Schooling the Viscount

by Maggie Robinson

  “I would have come to your assistance, but your dog had other ideas,” Henry said, giving the dog an affectionate scratch behind its ear.

  “Down, Rufus! Bad dog!” Rachel set the tray on an overturned barrel that seemed to serve as a table. “I do apologize for his bad manners, my lord. He seems quite taken with you.”

  “And I with him,” Henry lied. “What sort of a dog is he?”

  Rachel blushed. “We are not sure of his parentage. A neighbor’s bitch had puppies, and he was the only one who hadn’t found a home.”

  “Lucky little fellow.” Henry turned his face as the dog attempted to lick him. Rachel picked Rufus up from his lap and set him back on the ground.

  “It’ll be the dog house for you next,” Everett said, pouring his own cup of tea. Henry wasn’t sure if he meant the dog or him.

  “Dad! I’ll do that. Lord Challoner will think us savages.”

  They probably didn’t use the pretty china on the tray every day. Rachel had fussed, and Henry was absurdly flattered. She passed him a cup of tea and a flower-sprigged plate with a slice of iced gingerbread on it. Henry placed the dishes on top of the bench. It was a far cry from the tea parties of his youth, with linen clothes and lashings of silver—and a disapproving butler hovering nearby—but somehow the fresh air made everything taste better.

  “Rachel’s gingerbread beats this when she makes it,” Everett said. Henry wondered if the man remembered he was supposed to be discouraging Henry’s attentions.

  “It’s very good.” And it was. For a homely brown rectangle, it disappeared quickly.

  “Would you like more, my lord?”

  No. Henry didn’t want to waste time chewing when he longed to get Rachel Everett behind a raspberry bush. But, he behaved himself. Said the right things to both his hosts until Mr. Everett yawned.

  “It’s time I face my housekeeper.” Henry reluctantly got to his feet, slower this time so he wouldn’t disgrace himself. “This was…the nicest time I’ve had in Puddling yet. Thank you both for your hospitality. I hope I see you again.”

  Mr. Everett frowned. But Henry was used to out-maneuvering the enemy and his superiors, and one old man and seven governors were not going to get in his way.

  Chapter 12

  Rachel slipped out the back door of the cottage. Her father was sleeping soundly; had, in fact, napped in the afternoon and had gone to bed early. He hadn’t said much about their visitor or what he’d come for, and Rachel was grateful. She wasn’t sure she could make him believe that she was not the least bit interested in Lord Challoner, that he was just another routine Guest who didn’t make her heart and eyelashes flutter.

  She knew she was being foolish. She wasn’t a silly schoolgirl anymore, but a twenty-three year old woman who should know that handsome is as handsome does. Rachel had seen good-looking men before—well, all right, not so very many—and she’d never been susceptible. Vincent Walker had been right here this afternoon to report on the school day and he was certainly handsome enough, but she didn’t feel a hint of breathlessness. She made total sense when she talked to him. Spoke in complete sentences. Her wits didn’t ramble and she didn’t wonder how he looked without his trousers on. Vincent was a friend of sorts, and destined to stay one.

  Rachel was not going to become Mrs. Walker, no matter how many times interfering Puddlingites threw the two of them together.

  It wasn’t as if Rachel objected to being a clergyman’s wife. She was as charitably inclined as the next person, and took the Commandments seriously. She felt God’s encompassing love every time she stepped out her door and gazed at the green hills beyond the village, or comforted a crying child. There was beauty and innocence all around her, and she worked to combat the ugly and venal when she came across them.

  But to marry without love, even if there was some affection, would not be in her future if she could help it. She would go to her grave a virgin, as wasteful as that seemed.

  Perhaps not. What if…

  She shook her head in the cool night air. She was missing sleep, that was all. Her mind was wandering where it really shouldn’t go, and she needed to circle it back. Where was her inner border collie? Fast asleep under a tree, letting the sheep frolic and trample his paws with no consequences.

  Rachel could see why a woman would like to dally with Captain Lord Henry Challoner. He was beautiful, if that could be said for a man. He had a wicked, mischievous streak, but some vulnerability too. He certainly wouldn’t want anyone to feel sorry for him, but would he turn down some comfort?

  He would. He must, if he was ever to leave this place. His father would be furious if he didn’t, and probably try to ruin Puddling’s reputation. If Guests were not safe from their follies here, why would anyone ever be sent here again? Rachel’s rash desire could ruin seventy-five years of success, not to mention bankrupt the village, if she was discovered in Lord Challoner’s arms.

  Rufus jumped into her lap after she sat down on the bench. Just a few hours ago, Lord Challoner’s elegant bottom was right here, encased in fine tweed cloth, a bolt of which probably equaled her yearly salary. Rachel closed her eyes to the stars overhead and imagined she was sitting on his warm lap. Cozy. He might whisper something she didn’t quite catch into her ear, then pepper her throat with kisses. His hand would cup her aching breast, skim a nipple—

  Oh, really. She was writing her own salacious mental novel and must stop at once. But her traitorous body was tingling and her mind turning to mush, thinking how an experienced man like Henry Challoner could bring her to ecstasy with one finger smoothing over her clavicle.

  Well, that was probably impossible. The clavicle was not a sensual spot, was it? Yet Rachel imagined his manicured finger tracing the bones of her jaw and chest until she begged him to go lower. Much lower.

  She dumped Rufus off her lap and he gave a startled yip. “Go in your doghouse,” Rachel ordered, her voice sounding far from commanding.

  Rufus looked ungainly, but he was a very smart dog. With a snort, he frisked away and she soon heard him attack the bone he’d hidden inside in a private dark corner. The gnawing sound was the only thing audible in the night—there was a palpable hush over Puddling, just as it should be, all good people abed. Scattered stars above winked but couldn’t see, and Rachel shifted and lifted her nightgown.

  She had touched herself a very few times before, but always with a faceless fantasy. Tonight, she had Henry Challoner, who loomed over her, his fair hair begging to be swept back over his noble brow.

  It was noble, too, although a little dinged at the moment. Rachel removed the bandage and healed him with one blink. Her fingers became lost in his soft curls. His lips quirked and came closer.

  They were full but not feminine. Designed to smile and tease. They touched hers with the slightest pressure, and she opened to him.

  Opened everywhere. Her legs parted and he found the sweet secret swelling of flesh. She was wet just from thinking of him, and his smile widened over hers. His stroke was sure, and not gentle. His thumb circled and spun her to the brink in hardly any time at all, his tongue doing the same inside her mouth. Round and round, until every inch of her body felt loose but poised to knot up any second. She leaned back against the bench, gasping, whispering forbidden words, words she shouldn’t even know and would never say aloud to any man. Fever shot through her. The climb began as she arched up, her muscles taut, releasing to liquid heat, flaming and dying, then flickering up again. Higher and higher still. Rachel mustn’t make a sound, but oh how she wanted to, grateful for this moment of pure joy.

  She was wicked, doing such a thing outdoors beneath heaven. But God must see into her heart, take pity on her, know she just needed—

  The gate creaked. Rufus came running from the doghouse growling like a dog three times his size.

  “Down.”

  There was no mistaking the voice, rough though it sounded. Rachel removed her hand and frantically pulled down her
nightgown.

  How long had he been standing there? What had he heard?

  He must have seen.

  She felt hot and cold all over. Nauseous. She wanted to die, although dying seemed too easy an out. The shovel was just right over there by the shed. Perhaps he could help her bury herself alive and end her mortification.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I’m not sure why I came this way and up the alley. Tempting fate, I suppose, and Rufus. I’m glad I did.”

  His voice was pitched low, the words thick. He was truly looming over her now. Rachel licked her lips, opened her mouth and croaked. Rufus was gathered up in the crook of his arm, his belly being rubbed, tongue lolling sideways. Could she be jealous of the dog?

  Yes.

  “That was…beautiful. You were beautiful. I wish there was more than a half-moon.”

  Rachel hadn’t even noticed the moon rising. It sat low and bright, and she felt naked under his hot gaze.

  “I—you should go,” she whispered. She was mortified. Horrified. Embarrassed. There needed to be a stronger word for her current emotions.

  “Not yet. I’m not sure I can walk.” Henry—Lord Challoner—gestured towards his trousers. Even in the dark, Rachel could see the tenting evidence of his arousal.

  “This isn’t right, you sneaking about,” she hissed.

  “I know,” he said simply. He put the dog down and sat on the bench uninvited. “I can smell you. Oh, God.” He drew a hand over his face. “I don’t think I can last.”

  “This is completely improper. Go away!” Rufus scurried off to the doghouse. If only Lord Challoner would do the same.

  “Don’t want to. Rachel Everett, you are ruining me.” He sounded as if he were in pain.

  “That’s exactly right! What if you are discovered here? We’d both be in disgrace. You can’t be cured if you’re engaged in…whatever it’s called.”

  “Voyeurism. I must say nothing I’ve ever seen before tops the last ten minutes. I’ve never been so hard in my life.”

  He’d watched people?

  “Shut up!” The neighbors would wake, and know what she’d set in motion. She’d be punished, and so would the village in the end.

  “You’re the one making all the noise. I had no idea a prim schoolteacher could have such a colorful vocabulary.”

  Rachel was going to expire of shame or apoplexy, whatever came first. “You are a scoundrel! In fact, you are absolutely horrible!”

  “Guilty as charged. But you’re not precisely innocent, are you?”

  Rachel’s face grew hotter. He was right. She’d committed some sort of sin tonight, and a few other nights, too. Her vivid desires had been mostly suppressed until Lord Henry Challoner jumped over the wall and into her head. There he’d been with his cocky smile. That adorable dimple. His rumpled curls and aristocratic nose. Whatever tragedies he’d suffered were absent as imaginary Henry had brought her to completion.

  But her own hand was responsible, and she couldn’t really blame him for being so insidiously attractive.

  “I’ll have you know I am a virgin!”

  Henry clucked. “That’s too bad. I could use some help here.”

  Rachel shut her eyes, willing him away.

  She could feel him lean nearer. “That won’t work, you know. I’m not going to disappear just because you can’t see me.”

  Her eyes flew open, and she pushed him away. “Please, please go. We’re both in dreadful danger. I’ll lose my job, and you’ll be stuck here another month.”

  “That wouldn’t be so bad if I had your company.” Such gallant words, even if he didn’t mean them.

  “But you wouldn’t have my company. They’ll send me away and dose you with saltpeter.”

  Lord Challoner shook his head. “Not if we were married.”

  She had never met such an exasperating man. “Not that again! Are you never serious?”

  “Rachel, I am serious. I heard you call my name when you came. You want me, and I want you. Marriages have begun on shakier footings.”

  “But your father—”

  “To hell with my father!” He was angry now, no trace of that crease in his cheek. “The man doesn’t control my purse strings. I’m of age, and I have some money of my own. I only came because he was so sure Puddling would help my—my condition. I’d gotten quite desperate, you know. Sometimes I felt like I was on a spinning merry-go-round that picked up speed and was impossible to get off. But I see things more clearly now.”

  She opened her mouth, but he set a finger across her lips. “I do, Rachel. After a little more than a week, Puddling has worked its miracle. I even have an idea to help other poor fools like me. You could help. You’re very soothing to be around when you’re not frigging yourself.”

  She was truly speechless now. He was mad.

  “I’d better go. It’s late, and the last thing I want to do is get you in trouble. If I can smuggle a letter out, I’ll see about getting a special license. We can be married in a few days. Walker can do the honors.”

  He would destroy everything that Puddling stood for—his father the marquess would see to that.

  She couldn’t, wouldn’t let that happen.

  Chapter 13

  Henry’s blood sang. He knew it would be all right somehow. In a few days he’d be settled. Have a purpose. His wild ways would be behind him. He’d have a wife who was filled with passion, not some desiccated society girl of his father’s choosing who would lie like a dead thing under him.

  The pater might object to Miss Rachel Elizabeth Everett on the basis of her modest birth and upbringing, but she stood to inherit a small fortune. And she was beyond comely, with her cascading dark hair and unusual eyes. Her plump thighs and even plumper breasts. But his erection would never go away unless he stopped admiring her under the moonlight.

  By God, she’d been magnificent, head thrown back and writhing on the bench, her hand hidden in her curls. Her legs were so long and white, and he had imagined them wrapped around him the longer he stood stunned at the garden gate.

  At first, he had thought he was hallucinating again, this time without the benefit of opiates, but his eyes weren’t deceiving him. In his most scattered thoughts, he’d never expected to see Rachel in the throes of passion, half-naked and crying out his name in her crisis. And all the enticingly filthy things she’d whispered before—and he’d heard every bit of it, even with his faulty hearing. It was a bloody miracle, and he was the luckiest man in the world.

  “No. I will never marry you. Now go home.”

  His castle in the air crumpled. “What?”

  “I knew you were standing there at the gate. I just said what I did to trick you and to amuse myself. To see how far you’d go. You might say it was all a performance to an audience of one. Good to know it worked.”

  She was lying. He knew it, and told her so.

  “God, Henry, you’re so predictable. So needy. There’s a reason you’re here. You aren’t every maiden’s dream. More like their nightmare. Who wants to be saddled for life with a fellow like you? Get yourself under control, would you? You’re far too impulsive—it says so right in your dossier.”

  His impulsiveness had saved his life more times than he could count. Sometimes it was better to act than think.

  But apparently not tonight.

  Her words were designed to hurt, and they would have—if he believed them. She’d gone all stiff and bristly. Gone was the sinuous girl who arched and stretched and trembled. Who had cried out for him in her greatest need. Those were her real words, not these cold things that now fell from her scornful lips.

  “You don’t mean it.”

  “I don’t? You don’t know what I mean, or who I am, Henry. We are strangers, and will stay that way. We have nothing in common. If you weren’t so…disturbed, you’d recognize that. I’m not your port in the storm. You’re just bored, and I’m handy.”

  “That’s not true.” It may have b
een at first, when she’d dazzled him in the schoolyard. But from the little bit of time he’d spent with her since, he’d grown to like her quite a lot. She had wit, kindness and couldn’t be bullied. The pater would have a hard time bringing her to heel.

  “You think if you marry me, it will be the ultimate poke in the eye to your father. Well, I’m not playing that game, let me tell you.”

  “No!” Could she read his mind? Those smoky gray eyes of hers saw everything, even in the darkness.

  “Spare me. You chafe at his rules, and how better to break them than by bringing home an unsuitable woman? I’m not an experiment, Henry. You’ll grow tired of me once the novelty wears off, and then we’ll both be miserable. And besides,” she said, taking a breath, “I am already engaged.”

  Impossible! “You never said so. Your father never mentioned it, either.” Why wasn’t she screaming this other lover’s name when her fingers were so busy?

  Unless there was another Henry. Another “my lord.”

  Henry had been good at maths, and the chances of that were pretty much nil.

  “My father doesn’t know yet. It’s a secret.”

  “Who is it?” Henry demanded. He would give any local yokel a run for his money. He was a bloody viscount, heir to a marquessate! Perhaps a bit…disturbed, as she said, but not entirely deranged. Henry had prospects. Plans. A future.

  “It’s Vincent. Vincent Walker.”

  “The vicar?”

  This was most unwelcome news. Walker was a nice-looking fellow. One might even call him handsome in a bland, parson-like way, even if he had a bit of a receding hairline. He was well-spoken and had been well-educated.