Schooling the Viscount

by Maggie Robinson

  But a damned vicar. She couldn’t throw herself away on a man like that, visiting the poor and the sick and making calf’s foot jelly for the rest of her life. Rolling bandages. Knitting hats for chilly babies. Singing in the choir. Presiding over the cake table at the annual church fete. Filling up the vicarage on Vicarage Lane with pious little Walkers.

  It was unthinkable, although he’d managed to think quite a few sentences.

  “Yes. We have an understanding.” She stood, her nightgown swirling around her shapely ankles. “I am tired, and going to bed. I strongly advise you to do the same.”

  “I’m not sleepy.” That had been the trouble an hour ago, and was definitely the case now. Henry’s brain was in revolt.

  She couldn’t be in love with Walker. She had kissed him—he, Henry—with desire and innocence. Henry would bet his sorry life she’d never even kissed the other man. Or any man.

  She folded her arms over her lovely bosom. “Perhaps you should be getting more fresh air and exercise. Those are part of your daily requirements.”

  “As well as a talk and tea with your fiancé. Do you have any intimate message for him for me to convey tomorrow? He’s never said a word to me about you as he’s talked my ear off about Puddling’s perfections. I long to assist in young love, since it seems I am to have no happiness of my own.”

  She put her arm out and tugged at his sleeve. “No! That is to say, he would be distressed to know I’ve revealed our arrangement. It’s early days yet. Please don’t say anything to him.” Her voice had risen, and there was a touch of hysteria to it.

  “What? I can’t congratulate the old boy? Ask him for pointers on how to woo the second-prettiest girl in the village? Who would that be, anyway?”

  Rachel grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “You mustn’t say a word to him! Promise me!”

  “I can,” said Henry, hoping the circulation would return. “But promises were made to be broken, especially by such an unreliable person as I am. One never knows what I might say or do. I’ll need incentive to keep my mouth shut.”

  “I have nothing I can give you,” Rachel said, releasing his hand, clearly furious. “No true gentleman would ask for bribe money.”

  “Who said anything about money? Perhaps a slice of gingerbread would do. Or a kiss. And you must know by now, I’m no gentleman.” He took a wobbly step forward. His foot was killing him.

  “I will not kiss you! I’m an engaged woman!”

  “Walker will never know. It’s not as if you’re already married. When’s the big day?”

  “We haven’t set a date. He hasn’t spoken to my father yet to ask for my hand.”

  “And what a lovely hand it is.” Henry had captured one as she’d waved both around to repel him. She tried to pull away, but he could hold fast too.

  Slow and steady wins the race, Henry, he reminded himself, as he gazed into her eyes, or what he could see of them in the hushed darkness. He did that circling the palm thing; it was always a sure-fire success. Just the slightest touch from his thumb, and women were putty. It was not to Henry’s benefit to question why tickling and kissing places like palms and back of knees and earlobes made women a little crazy. He raised Rachel’s limp hand and planted a feather-light kiss on each knuckle, then turned it.

  The merest lick at the center, and her knees buckled.

  “Stop,” she whispered.

  No chance of that. Henry nibbled his way up to her wrist, pulling the sleeve of her white nightgown back. Her pulse was rapid. He lowered her to the bench so they both wouldn’t fall. His pulse was rapid as well.

  Did Walker—if he was indeed her fiancé, the virtuous cur—make her feel like this? Wasn’t it a sin for a vicar to kiss a virgin? If not, it should be.

  Cradling her in one arm, he slid his fingers into her hair and angled her so that he could kiss her properly. Or improperly, as the case may be. Her lids drifted down, her lips parted, and Henry came home.

  The kiss was soft. Sweet. There was no urgency—they had all the time in the world. Until dawn at least, which was a thousand hours away. He explored the inside of a plush cheek and could practically taste pink. She sighed and was boneless in his embrace, all edges blurred, all angles subdued. What would he give for a feather bed right now instead of this hard bench? He’d tip her back and kiss her everywhere.

  And she might kiss him everywhere. A shiver ran through him, though the night was mild. To be touched by a woman who truly cared, not one of his actress lovers, who were so professional and precise in their attentions Henry may as well have been a chalked-up haberdasher’s dummy.

  God, she tasted good. Smelled better. She must bathe with lavender soap. Henry had missed such civilized scents in Africa—there, it was all heat and blood and horse. His senses were clouded by Rachel and her surrounding garden. A Garden of Eden, or as close as Henry was ever apt to come to one.

  His innocence was lost long ago, but hers wasn’t. He wouldn’t touch her breasts or the center of her pleasure. Yet. Henry would concentrate on her lips and tongue, the smooth inner cheek, her perfect teeth. She moaned, and he delved deeper.

  Moonlight. Lavender. Girl. Well, woman, he supposed. An inexperienced woman, who was not so shy that she wasn’t kissing him back in a most profound way. Henry felt his skin dance and the hairs on the back of his neck lift.

  And that was his last thought before the shovel came down upon his head.

  Chapter 14

  If Rachel thought she had been horrified before, it was nothing to what she was feeling now as she looked down at Henry’s possibly dead body.

  “Dad, I can explain.”

  “I doubt it. Grab his shoulders.”

  Rachel did as she was told, as her father took the man’s booted feet. Lord Challoner was no lightweight, but he was, praise God, breathing. “What if he comes to and has us arrested?”

  “Who will believe him? He had a bad dream after he tripped and fell. The man can’t seem to stand up straight here in Puddling, poor devil.” Her father shouldered the gate open and they made their way down the little alley between their house and the neighbor’s. The street was illuminated by the moon, but Rachel could have walked the village in pitch blackness.

  Of course, she’d never been carrying an inert man before.

  “He asked me to marry him,” she whispered.

  “A lie if I ever heard one. He just wants to get under your skirts, and from the looks of it he was succeeding.”

  Rachel felt herself blush in the dark. “It was only a kiss.”

  Pete Everett snorted. They continued in silence. Rachel was rather amazed how strong her father still seemed to be.

  “Where will we put him?”

  “The graveyard. Where else? He’ll get the message.”

  Rachel wasn’t about to argue and wake all of Puddling. The churchyard was much closer than Lord Challoner’s house, and she dutifully shuffled down the street.

  In her nightgown. Suppose someone was up and saw them? They’d go to prison for sure.

  No, Puddlingites stuck together. Pete Everett had a reputation. By the time he was done, the villagers would come after Lord Challoner with pitchforks and brands.

  Rachel had had a moment of weakness. A very long lapse. The kiss had been delicious and she’d fallen right into the spirit of things. Of what came before, she resolutely pushed out of her mind.

  What would her father think if he knew the cause of Lord Challoner’s lust? It was too excruciating to think about.

  She had been wicked, and now she was being punished. An accessory, if not to a murder, then to an assault.

  Lord Challoner was not safe around the Everetts.

  The painted white face of the church tower clock glowed above. Not much further. Just inside the wall of triangular yews were the oldest table tombs. It may have been disrespectful to the dead, but the stones were wide enough to arrange an unconscious man.

  Hopefully he wouldn’t rol
l off when he woke up.

  If he woke up. He could be so injured…

  No, mustn’t think the worst. Rachel stepped back from her spurned swain. Even in the dim light, he was so handsome it hurt to look at him.

  Her father nudged her. “We’d best be going.”

  She nodded. This was the end. If he had a brain in his battered head, Captain Lord Henry Challoner would leave her alone for good.

  A tear slipped down her cheek and she mopped it away with the sleeve of her gown. Rachel trudged home behind her father, who really was a figure of fun in his nightcap, nightshirt and stockings. Her own feet were bare, and a pebble or two slowed her walk up the street.

  It was dreadfully late. How would she be able to rise early and teach school as usual? She couldn’t ask Vincent to do it again—he’d had a slightly hunted look about him when he’d come to report yesterday afternoon. He was good with the children, but the days were long and the challenges endless. Though he was a good man—too good for her—not everyone was suited to be cloistered with ten rowdy children all day long.

  Oh, dear. What if Henry broke his promise and spoke to Vincent about their “engagement”? She would have to talk to him as soon as possible.

  Rachel’s father put himself right to bed without any discussion, and Rachel tried to do the same. Her mattress felt as if it were stuffed with the pebbles she’d kicked away walking home. She tossed, turned, worried. What if Henry didn’t recover?

  He hadn’t really been hit that hard, just enough to knock some sense into him, her father said. Was Henry truly unconscious this time, or was he playing possum as he did in the wheelbarrow?

  There was no hope for sleep. She rose and dressed in the dark. This time she slipped on half-boots. Rachel let herself out, keeping Rufus inside.

  Getting to the churchyard this time was much easier. An owl’s hoot startled her and caused her to stumble. Lord, but she was jumpy, almost waiting for an unknown constable—the village didn’t have one—to incarcerate her. The telegraph office was closed, so Henry couldn’t have reported the incident—he didn’t even know there was a telegraph. Any modern communications with the outside world was firmly hidden from the Guests, or who knows what might happen. Music hall girls and gin might arrive by the wagon-load.

  Oh, God. He was still there splayed under the stars and moon. She tiptoed to the tomb and bent over.

  There was no blood. In fact, he looked like a white marble effigy. Trembling she put two fingers at the pulse of his throat.

  “Come back to finish me off?”

  “Eep!” She jumped back, heart hammering. “Are you all right?”

  “Apparently, despite your every effort. I was just counting the stars before you came. It’s quite relaxing lying here in the dark. I never noticed the stars much until Africa; they really are the only good thing about the place, besides the unusual animals. No fog or factory smoke, you know.” Henry sat up and swung his legs off the stone. “I hope the fellow under me has not been discomposed by my arrival.”

  “I—I was w-worried,” Rachel stammered. She should have known better. He seemed perfectly fine, jaunty, even. Until his next words.

  “I’ll bet. It’s a capital crime to kill a peer. Death by hanging, I believe.”

  He wouldn’t report them, would he? Her father was much too old to stand trial. “We didn’t mean to kill you! My father misunderstood.”

  “Oh, I think he understood all too well. We’ll have to marry now, Rachel Everett. We have been caught practically en flagrante delicto. It was only my dubious honor preventing me from pouncing upon you earlier. Does your father know what you get up to under the stars?”

  Hateful man. “I t-told you. I am promised to V-Vincent Walker.”

  Henry snapped his fingers. “I don’t think the good vicar will mind if I make a large donation to St. Jude’s.”

  “You can’t buy me! Vincent l-l-loves me.” Rachel always had difficulty lying. Her words sounded hollow even to her.

  “I’m sure he’ll see reason when he finds out you never said his name when you crested to orgasm.” Henry hopped down. “You’re coming home with me, and we’ll finish what you started.”

  “I will not!” Rachel cried, nearly loud enough to wake the dead.

  “You know you want to,” the viscount said imperturbably. “And as we’re nearly betrothed, why shouldn’t we anticipate our vows? Isn’t that what country folk do?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Rachel replied coldly. “You cannot take me against my will.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Henry said, throwing an arm around her shoulder and almost knocking her down. “I may need some assistance getting back down the hill. I seem to have trouble keeping track of my stick, and I must confess, I do have a bit of a headache. Again.” He looked down at her, a faint smile curling his lips.

  Rachel was guilty. But not that guilty. “I will help you get home, and that’s all.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He certainly would. Rachel was not some London lightskirt who would do his bidding for coin and bed him. Up until his arrival in Puddling, she had been a respectable spinster. A teacher. If she engaged in any sort of improper contact with him, she wouldn’t be entrusted with the village’s children.

  Oh, it was all too late. The impropriety was already a matter of fact, and Rachel felt her eyes well up once more. Not only was she ruining her own life, but Puddling’s financial security as well. The Marquess of Harland would see her as a temptress. An adventuress who took advantage of his boy in his moment—his month—of weakness.

  Henry was not a boy, however, and was quite determined about this marriage business. Rachel hated to admit it, but the man was cracked. His wartime experiences must have led to brain fever and he’d lost all judgment. She was not qualified to be a viscountess, as he must surely know. He wanted to teach his father a lesson, and a lowborn schoolteacher was going to be his weapon.

  Rachel wanted to be married for love, not revenge. Henry didn’t love her; he barely knew her. He was lonely and at loose ends, suffering withdrawal from all his bad habits. And she, idiot that she was, had romanticized and fantasized about him.

  Rachel was just as cracked as he was.

  Henry touched the stone retaining wall with his free hand as they descended Honeywell Lane. She had a vision of them falling and rolling down to the bottom at Puddling Stream, tumbling arse over teakettle. Maybe she should try to trip him and get away, but he clung to her tighter as if he divined her intention.

  The gate to his cottage squeaked as Henry opened it. “Just a few steps more.” Rachel wondered whether he was encouraging her or himself. Stone stairs had been built into the incline, and then a narrow high-hedged pathway led up to his front door. Rachel smelled the early roses as she walked under their trellis.

  Henry patted his pocket. “No key.”

  Rachel was almost overwhelmed with relief. “It must have fallen out of your pocket when we…um...”

  “No worries. There’s another under the flower pot at the door. I bet you know that—you Puddlingites know everything. A Guest can be inspected at any time, correct? Just to make sure we’re not dallying with the housekeeper or drinking the drain fluid.” He bent over an urn of geraniums. “Ah! Here it is. What luck.”

  It was not lucky for Rachel. Did she dare bean him on the head again to get away?

  No, she would talk her way out of Stonecrop and into her own bed. She just needed to be patient. Cunning. Resourceful.

  The trouble was, she felt like none of those things. Her brain was filled with sheep’s wool.

  Henry lit the lamp in the hallway. It was so bright, she blinked. What a mess she must be after throwing her clothes on in such a panic. She was so sure Henry had been in danger, lying exposed in the night air.

  She was the one in danger. And how was she going to get herself out of it?

  Chapter 15

  Henry should have his head examine
d.

  What was left of it.

  An hour or so ago, he was feeling amorous. At the moment, he was anything but, despite his words to the contrary. His ears were ringing, very much like when the damn cannon went off too close to him. He was bone-weary, and if Rachel hadn’t come along, he might have spent the night sleeping on top of a grave.

  It had been peaceful in the churchyard, with the hoot of a wakeful owl and the occasional chirp of a cricket. As he lay still on the cool stone slab, he swore he could hear the far-off stream rushing. Cloth mills had once been powered by its force, but according to his rival, good old Vincent Walker, there was no industry left hereabouts. They were now in the rehabilitation business, and after tonight, Henry was sure he was not destined to be one of Puddling’s successes.

  He was not going to ignore his manly urges, and it wouldn’t harm him to have a glass of champagne to celebrate that fact, either. He was no true drunkard. Perhaps his father was right—Henry had overindulged when he got back home, but he was steadier now. He’d been foolish. Reckless. Life had seemed random and pointless, and he’d acted accordingly.

  Henry knew he was too old for such rebellion. Lucky, too. Instead of dwelling on his infirmities and the death he’d escaped all around him, it was time for him to live. What better way to go forward than with a sensible young woman with sterling values?

  Rachel was warm and intelligent. Good with children. Pretty, too. Very pretty. The pater would have to respect his selection, wouldn’t he? Henry might be jumping his fences a bit, but life, as he knew, was short.

  “You’re home safe now. I’ll leave you.”

  Henry reached for her. “Please don’t.”

  “I can’t—I won’t. Don’t you understand anything?”

  Henry shook his head. “Enlighten me.”

  “I’ve already told you. I—I’m engaged.”

  He pushed a strand of loose dark hair behind her ear. “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “I don’t know! Because you’re insane?”

  “Not any more. All those hits to my head have cleared everything up.”