18

Breaks are permitted in play, and are often restorative.

Nearly perfect, Rose! Sadly, ‘equine’ does not have a ‘w’ in it.” Phoebe corrected her slate of vocabulary words with a smile. Since Rose was denied riding lessons today, as the entire house party had gone into Hollyhock, disappointment abounded in the schoolroom. As did inattention. To combat this, Phoebe had turned every single subject into a horse-related lesson.

All mathematic problems involved adding and subtracting horses in the field (multiplication of horses, she did not wish to get into). All vocabulary and spelling lessons were with horse-related words. Henry had even drawn a rather impressive—for a six-year-old—picture of Mr. Turner’s mare.

“You do not wish to draw Abandon?” she had asked, a little surprised.

But young, thoughtful Henry had just shrugged. “I like Mr. Turner’s horse.”

Yes, Phoebe thought to herself, she liked Mr. ­Turner’s horse too. And Mr. Turner, for that matter. But before she let herself get too lost on contemplating that subject, she turned from Henry and began to work with Rose on her spelling, and forced herself to be occupied with her occupation.

“You are quite proficient at all the tack-related words,” she mused, looking over Rose’s slate, “but it seems the Latin-rooted ones still elude you.”

But Rose just cocked her head to one side. A look Phoebe had seen Mr. Turner give on more than one ­occasion, and felt her heart skip a beat. Goodness, perhaps they were spending too much time in Mr. Turner’s company. All of them.

As if giving thought feeling and form, Henry then went over to the window and cried out, “Look! They are back!”

The schoolroom overlooked the pond, on the opposite side of the house from the stables—for which, when it came to teaching one horse-mad girl, Phoebe was grateful. Thus it was surprising that Henry could see anything of the comings and goings of Mr. Turner.

She leaned over and spied out the window herself, and there were the Rye girls and Miss Benson beginning a game of croquet on the lawn by the pond.

Phoebe wanted to kick herself. Of course—the entire house party went into town. Not just Mr. Turner. She had known it moments ago and the thought flew out of her head to make more room for a pair of mischievous brown eyes and dusty dark hair.

As she watched the sun play across the still waters of the pond, she realized the shadows were longer than she expected.

“Goodness! Is that the time?” she gasped. “You two are late for tea. Nanny will be waiting.”

Rose and Henry scampered off, not needing to be told twice to go eat scones and jam as opposed to learning how to spell and define swingletree—incidentally, a word Phoebe had to ask Kevin the groom to define for her. A bar used to balance the pull of a harnessed horse. She smiled to herself. One learns something new every day.

Apparently, using horse-related terminology to teach worked better than much else she tried, as the children had, without complaint, gone well past the time they were usually taken for their walk out-of-doors.

She had an hour to herself before Nanny tired of them. Her hand went to her coiled braid—fine hairs were beginning to stick out, and, oh! She should likely change her fichu. Not that she had reason to, mind. But she should not look amiss, under any circumstances. It had absolutely nothing to do with a certain someone who had kissed her for the second time that morning.

And much more successfully.

As she moved from the schoolroom down the hall, headed for the rickety flight of stairs to the third floor, her mind went to the place it had been simply dying to go all day. Back to that morning, to the lane, and to him.

It had been . . . well, in a word, educational. She had been a student herself when she was last allowed the leisure of thinking romantically, so all her experience with the opposite sex came after—and, thanks to her ill-fitting dress and sour expression, it was minimal. But with her Mr. Turner, her guard had been lowering further with each time they spoke. With every touch.

An errant hand to the small of her back. His hand covering hers on a fence post—but their bodies inching so close that she could feel his warmth.

There was something about him that overruled common sense.

She had actually wanted to be kissed. Oh, Lord! She had been thinking about it mere moments before. And then his lips were on hers and everything was different. Her body lit up like the wick of a candle, heat coursing through her from his lips to every outreach of her form. A side of herself heretofore unknown.

Well, it must have been obvious that she had never been kissed quite so . . . thoroughly before. Especially when he told her to close her eyes, she realized with horror. And, oh, the things she said! Talking about her father, and her personal feelings about how she made peace with her situation . . . well, no wonder he ran away. Which is basically what he had done. If she had absolute assurance she would pass no one in the halls, Phoebe would bury her face in her hands and give in to the urge to groan at her own odd state of feeling.

But he had been the one to kiss her, and then he ran away? As if he’d remembered himself and thought that perhaps this was not the best idea, and was mortified by his choice of kissing partner, and suddenly Phoebe found that she had turned into an empty-headed girl who thought in run-on sentences. It did absolutely no good to ponder this subject, and possibly quite a bit of bad. After all, how was she supposed to face him again ­having all these thoughts running through her head?

Just as she resolved to not let herself ponder any kissing that might have occurred nor the man it might have occurred with, she reached the top of the third-floor stairs and . . .

There he was.

Mr. Turner. All her thoughts made manifest, his hand raised to knock on the door to her rooms at the far end of the hall.

“Miss Baker,” he said, his hand pausing mid-knock. He immediately backed away from the door and, after a moment of hesitation, gave a crisp bow.

“I . . . I didn’t realize we were so formal,” she replied, quashing the instinct to put her hand to her hair or fold her arms over her body.

He was disheveled from his ride, his cravat loose and askew, wearing only his waistcoat—and once again, he had that utterly determined yet confused look on his face. As if he knew where he wished to be but didn’t know how to get there.

“Right,” he said, trying to find a place to focus his gaze, other than Phoebe. He finally landed somewhere around her elbow. “I was just knocking on your door to see if you were—”

“I ended up teaching rather later than usual,” she interrupted, taking hesitant steps toward him. “I started using horses in every lesson and it seems to have taken hold . . .”

“Oh. That makes sense.” He nodded, also moving forward.

They stopped some feet apart, and then just . . . stared.

“You look tired,” she said softly, after a moment.

“Yes,” he sighed. “It’s been a trying day.”

“Yes,” she agreed simply.

“For you as well. Of course, I am sorry,” he began. “I . . .”

“You forgot?” but as she said it, she smiled at him, amused.

“No! How could I possibly forget?” he was quick to interject. “I was in fact coming to your door to apologize.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach. “Apologize?” she croaked. All of those errant, terrible thoughts she had pushed away came roaring back—he had lost his mind that morning when he kissed her and immediately regretted it.

“I . . . I left abruptly,” he was saying, and Phoebe snapped back to the conversation, such as it was. “That was terribly rude of me, and I felt I should apologize for it.”

“Oh,” she exhaled, unaccountably relieved. As long as he was not apologizing for the kiss itself, she felt much better.

Although, why? Shouldn’t he be apologizing for the kiss itself? Isn’t that what a gentleman would do? And shouldn’t she want him to?

“Er . . . Miss Baker? Phoebe?” he asked. Oh, drat, her mind had drifted again.

“Yes?” she said quickly. “I mean, yes. You did leave quickly.”

“I . . . expect you were confused by it.”

“Not at all,” she replied. “It’s rather straightforward to me.” When he merely kept staring in reply, she continued, “Following me was unplanned, the kiss was unplanned, therefore when you got to the end of it, you didn’t have a plan. And so you left. I would have likely done the same thing.”

He blinked twice before replying. “Surprisingly, that is rather accurate.”

“Then I accept your apology, even though your actions were easily understood,” she replied crisply, her smile in place.

“Good,” he said, distracted. “Good.”

And again, silence reigned between them. But this time, Phoebe was not so fractious in her own mind that she could not see what was before her.

She looked at him—really looked. Her smile fell. His usual energy, his quickness, had abandoned him. He was worn about the edges, a man beginning to fray.

“You really do look tired.” Her voice was half ­whisper.

“I am,” he sighed, giving up on formality and leaning his shoulder against the wall, heavily.

She took a step forward, closing the gap between them. Placed her hand on his arm.

“Mr. Turner, I—”

And he placed his hand over hers.

“Phoebe . . .” His voice was a gruff comfort. “I have—I have many things I want to say to you, but I am afraid they will all come out awkward.”

“I don’t mind,” she replied, but he shook his head.

“It’s not that. I have said quite a bit already today—things not often said aloud. And I just . . . don’t wish to talk anymore.”

“I see,” Phoebe breathed. “I’ll leave you to rest.” But he held her there, his hand refusing to let go of hers.

“I am going to ask a very strange favor of you and I hope you will oblige me,” he said.

“If it’s in my power to do so,” she replied softly.

“May I . . . would it be all right if we simply stood here, in this hallway, and said nothing?” His eyes were a quiet plea. “After today, I could use a little nothing.”

Phoebe considered it for a moment. Considered him. “As could I.”

And so they did.

They stood silently in the third-floor hallway, forgotten to the rest of the world, and let the day slip off around them. All those thoughts that had invaded her mind all day were gone, lost in the pool of caramel afternoon sun coming in from a small square window near the stairs. Particles of dust floated around them like stars, twinkling surprise in daylight. His hand remained over hers, warm, his thumb idly stroking the soft skin on the back of her hand. And for the life of her, she could not tear her gaze away from his.

But, unlike every other time she had looked into his eyes, or been unable to avoid it, there was not that mischief that seemed to live there. There were only the basic elements of feeling. Happy. Sad. Want. Need.

She could get lost in those dark eyes. Instead, she found peace there. Maybe he found peace in hers too.

Suddenly, she felt . . . better. Not anxious, not fractious. There were no claims on her time or attention. No children to teach. She simply felt she was where she was supposed to be.

“I want to kiss you again.” The words were a whisper. And it was a moment before Phoebe realized she had been the one to say them. Aloud.

The look on his face went from surprise to hope to hunger in a matter of seconds. And then that lopsided, heart-flipping smile spread across his features.

“Anything that’s in my power,” he murmured, lowering his head.

His hands framed her face. His lips met hers.

What started out as easy, warm, and golden as honey, soon because something more. Hands wrapped around waists, exploring higher and lower. And his mouth . . . oh, God, his mouth . . .

Her mind was not as innocent as her body. A lifetime in the country and a profession in education made her aware of certain facts. She knew why her skin flushed with heat. Why she wanted to burrow into him. But she had never felt such things before. Such fire.

Where before, the kiss had lit up her nerves, making them tingle and dance . . . this kiss melted them.

The knowledge that her bedroom and his were mere feet away flashed through her with a forbidden thrill. She was not supposed to think this way. She was a governess. She had hard-and-fast rules. Goals. But at that moment, all she wanted was to keep burning.

Time passed immeasurably, seconds or hours, and Phoebe found herself unable to care.

Only when a cloud passed over the sun, cutting off the shaft of light that had held them still, did they come back to earth and let go of each other.

The moment was broken.

Only the glow of it remained.

“Thank you,” he whispered in her ear.

“It was no hardship,” she replied, letting her dimple show.

He smiled in return, and the seconds ticked by again, the two of them lost to the outside world.

Until, of course, the outside world caught up to them.

Muffled footsteps and voices floated up from the bottom of the stairs—servants moving about the second floor, an unusual amount of activity for this time of the afternoon.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Ah. I have a feeling that there will be something of a celebration over tea today. I actually came upstairs with the intention of changing my shirt,” he replied, looking over her shoulder toward the noises. “Sir Nathan invited half the town back with him. I expect you will be spared a Questioning tonight, with all the people about.”

“Really? Why?”

He hesitated, measured his words.

“Because the earl has decided to sell his mother’s property to the consortium,” he finally said.

Her eyebrow went up. “Well, that is news.” She regarded him carefully. “But I don’t know if you think it is good news.”

“I . . .” He coughed and then started again. “It is a little sad, I think. To sell off the home you grew up in.”

She nodded, silently.

“I suppose,” she ventured tentatively, “you will be eager to get back to London now.”

Mr. Turner seemed to consider that. “Yes. And no. Now that . . . a decision has been made about the cottage, I suppose we can leave anytime. Although I wager it will be after the festival, seeing as the earl has been roped into being the master of ceremonies.” That thought made him smile, in his old mischievous ­manner.

“Will he have to do much?” she asked, cocking her head to one side.

“I doubt it. But one can hope.” And then one winged eyebrow went up. “However, there is a dance. The Summer Ball. One that I think you should let me escort you to.”

Her head came up instantly. Shock coursed through her. And . . . something else too. A spark of excitement, of possibility.

“The Summer Ball?” She found herself shaking her head. “I do not think—that is, I will have Rose and Henry during the festival—”

“And will the children be attending the dance?” he asked, cajolingly.

“Still, I do not think Lady Widcoate would like it if I were to—”

But he silenced her by holding his finger to her lips.

“If I manage to make it so Nanny is looking after the children, and Lady Widcoate has no objection to your attending the dance, and I remove any other obstacle you might happen to think of . . . would you, Miss Phoebe Baker, care to attend the Summer Ball with me?”

Phoebe’s words were caught in her throat. A dance? But she had not danced in years. And then it had been partnered with other girls in her class at Mrs. Beveridge’s. But she had loved it. Loved moving in time to music, loved the delightful possibilities that existed only for young ladies in their first ballroom. All that hope, tied together with ribbon.

And she would be attending the dance with him. With Mr. Turner. This confusing man, who had in a matter of days gone from a boor to repentant to someone she felt herself trusting. And it had been so long since she trusted anyone.

She did still have a few of her gowns from her old life. But would they even fit? She had not tried them on in years, and she had changed so much since then.

But apparently, she had not changed nearly as much as she thought, because she found herself nodding slowly.

And saying, “Yes. I will go to the Summer Ball with you.”

He grinned wide, and brought her hand to his lips. “Brilliant,” he breathed. “Marvelous.”