25

When play turns foul, a gentleman will be forced to call the cheater out.

You are going to let me see her.”

Ned squared off with the guard at Phoebe’s door, whose stern expression gave away nothing.

It had been two hours since she had been hauled away by Sir Nathan. Two hours since she had been locked away in her own rooms, no other provocation than a ripped-up letter and a whispered word from Turner.

When Sir Nathan closed Phoebe up in her rooms, she was pale but stone-faced, her head held high. She refused to make any admission of feeling, refused to give anything away. So, he put the guard in place and that was that.

Then everyone went back downstairs. Ned didn’t wish to, but he was well aware of the heavy scrutiny that he was getting from the Widcoates, and he needed to check on Turner. He wanted to be there when he woke, and wanted to make sure he had heard him correctly. Or, as he hoped, incorrectly.

Turner was where they had left him, on the sofa in the drawing room, the countess tending to his wound with assistance from a maid. His bleeding had slowed to a crawl, and she had bound some linen around his arm to keep it still lest he aggravate the broken collarbone. He was in and out of consciousness, but never clear enough to be asked questions. Ned had tried anyway, without any luck.

For the umpteenth time since a random rifle shot had rung out from the trees, Ned considered bringing the room and the world to a halt by revealing his true identity. But three things stopped him. First, they had no reason to believe him—after all, he had spent two weeks telling them he was the earl’s secretary. There was no proof, and it could backfire so easily. Second, who knows if it would do any good? He would vouch for Miss Baker’s character as the earl, but he could not give her an alibi. And, not for the first time, he regretted not having provided her with one. Third, and most selfishly—someone had shot Turner . . . likely thinking he was the earl. Meaning someone out there wanted the Earl of Ashby’s blood. He did not want to tell them that they’d missed.

While Ned was trying, to no avail, to get sense out of Turner, Sir Nathan had sent for the county magistrate. However, two things were likely to slow his arrival. First, the magistrate had attended the festival and Summer Ball yesterday, and had stayed until the wee hours. The second was that the only person left in the house who could drive was Cook. She had hitched the old cart herself and taken it out just as soon as breakfast had been served.

There seemed little else to do but eat after that, although the countess refused to leave Turner’s side, and Mrs. Rye had no kind of appetite. The children were brought in, as Lady Widcoate was suddenly struck by a bout of motherly love and refused to let them out of her sight—although she complained of such nervous spasms that it was Clara, Minnie, and Henrietta who ended up playing with them, with Nanny looking on. As it was, only Sir Nathan gobbled up the kidney beans and ham.

When Ned finally decided that everyone had been lulled far enough into complacency, he excused himself from the breakfast room, saying he was going to relieve the countess of her watch. If anyone had a brain in their heads they would have followed him, but Sir Nathan, true to his nature, considered the matter settled, Lady Widcoate was far too engrossed in her own flutterings, Mrs. Rye was happy to turn a blind eye to anything she considered unseemly as long as she could, and the girls were entertaining the children. Out of everyone, it was only nosy young Henrietta whose eyes followed him out of the room, but she stayed where she was, on the breakfast room floor, playing a game of sticks with Henry and Minnie.

Thus, Ned crept swiftly up the stairs to the third floor. If he came across anyone, he would say he was only going to his own room. But no one stopped him.

Until he got to the guard, that is.

The guard who, outside of Kevin the groom, was the only other male servant in the house.

“Is that an order, sir?” Danson replied, his face not giving away a flicker of interest.

“You’re bloody well right it is.”

“Very good, sir,” Danson said crisply, stepping neatly aside and producing a key. He unlocked the door as Ned came forward, his skin suddenly itching to get to her. Before Danson opened it, though, he whispered low in Ned’s ear, “She’s strong. I haven’t heard her crying, sir. But if you change that I will come after you with sewing shears.”

“Sewing shears?” Ned asked.

“A valet’s best friend. Sir. I will be at the end of the hall, should you need me.”

It was at that moment Ned realized he would have to give Danson a hefty raise once they extricated themselves from this mess.

Ned eased the door open and found Phoebe sitting on her bed. Her back ineffably straight, her eyes fixed on the small, framed painting that hung on the wall—looking up at the night sky, through a circle of trees. It was, in fact, the only thing of Phoebe’s that remained in the room. The other pictures, papers on her desk, the few clothes—all of them were packed up in a valise, ­sitting next to her on the bed.

“Going somewhere?” Ned asked quietly.

“Yes,” was her only answer.

“Somewhere nice?” He tried to be light. “Perhaps I’ve been there and can recommend accommodations.”

“Have you been to prison?” she asked, her voice unable to hold on to amusement, instead becoming bleak.

“You will not go to prison,” Ned replied, so savagely that Phoebe couldn’t help looking at him.

“Not if the Widcoates have anything to say about it.”

“Phoebe, the Widcoates won’t have a choice!” Ned came and sat next to her. Unable to stop himself, he grabbed her cold hand in his, held it fast. She did not return his grip, but neither did she remove her hand. “I will protect you. No one as small and mean as the Widcoates will ever be able to touch you again. Besides, the earl will come to, and he will explain to everyone that you had nothing to do with this.”

“Even if that is the case, I’ve been accused of murder by my employers. I doubt I can stay here and be civil any longer.” She shook her head. “I can go to America. To my cousins. I have enough money for the voyage. Not as much as I would like, but . . . enough. I’m told Connecticut is pleasant. I just . . . I . . .” Her face began to crumple, as she was unable to hold up the façade of strength any longer. “I don’t know why I lied.”

Big fat tears threatened to fall onto her cheeks. The sight of them broke something in Ned. Something fierce, primal, and protective. He said nothing but pulled Phoebe to him, crushing her against his chest.

“This morning, I . . . I was so tired, I had barely slept, and then I overslept. I should have just told Sir Nathan that, but I made it seem like I had something to h—”—hic—“hide.”

“Hush, my darling, hush,” Ned soothed, unable to hide a smile. “Don’t cry. If only because Danson will murder me with sewing shears if he hears you.”

That made her shoulders shake with laughter instead of tears. “It was your fault I overslept, you know.”

“And you are the reason I slept not at all.”

She pulled back and looked at him then, her eyes drying quickly after their uncharacteristic display of emotion. Those clear blue eyes asked all the questions left over from last night, and several new ones too.

And suddenly, the weight of things unsaid and secrets too long held bore heavy on Ned’s chest. He knew he needed to tell her everything. Everything he had taken Turner out to the woods to confess that morning. How he felt about her, what he wanted—and the reason he didn’t deserve any of it. His true name. And their foolish, terrible game.

But where to begin? What words would cover the enormity of what he needed to say?

Evidently, he took too long contemplating, because Phoebe let her gaze slip away. Pulling her hand away from his, she composed herself.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now, anyway,” she murmured, smoothing her hand over her hair.

She made to rise, to shake out her skirts. The return to decorum—and space. And Ned knew—in the bottom of his very soul—that he could not let her put her walls back up.

“Phoebe.” Ned stood with her, taking her hand in his. She let hers lie limply. “You’re wrong. It does matter that neither of us got sleep last night.”

“Why?” she asked, her entire body lighting like a wire. She tried to pull away from him, but he pulled her back.

“Because . . . of what happened last night between us.”

“And what did happen, Edward?” she burst out. “I had an entire night to contemplate, and I don’t know.”

“What could you possibly not understand?” Ned said, his voice getting louder.

“Why did you stop?” she wailed finally, breaking free of his hold. “Why did you pull away from me and make me feel like such a fool?”

“I . . . I never intended you to feel like a fool.”

“How could I not?” Her face was a fury of anger and despair, of raw, honest pain. “I bared everything to you, and you walked away. If you didn’t want me, you could have simply said so at the beginning and spared me the embarrassment of being . . . wanton and unwanted.”

“Not want you?” Ned cried, bewildered. “How could I possibly not want you? Phoebe, I’m in love with you!”

Her breath stopped. “You . . . you’re in love with me?”

“Yes,” he exclaimed, nearly laughing in relief. He risked a step forward and took her by the shoulders. “I didn’t stop because I didn’t want you. I stopped because I wanted you so badly. But I didn’t want you to hate me. And you would have hated me, Phoebe. I promise. You still might.”

“Why would I ever hate you?” she asked, bewildered.

He swallowed, the right words elusive, dancing around and taunting him. “I . . . there are things you do not know about me, Phoebe. I have not been entirely honest with you. About my background. My family.”

“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.”