The Game and the Governess (38 page)

“Ah,” she replied, her voice a bare breath. Her eyes came up to meet his. They seemed gray and mysterious in this light. Not the forthright, clear gaze he had known, but something altogether more enticing. “And have you . . . come to a conclusion?” she whispered.

But he couldn’t speak. His gaze was trapped by her face. Her eyes, the perfect blush on her cheek, dusky in the starlight. Then her mouth—oh, God, her mouth, parted ever so slightly, waiting breathlessly . . .

“Ah . . .” he said, turning away.
Oh, God, why did I stop myself?
He mentally kicked himself in the head. “I think perhaps there are benefits and drawbacks to a roof window.”

He felt her body tense against him—with confusion, with expectation. But he did his best to ignore it, and
salvage the rest of any dignity and the evening there was left.

“Yes. The benefits, of course, being light during the day—and a view.”

“Mr. Turner,” she tried, but he carried on.

“The drawbacks being, well . . . it could rain.”

“John . . .” she whispered low—and the name had the effect of splashing cold water all over him. And breaking through his strange, nervous affliction.

“Don’t . . . don’t call me John,” he begged, trying to keep his body from jumping out of its skin.

“Isn’t that your name?” she asked, hesitantly. “I thought I heard . . .”

“It is my name,” he agreed quickly. Or at least it was Turner’s, he thought. “But nobody calls me by it. Not anyone I like, anyway.” He gave her that half grin, and watched the corners of her mouth pinch in amusement.

“Then what do people you like call you?” she asked.

Thinking on his feet, he came up with . . . “Edward. It’s my, ah, middle name.”

“Well, then, Edward,” she began, the twinkle in her eye mixed with the nervousness in her voice like a heady new drug he didn’t know how to name. “Before we paused briefly to name you properly, were . . . were you about to kiss me again?”

Ned looked at her blankly, caught off guard by the boldness of her question. “Yes,” he stated firmly. “I was.”

“Good,” she replied in a rush of breath. “I have been waiting simply ages.”

“You have?” His voice came out strangled. Of course she had. She had been sending him signals all evening, but he was too dunderheaded to see them.

“Yes!” she cried on a laugh, rolling her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Edward. I
need
you to kiss me.”

Lust zipped through Ned like a wildfire.
Well
, he thought, taking her head gently in his hands,
wait no more
.

Unable and unwilling to stop himself from taking what he wanted, Ned dove, letting his body enjoy what his incomprehensible brain had been jamming up. The kiss started out as something sweet, something to be savored, but it moved and changed for them, as they themselves did. They sank into the kiss, their bodies pulling toward each other like gravity—irresistible and unending. His fingers sought out her skin, and hers mimicked in turn.

Collars, sleeves, coats—these things all got in the way of what was most wanted. Contact. Their lips never breaking apart, they grasped for each other. What was one measly little layer of clothing, after all? Certainly, it only got in the way. Her hands found their way inside his coat, running up his chest and pushing the hateful and much-too-warm fabric off his shoulders. When he was free of that annoyance, he considered Phoebe might feel the same way, and began urging the tiny puff sleeves of her gown off her own gorgeously formed shoulder.

He let his mouth stray from hers as he feasted on her shoulder, the curve of her throat. She gasped—a sound so charged, he fisted his hand in the silk of the back of her dress. She pulled him into her, wanting to get closer . . . closer . . .

For Phoebe, her mind spun with all the sensations—new and long lost—she learned from the simplest of his
touches. She wanted more from him. She wanted
everything
. Her hands precipitating her desires, knowing more than she herself did, she pulled his shirtwaist out of his trousers, craving the touch of his flesh.

“W-wait . . .” he said, his voice a smoky, strained rasp. “Phoebe, we cannot—”

For heaven’s sake, why wasn’t he kissing her anymore? “Why not?” she asked, dazed.

“Because . . . if we go too far, I fear I will not be able to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop.”

The words hung in the air, a promise just out of reach. And she could see in his eyes the doubt . . . and the hope.

“Edward—” she began. Oh, how to explain? “I am someone who, it might seem to the casual observer, has had opportunities in my life . . . limited.”

He nodded slowly, not fully understanding.

“So,” she continued, screwing up her courage, “when a rare opportunity comes along, like this one, I have decided to take it. And live.”

She held her breath and waited. And waited.

“Say something?” she finally asked.

“I just . . . Phoebe . . .” His voice was gruff, so he tried again. “I’m just so damned lucky.”

And that was all she needed. All they needed, as she pulled his head back down to meet hers.

It seemed that her Mr. Turner did not need to be told twice about her decisions. Because he embraced her with all the fervor, all the promise that had been left hanging in midair—letting it course through them both and melding them together.

His hand went to her skirt. Gathering it in his palm, raising the hem inch by slow, torturous inch, the silk sliding across her skin like butter. The cool air that hit her thigh, above her stocking tie, shocked. But the gentle touch of his warm palm shocked more. He let his fingers slide over her skin, then hooked beneath her knee, deliciously tickling the tender flesh there. Then, smiling against her mouth, he whispered, “Hold on.”

“Hold on to wh—eep!” she squeaked, as he deftly pulled, and slid her back, catching her at the same time. Suddenly, she was lying on the floor, with this wonderful, impossible, mischievous man over her, making her body feel so . . .
real
. So womanly. So powerful.

“Wait,” he said suddenly.

“Now what?” she practically purred. Her legs were on either side of him, squeezing . . . God, the pressure was so tantalizing, the feel of him there.

“I don’t want to see such a beautiful thing ruined.”

That made her stop. And her eyebrow go up.

“I’m a thing to be ruined?” she asked, the haze of passion having fled from her voice.

“Not you!” he said hastily. “I meant your dress.”

“Oh.” She sighed.
Oh
. He wanted her to take off her dress. She stamped down the slight current of fear that ran through her belly.

Seeing her reaction, he leaned down and kissed her mouth. “You”—kiss—“are beautiful”—kiss—“and can never be ruined. Only made more brilliant.”

“Marvelous,” she sighed, smiling up at him.

They came apart, scrambling to their knees. The dress made its way to the sofa on the far side of the room, draped carefully over the cloth-covered fur
niture. Mr. Turner’s—Edward’s—coat was placed beneath them, giving them a cushion for their little paradise in the starlight. Shoes followed, then stockings. A corset. Then his shirt.

She gasped when she saw the solid muscle of his chest, the flat, rippled stomach, both covered with a smattering of dusky curls. All that time on horseback had obviously been in his favor. And she wanted to touch every inch of him, with every inch of her.

And that was exactly what she would do, she decided. For once her fingers not shaking, she took the hem of her plain linen chemise in hand and drew it back over her head. Pins from her hair rained down, tumbling her coiffure about her shoulders. She kept her back straight, her eyes on his.

He drew in a sharp breath, his body going hard with want. He could only be thankful that he still had his trousers on, sparing him from spilling himself at the mere sight of the most erotic, astonishing woman in his life.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. Bending himself down to take her mouth again.

He wanted to take everything. He wanted to feel everything. But more than that, some little altruistic part of him wanted
her
to feel everything, more.

He was her first. Even if he hadn’t known about her past, he would know it instinctively. He had to be careful. She deserved someone careful.

So, carefully, he let his hands roam her body, let his weight settle against her on the floor as he explored.

Her pale skin was like moonlight silk beneath him as his mouth kept and held her with him, his hands
brushing against her ribs, her full breasts. Down to her hips, his fingers brushing against soft damp curls.

Her breath hitched. And he knew she was feeling something that she did not know how to reach for. And he tested her wetness and warmth with his fingers, causing her to arch toward him.

What was he doing?
Phoebe thought. And,
Please don’t stop
. Gracious, his fingers were
inside
of her. She was drugged. That was the only explanation. There was too much goodness, too much sweetness to be had, and she was glutting herself on it. On him. Except this time, she did not wake up in agony after eating a blackberry tart. This time she could only beg for more.

A slow stroke, lazy and delicious, had her body keening. Her mind . . . well, her mind had already fled. She only wanted what he had to offer. More pressure, more pleasure, more speed. All of these things she didn’t know how to ask for, he gave her.

“That’s it, my darling,” he whispered against her cheek. “Let yourself go.”

As he said it he matched his breath to his rhythm, making her feel a part of something greater, grander. But she didn’t know what he wanted, what she was supposed to feel. And just when she thought she could not take it anymore, he moved his tawny head down to her breast and took her pert nipple into his mouth.

She nearly screamed with the pleasure of it, the strangeness. The totality. Every nerve in her body tuned to him, and what he was doing, and she throbbed with it, and then . . . she let go. Fell over the edge and flew down to earth. And when she landed, all she wanted was
him
.

She broke apart around him so beautifully, he thought, his own body nearly betraying him when he saw it. Too wonderful, too powerful, and altogether too perfect.

He wanted his turn. And she clung to him in such a hazy, starry-eyed way.

“There’s more?” she asked, her voice husky with passion and curiosity.

He grinned. “Yes. There is so much more.”

Ned reached for the band of his trousers. He couldn’t believe his luck. He couldn’t believe he was here in this night with this beautiful woman. It felt like she had been hidden away, waiting for him to find her. She had made all the boredom and loneliness he had been feeling go away—not just when she was naked underneath him in starlight, but when she stared at him with those clear blue eyes. When she challenged him to remember to be happy. When she trusted him with . . . well, everything.

He couldn’t believe this was real.

That’s because it’s not
.

He froze, his hand stilling on his trouser buttons. It
wasn’t
real. He wasn’t really Mr. Turner. He wasn’t really meant to be here right now. And if she knew that, she would never have trusted him. Never have given of herself so boldly and completely. She would, instead, hate him.

She was going to hate him, when she found out. He could never share this with her and walk away. Never let her go to her cousins in America. And she would never, ever give in to the Earl of Ashby.

Not this Earl of Ashby. Not one who traded places
with his secretary on a wager. And who would win it, if he took what he wanted from her.

And he knew—he couldn’t do it. Not to her.

“Edward?” came the teasing voice beneath him. Then, more worried, “Edward?”

His brain had known this was wrong from the beginning, he realized. That’s why he had stopped himself from kissing her. But his body and his heart formed a blockade against reason.

His heart.

It took all the strength in his body to ease himself off her and away from her, the cool air of the night coming between them like a wall.

“What is it?” Phoebe asked, her worry showing openly now. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes . . . no,” he said, raking his hand through his hair in frustration. “There is more,” he began after a moment. “But not for tonight.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, crossing her arms over her naked body, her voice sad.

“Phoebe, I . . .” But what could he possibly say to this bewitching creature, looking up at him so confused and so heartbroken.
I’m the Earl of Ashby. I’m a liar. I . . . I love you.

“I need to take you home.”

      23

Never fold your hand before the last card is dealt.

W
hen dawn broke the sky, Ned decided he’d had enough. Enough of trying to sleep, enough of waiting. Enough of thinking of the woman who was just down the hall.

He’d done as he said last night; rearranged themselves to look vaguely respectable, then took her back into town and found Kevin the groom. They hadn’t been missed. The assembly hall was still lit with warmth and packed with revelers. Kevin hadn’t even noticed their absence, having become engaged in a game of dice with some of the other carriage drivers.