The Game and the Governess Read Online Free PDF Page B

takes . . .”
    But his bravado masked a strange sensation in his gut. Could it be a . . . a qualm? A hint of guilt?
    “If you feel unequal to the task . . . you could always forfeit,” Turner said, his voice gruff.
    “Before the game’s even begun?” Ned’s head shot up. “No, of course not.”
    So this was Turner’s tactic, was it? Make more and more ridiculous qualifications in the hopes he would call the whole thing off. Well, he didn’t take into account Ned’s luck.
    His eyes fell to the signet ring he wore on his right hand. The Earl of Ashby’s crest. And he could hear his great-uncle’s voice echoing in his head, as if he were still twelve years old: “ You’re lucky to be here, don’t you realize? If you were out there, people would want something from you. And without my protection, you might be foolish enough to give it to them.”
    His eyes narrowed. Yes, Turner, his old friend, wanted something from him. He wanted to be right, and he wanted Ned to be wrong.
    Well, as long as he was the Earl of Ashby, he would not be taken advantage of. He would not be cowed by something as mundane as guilt. He would prove Turner the fool, show him the truth of his good nature, his luck . . .
    And he was right. This was going to be fun.
    “What has you grinning so?” Turner asked suspiciously.
    Ned looked up, surprised to find himself smirking. “Oh, nothing,” he said, unable to quell his newfound righteous conviction. “Here, take this—to finalize the transformation.” He held out his signet ring. Turner took it, shoving it onto his finger, none too gently.
    “Fingers too fat for it?” Ned teased.
    “I would argue that your hands are too slim and feminine,” Turner threw back, a wry smirk breaking over his features.
    It was a small moment of manly jesting, of camaraderie. It had been a long time since he and Turner had thrown easy, happy barbs at each other. Not since . . .
    But then Turner straightened and put his heels into Abandon—lightly, Ned noticed—spurring him into a trot down a side path off the main road.
    “You’re going the wrong way,” Ned said, once he caught up to Turner. “Hollyhock is two miles farther down the road.”
    “We are not staying in Hollyhock. We are staying at Puffington Arms, the home of Sir Nathan and Lady Widcoate.”
    Ned’s eyebrow went up. “Why on earth would we stay there?”
    Turner sighed. “Because when I informed the town of our trip, they would not hear of an earl—especially an earl who hails from Hollyhock—staying at an inn. Since your mother’s old cottage is uninhabitable, the Widcoates were applied to. I am told theirs is the largest house in the area.”
    “Which does not mean it is in any way large.” Ned narrowed his eyes, searching his memory. “I remember the Widcoates. Barely. Sir Nathan had just married when I left, his wife and her younger sister coming to settle in.”
    Lady Widcoate had been a meddling woman. Always pretending solicitude, but really being smug and superior to his mother. And he was about to spend two tiresome weeks with her.
    But still, there was the chance of a silver lining. “Perhaps they have a daughter or two,” Ned mused. “Just of age to be wooed.”
    Turner’s eyes grew hard. “I doubt the Widcoates will do little more than act as introduction to the neighborhood.”
    “Oh, I think I will do very well acting as my own introduction.” Ned smiled, his eyes having fallen on something that sparked his interest.
    The road they had turned onto was lined by a long, low wooden fence, protecting a wide field with the odd cow from their path. And there, along the fence, was a woman—a plain wool scarf wrapped around her practical gray dress. Still, such bulk could not hide her thinness. Her flaxen hair was pulled back tight, and infront of her ran two children, a boy and a girl, using sticks as swords.
    There was no mistaking this kind of woman. She was, by her very air, her very posture,