Schooling the Viscount

by Maggie Robinson

  “Hm.” He picked up the massive Bible that lay on the table next to him. “Not dusty. That’s a good sign, unless we owe that to Mrs. Grace. Do you want to be Lady Challoner?”

  Yes. No.

  “Don’t be silly, Vincent.”

  “Well, then, I’ll try to forget what I saw. It is our duty to see that Lord Challoner is rehabilitated with no further scandal, Rachel. Do not impede the progress. Am I clear?”

  “As glass.”

  “Let me walk you home. I have an umbrella, too.”

  Two men. Two umbrellas. Rachel had never felt so cossetted or confused.

  Chapter 19

  She hovered over him like an earthly angel, too sturdy to take flight, thank goodness, for her body brought warmth and solace. Her skin gleamed in the lamplight, a splash of tea in cream. Her hair fell in waves about her shoulders, dark as onyx. And her eyes, those silver-black eyes, were closed as she angled down for a kiss.

  Her lips were honey and fire. Henry shuddered in bliss, his tongue meeting hers in gratitude. She knew just where to sweep and suckle, and the kiss deepened.

  Such softness. He was falling into the clouds, and she descended with him, her bare body brushing his. Her hands were everywhere, smoothing his scorching skin, making him forget everyone who had come before her.

  He had wasted enough time, and would waste no more. He was a new man, perhaps not in body but in soul. No more following foolish orders from deskbound generals and diplomats. No more trying the pater’s patience. Henry had been a bit of an idiot, frankly. A rebel with insufficient cause. But Rachel was changing all of that for him. She made him want to be…better. Not someone else, precisely, but a new and improved Henry.

  But right now, he remembered how the old unimproved Henry navigated a woman’s hills and valleys and plains. He didn’t need a map to caress her firm breast and bring it to his mouth. Her nipple peaked between his lips, a mini-mountain of desire. She tasted of clean soap, lavender, if he was not mistaken. He would shower her with sprigs of lavender once they were married, bushel baskets of it. Plant the stuff all over the garden, wild purple blooms marching off in rows as they did in France. He suspected she’d like a garden of her own. Her father might help, too—Henry understood she wouldn’t come to him without the old man.

  Best not to think of her father now, not when he ached to take her. His hand moved down the satin of her skin. She was wet for him, so wet, as if she’d danced naked beneath the sodden skies.

  A torrential rain was falling on the slate roof. Each drop sounded like a gunshot, which was a reminder of times best forgotten. No more thinking. His head and cock hurt too much. It was time. Past time. One quick thrust…

  Henry woke on sheets soaked in perspiration. The bed was so wet he may as well have been sleeping outside. Rachel was gone. Had apparently never been there, which was disappointing indeed. He was alone in his bed with a cockstand which needed attention.

  He closed his eyes and continued the fantasy. It wasn’t near as much fun now that he knew the shabby truth. His mind had played a trick on him, tempting him with what he couldn’t have.

  Didn’t deserve.

  But relief was required, and Henry dealt efficiently with the consequences of his erotic dream.

  He’d tossed the nightshirt someone had dressed him in hours ago after disgracing himself once again in front of Rachel. She must think him a weakling—no wonder she was reluctant to marry him.

  No, that wasn’t why. There was the business about his father and him wrecking Puddling’s prosperity.

  And the love stuff. Rachel wanted hearts and flowers. Like the lavender he’d provided in his dream, he thought ruefully. Henry’s father had loved his mother, and where had that gotten him? After all these years, the man had still not recovered from her death. His bitterness had blighted Henry’s young life, and was one of the reasons Henry couldn’t wait to get away.

  Most marriages between those in his class were not love matches, his parents notwithstanding. People married for position, power and money. The women had their domestic sphere and all its petty problems; the men were expected to solve bigger issues in the world. Of course, to Henry’s way of thinking, they were mucking it up rather spectacularly. One day he might take a place in the House of Lords, but right now all he’d want to do was lob a grenade into the chamber. Their decisions relating to South Africa and almost everywhere else were ill-considered to say the least.

  But forget all that. What was he to do about Rachel Everett? He was awake now, though he wished he was still immersed in false bliss.

  He tried to sit up, but swayed back into the pillows. He was so hot, and needed some fresh air. The windows were miles away and shut tight. Henry knew Mrs. Grace was somewhere in the house tonight; she’d been persuaded to stay by that nice old coot Dr. Oakley, though she’d said she couldn’t stay all of Saturday. But Henry couldn’t muster the energy to call for her.

  He would have much preferred Rachel as nurse. Lovely, buxom, all that glossy dark hair bundled-up and businesslike. She would take his temperature and tsk, put a cool palm on his forehead, lean over and brush her lips against his. Kiss him and make it all better.

  He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling bristles. Henry disliked facial hair. His own beard made him itch, and worse, it came in bright red. Better than gray, he supposed. There were days he felt like a graybeard.

  He’d seen too much. Done too much. But at the moment, he didn’t think he could stand long enough to shave.

  He could walk to the window, couldn’t he? The room was not that expansive, a far cry from his room at Kings Harland. All he had to do was put one foot in front of the other. Speed wasn’t required, just determination.

  The floor wobbled beneath him. It would not do to have Mrs. Grace find him sprawled naked on the floor, so Henry inched around the bed, grabbing hold of anything he could find. He was proud he maneuvered around the hated nightshirt without tripping and made it to the dresser. Here he clung to the drawer pulls and took several deep breaths, wondering if he was going to vomit again. His stomach felt alarmingly empty, but he’d often seen his soldiers retch with no results.

  Steady on, Henry. Slide to the right. The window sill was deep and boasted a toile-covered seat, which Henry took advantage of. Now all he had to do was raise the sash and not fall out the window to his death.

  He’d almost welcome death right now. No, that wasn’t accurate. He’d escaped that state often enough to know he had no true interest in dying. But he certainly would like to feel less unwell. He had some serious courting to do. Had to finalize this Service business with his dratted rival Vincent Walker. Henry hoped his proposal for some sort of soldiers’ retreat would meet the criteria for his rehabilitation. He thought it was rather an ingenious idea himself.

  Ah. Fresh air. He gulped a lungful and leaned into the corner. The breeze wafted over his skin, causing him to shiver. He was still so hot and wet; really, this was a ridiculous complication he didn’t need right now. He didn’t have time to be sick.

  He would write to his father at Kings Harland, where the man was probably pruning a bush in the rain waiting to hear how Henry was faring. Explain. Ask for forgiveness. Surely the Marquess of Harland would appreciate Henry settling down with a lovely young woman.

  Henry would turn over all the new leaves he could—a veritable tree of them. A forest. He’d purchase a suitable country property and raise…some sort of livestock. Not pigs. The “pearls on the pig” comment from Rachel had seared into his sore brain. She was perfectly fetching, with or without pearls.

  It was hard to tell what time it was. The sky outside was leaden with rain, the hills beyond black lumps. But it was a new day, whether the dawn cooperated or not. He’d lounged about in his room long enough. Henry needed to talk to Rachel, no matter what Dr. Oakley said.

  Getting washed up and dressed was a tricky thing, but Henry just managed. A necktie was out of the question, however. The
mirror told him he had a piratical air, with his black stitches and red stubble and open shirt collar. All he had to do now was get down the stairs. Walk to New Street.

  It was Saturday, wasn’t it? Rachel would be home, possibly cooking sausages that Henry was too ill to eat. Just thinking about them was nauseating. He’d ask for dry toast instead. Perhaps a cup of tea. He was getting used to tea. It wasn’t so awful, as long as it didn’t come with the pontificating of Vincent Walker.

  But in his hurry, he’d forgotten about that beam. So Mrs. Grace found him on the floor anyway. At least he was dressed.

  Chapter 20

  He was the last person she expected to see knocking at the back door, but perhaps she should have expected his visit. Rachel removed her apron and invited him to sit at the kitchen table. It was the only available spot. Her father was still sleeping in the parlor, and the noisy downpour outside made the garden bench unavailable. She wiped some of her muffin’s wayward crumbs into her lap, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

  “What brings you out on such a wretched day, Sir Bertram?” Rachel asked in a husky voice, the frog clearly unwilling to jump out of her throat.

  “I think you know why I’m here.”

  She clenched her hands on her lap. “I’m afraid not. My contract is not up for renewal until next year. And,” she swallowed, hating herself for groveling, “I have followed the committee’s very useful suggestions to the letter. I think you’ll be pleased with the progress and deportment of the pupils.”

  “I haven’t come about the school.” Sir Bertram Sykes stared at her under bushy black eyebrows. To think that Wallace had had those very same eyebrows, and Rachel had liked him anyway.

  “Oh?” He who speaks first loses. Or something like that. She didn’t know where to attribute the quote, either. Even if she was a teacher, Rachel was aware of the gaps in her own education.

  “Our Guest seems to have taken quite a fancy to you.”

  Rachel looked down at her hands. There were ink stains between her fingers that never came out despite vigorous scrubbing. “I don’t know what you mean, Sir Bertram.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Really? I gave you more credit than that.”

  “Oh.”

  “I see you take my meaning. How on earth did he make your acquaintance in the first place?”

  Who had peached on her? Not her father, surely. Vincent? Kindly Dr. Oakley? Anyone with a pair of eyes who saw them rolling around in the road?

  “We’re not really acquainted,” Rachel fibbed. “I mean, I have met him, but do not know him at all. I have seen him…in passing.”

  In the schoolyard. In the school. In her garden, where he’d seen too much of her. In his cottage. In the graveyard. All in all, there had been quite a lot of passing.

  “That’s not what my sources have told me. Did you not read his treatment plan?” Sir Bertram pounded a fist on the table that made her empty teacup jump. “No women! Absolutely no women! And here you are, sharing umbrellas and practically fornicating on the road like—like a pair of animals!”

  Rachel shook, more crumbs dropping to the floor. She had to keep her rage in check; it would do her no good to scream at the man who was in charge of her economic fate. She took a breath to center herself, knowing she must be as white as a corpse. “I beg your pardon, Sir Bertram. I don’t know who has told you such scurrilous tales, but they are false. My father himself suggested Lord Challoner escort me home in yesterday’s storm. And while performing this—this gallant act, he fell—he’s terribly ill, as you must have heard. I was only attempting to help him up. I can see how our actions m-may have been m-misconstrued, but I assure you nothing untoward occurred.”

  “Hah!”

  “It’s true! My father and Lord Challoner have struck up a sort of friendship. Two old soldiers, you know. If you don’t believe me, you can speak to him when he awakes. If you come back later—”

  “I have plans for the day,” Sir Bertram snapped. “I’m off to visit friends and must make an early start in all this weather. But I will be home tomorrow to deal with this. Your father is responsible for your conduct, and I must say I am disappointed in the man. He has let you run loose far too long. You do not know your place, Rachel Everett, or your station in life. We have rules here in Puddling, rules that have served us for many decades. You put all of us at risk with your conduct.”

  Now he had really gone too far, though he only spoke exactly what Rachel had been thinking all along. Well, except for the loose, place and station part.

  Oh, dear. Rachel always tried to see the best in everyone, but she was having grave difficulty at the moment. And even though she knew she was slitting her own throat, the frog had abandoned her and her next words were clear as crystal.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Sir Bertram. I imagine it was just such thinking that made your grandfather send your mother here in 1807. To wean her of her…what did you say? Looseness? To ensure she knew her place. That she be a proper young lady. Obedient. What a trial it must have been for the Sykes family to shelter her. No wonder your opinion of women is…skewed. I understand your mother was never completely broken to bridle.”

  His own mother had been incarcerated here and married his father, so who was he to speak of correct behavior? Lady Maribel was still a byword in Puddling, though she’d died when Rachel was little more than a baby.

  According to rumor, Lady Maribel’s ducal father had been overjoyed to hear of the scandalous match between his headstrong daughter and Sir Colin Sykes. Someone else became responsible for the wayward chit, although genial Sir Colin never tried to rein his wife in during the course of their long and happy marriage.

  It would have been a hopeless endeavor anyhow.

  “That—that’s entirely different,” Sir Bertram sputtered. “How dare you impugn my family? Some regretted youthful hijinks…why, the Sykes and deWinter families came over with the Conqueror!” And they all were richer than Croesus, though he didn’t say that.

  Rachel was nothing like Lady Maribel, either. She certainly wasn’t as beautiful—at the time of Lady Maribel’s imprisonment here, three duels had already been fought over her—one resulting in a gruesome death—and she was only nineteen years old. Poems had been written to her eyes, her eyelashes and her nose. A lucky young painter had immortalized her in all her charms, and she’d broken two engagements. A portrait of her still hung in the parish hall, but not the nude one, which was reputed to be in the Sykes attic gathering dust. Lady Maribel was renowned for her local charities, if not precisely piety.

  Lady Maribel was legendary for speaking up, whether one wanted to hear her opinion or not. Before Henry Challoner had arrived, Rachel wouldn’t have thought to talk back to Sir Bertram Sykes or any man, no matter how provoked she was. But the legend of Lady Maribel made her bold.

  How disappointed she’d be in her prudish son if she were still alive.

  Sir Bertram was still sputtering. Rachel rose. “I’m sure you are too busy to visit here any longer. I will tell my father you stopped by and have charged him with being lax in my upbringing. No doubt he will try to correct my misbehavior at once. I haven’t been spanked in ever so long—in fact, I cannot recall a time when my parents ever struck me, but I imagine it’s never too late.”

  His fist fell on the table, this time with less force. “You cannot dismiss me!”

  “I’m sorry. Did I misunderstand? You gave me reason to believe you had an important engagement for the day. Certainly if you’d like to wait and castigate me further until my father wakes up, you are more than welcome. May I get you a cup of coffee? Some boiled eggs?” Rachel smiled sweetly.

  He glared. If she had half a brain, she would have been scared, but Henry Challoner had pocketed most of hers. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re trying to do, Rachel Everett. This will not be forgotten.”

  “I do hope not. I’m not sure about you, but I shall remember this morning for the rest of my life
.”

  “You…you baggage! There is an end-of-term school committee meeting this week, and a Foundation meeting. Your ears will be ringing, my girl.”

  Rachel had gone too far and she knew it. Not precisely Maribel-far, but close enough.

  Should she apologize? Sir Bertram probably wouldn’t accept it—he’d suspect she was lying. She’d never felt so tall or so livid—or vivid—in her life, and it was a bit sad to take back those rude words and giant steps.

  But, needs must. Her father depended on her.

  Rachel swallowed. Groveled again, although from her kitchen chair. “Please, Sir Bertram. I love my job, and I am good at it. I promise to do better. Be less…me.”

  “And you’ll leave Lord Challoner alone?”

  “To the very best of my ability. I can’t help it if I see him in church or across the street. But I promise I will not speak to him. Ever.” She crossed her fingers in her apron pocket.

  “Very well. One more misstep, young woman, and there will be consequences.”

  She lowered her eyes and nodded, hoping she looked sorry enough. Sir Bertram grumbled his way out of the kitchen, and then all the starch leached out of Rachel’s spine and she slumped back onto the kitchen chair. She wasn’t Maribel deWinter with a face and fortune behind her. She wasn’t an opinionated and obstreperous duke’s daughter. Most of her life Rachel had tried to be unobtrusive. Obedient.

  And now she’d risked her job and her future. One more misstep…

  She buried her face in her shaking hands. What would happen to them? Two families had been driven out of Puddling for breaking the Rehabilitation Rules. Were the Everetts about to become one of the cautionary tales?

  It was all Henry Challoner’s fault, and he would have to fix it, influenza or no.

  Rachel peeked into the parlor. Her father was flat on his back snoring, unaware that their life could be ruined at Sir Bertam’s whim. He spent so much of his time sleeping now, but she didn’t have the heart to wake him.