding me up,” she protested.

“I’ve never felt better in my life,” he replied honestly. He would have been happy staying like that for a moment, a minute, a lifetime.

However, Phoebe had to be uncomfortable. She had just lost her virginity in a quick thrust up against a wall. That could not have been the gentlest way to go about it. And there was a perfectly good bed mere feet away.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.

“Whatever for?” she asked.

“For not being kinder.” He took his weight from her as gently as he could and let her feet slide to the floor. Her shaky knees gave way a little when she put weight on them, so he took the opportunity to keep his hold on her, gather her up in his arms, and deposit her on that perfectly good bed, mere feet away.

“Are you in pain?” he asked, watching her wince as she sat, straightening her dress into a modicum of decorum.

“Not really,” she replied. “Not anymore.”

He didn’t want to let go of her. He wanted to keep contact between them, so he sat on the bed next to her, let his leg touch hers, wrapped his arm around her, and tucked her against him. She leaned into him with a sigh.

“I have made a decision,” he announced.

“Have you?” she asked, one eyebrow quirking up.

“Yes. You are
not
going to America. You are staying with me,” Ned declared firmly.

A second eyebrow joined the first, accompanied by a wry smile. “Oh, am I?”

“Yes,” he reasoned. “We will get through this mess, you’ll see. And we will get married, of course.”

“Of course,” she agreed.

He looked at her askance. “That’s it? No arguments? No railing against my declaration as overly . . . declarative?”

“I find it rather silly to argue against something I find that I want,” she replied practically. Then her face split into that wide-dimpled smile, and she let her joy show through. “Besides, I think I am ready to retire the name Baker. I should much prefer to be Mrs. Turner.”

Ned’s expression came down, a sour dread lacing through his happiness and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Damn it all, he was the biggest heel of all time. He had taken her against a wall and not told her his name. And he had to. Ideally, before she surrendered the name Baker.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he decided to say, once again a coward. “It’s just . . . Baker.” He rolled her last name over on his tongue. “Why would T— the earl say that? Do you have any idea?”

Phoebe shrugged. “He could have meant anything. Perhaps the baker from Hollyhock?”

“I doubt it.” The baker was one Mrs. Dilby, who had been running the pastry shop when he was a lad. She was ninety if she was a day. Barely able to lift a loaf of bread, let alone a rifle.

Realization dawned and smacked Ned in the face like a cold eel from the pond. “Of course!” he cried,
coming up from the bed so suddenly, Phoebe fell backward.

It was so
simple
. And it made so much sense. Ned grabbed Phoebe by the hand, pulling her up from the bed.

“Edward! What is it?”

“I’ve figured it out,” he said breathlessly, kissing her hard and joyfully. “Come—let’s go prove your innocence.”

      26

No one can win without incurring losses.

S
ir Nathan, there you are! Oh, and Mr. Fennick too, where did you come from? And you, sir, must be the magistrate—very pleased to meet you.”

Phoebe watched, dumbstruck, as her Mr. Turner bounced down the main staircase and into the foyer of Puffington Arms, where Sir Nathan was greeting the newly arrived—and visibly bleary—magistrate.

“Indeed,” Sir Nathan said, a bit nonplussed. “This is Mr. Hale, whose estate is east of Midville.”

“And much where he would prefer to be.” Mr. Hale turned his reddened eyes and veiny nose to peer at her. “Is this the girl?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sir Nathan replied, his voice gruff with the surprise of seeing her there.

“Then we’ll take her to be held at the jail in Midville,” Mr. Hale said, before coughing up a lungful of
morning fluid. Clearly, his night at the Summer Ball had been as raucous as theirs.

“Such a sad, sad state of affairs,” Mr. Fennick was saying in a quiet undertone to Sir Nathan. Then he turned his attention to her. “As you know, I am more versed in the law of contracts and papers, my dear, but if you should need any advice . . .”

“No call for that!” Mr. Turner said cheerfully. Phoebe’s mind reeled at his happiness. How could he be so joyful? She was about to be taken to prison!

“I told you, Mr. Turner,” Sir Nathan was saying. “I’m not having a murderer in my house, and especially not near my children.”

“Well, then, let her return to the schoolroom, because Miss Baker is no murderer.”

Sir Nathan sighed the sigh of the weary. “We all heard what the earl said. He said
Baker
.”

“Correct,” Mr. Turner replied. “Not Miss Baker. Not Phoebe. He was not identifying his shooter.”

“Then what was he identifying?” the curious voice of Henrietta Benson came from the entrance to the breakfast room. There the women stood collectively, except for the countess. Phoebe guessed she was likely attending the earl.

“I am so pleased you asked, Miss Benson,” Mr. Turner replied, putting his hands behind his back and rocking back on his heels, happy as a clam. “He was not identifying his shooter. He was identifying the weapon. A Baker
rifle
.”

Jaws dropped across the foyer. Sir Nathan, in particular, looked a bit like a fish. “A Baker rifle? How—did he see it?”

“No.” Mr. Turner shook his head. “He heard it. Believe me, after time spent on a battlefield surrounded by Baker rifles, you never forget the sound.”

Phoebe’s hand came to her mouth.
Of course
. Baker rifles had been used during the war, more and more replacing Brown Besses, and had since been populating the countryside.

“Do you own a Baker rifle, Sir Nathan?” Mr. Turner asked casually.

“Of course I do,” that man replied. Then, realizing the implications, “But I only use it for hunting! And hundreds of other men in the country have one as well!”

“That . . . that still doesn’t mean Miss Baker was not the villain!” Lady Widcoate tried. “We have evidence of her hatred of Lord Ashby! And my husband was with me this morning. He could not have shot the earl. But Miss Baker could have—she could have stolen the rifle from my husband’s stores.”

“True enough,” Mr. Turner replied. “Perhaps you could go fetch the rifle, Sir Nathan?”

“Why?”

“Because you keep your hunting rifles in good working order, do you not?” Mr. Turner queried.

“That I do.” Sir Nathan’s chest puffed out with pride. “Clean and oil them myself after each use.”

Of course he did, Phoebe thought. There was no gamekeeper or manservant here to do it for him.

“So, if the rifle is dirty, that would be definitive proof that it was the one fired this morning, would it not?”

Sir Nathan rubbed his bushy mustache for a moment and then, with a nod, ran off down the hall.

“Mr. . . . Turner, is it?” Magistrate Hale interrupted.
“I am afraid that I have no idea what is going on. I simply wish to collect the girl and go home.”

“Your patience, Magistrate, is appreciated,” Mr. Turner replied with a grin, then turned back to the assembled women.

“While we are waiting, let us explore the second part of Lady Widcoate’s postulation. You say Miss Baker stole the rifle. But what would make you think she knows how to fire it?”

“What?” Lady Widcoate said, putting her hands on her hips. “Now you are being ridiculous.”

“Do you know how to fire a rifle, my lady?” he asked. Phoebe could only watch in wonder. Her Mr. Turner had command of the room, being jovial, but not yielding his point. He was a leader of men.

And he was hers.

“Of course not,” Lady Widcoate huffed.

“Do you know how to shoot a rifle, Miss Baker?” he asked, causing Phoebe to start. Then she shook her head.

“Of course she would deny it,” she heard Lady Widcoate say under her breath. Always feeling the weight of phantom persecution, that one. If Phoebe had not been currently fearing for her very life, she might have broken character and rolled her eyes.