Schooling the Viscount

by Maggie Robinson

  It was easy. Henry had been doing it all his life.

  Chapter 23

  “This will work to our advantage.”

  Henry was sitting up, still pale as death. But there was a sparkle to his blue eyes that Rachel couldn’t like. He reminded her of all the little boys she’d ever taught rolled into one.

  “You are not in your right mind. As usual.” She poured them both a cup of tea and took a sip, burning her tongue.

  “Come now. No disparagement or I may have a relapse. This couldn’t be simpler. Don’t you see?”

  Rachel only saw an uncertain future. No job. No cottage. Her elderly father uprooted from his family home.

  “I am not hallucinating, my lord.”

  “None of this my lording business. How can the pater object that I met you when he himself shoved you into my bedroom?”

  Rachel had felt shoved; that was true enough. “He asked me to nurse you, not marry you.”

  Henry waved a hand. “I couldn’t help but ask the minute I laid eyes on you. It was a coup de foudre. That means struck by lightning, you know.”

  “I know what it means,” Rachel said testily. “I’ve studied French.”

  “Better and better. An accomplished wife.” Henry grinned and she wanted to slap the smile off his face.

  “Your father will only think I’ve taken advantage of you in your affliction. You pretended to be unconscious, Henry.”

  “I was merely sleeping. I’ve always been a heavy sleeper. Until lately.” He wasn’t smiling anymore.

  He was not going to make Rachel feel sorry for him—that would be too easy. “I’m sure if your father had known what was being said about us, he wouldn’t have let me anywhere near you.”

  “He won’t find out now, will he? This is just like a deus ex machina. That means—”

  “I know what that means too! I may just be a ‘simple country woman’ covered in mud that that man’s carriage splashed on me, but I am widely read.” Rachel didn’t know why so was so angry. The House of Harland was very provoking, pere et fils.

  “Then our marriage is pretty much a fait accompli.’

  “For heaven’s sake, Henry! Why do you want to marry me? We don’t love each other!” What she felt for Henry was lust. Desire. Not enough to build any sort of partnership on. He was the heir to a marquess, and her parents had been weavers. Peers might play with unsuitable women, but they didn’t marry them.

  And he wouldn’t be faithful, if his past was anything to go by.

  Rachel believed in redemption, she really did. She knew people could change, had seen it for herself. But Henry Challoner would lead any woman he married on a merry dance. He was so…he was so…despite being widely read, her vocabulary failed her.

  “We’ve discussed this already. It’s true I don’t believe in all the romantic folderol. But we like each other, and I have to marry someone someday.”

  Rachel wished for her father’s shovel. She had never been so unimpressed with a proposal, not that she had many others to compare it to. Only Henry’s, and they had all been awful.

  “Let’s not talk about this anymore. Not today.”

  Henry nodded. She had thought he might argue, but maybe he was too ill.

  “What do you propose we talk about then?”

  “How are you feeling?”

  He sat back on his pillows. “Tolerable. I have a headache that comes and goes. My stitches itch. My stomach is not quite sound at the moment. I don’t think you’ll have to fix me a seven-course meal this afternoon.”

  She put a hand on his forehead. He was warm, but not alarmingly so. “Mrs. Grace said I’m to give you this medicine every four hours. I think it’s time.”

  “Will it make me sleep? I don’t want to miss a minute with you.”

  “I don’t know what it will do,” Rachel said crossly. There was no label on the bottle, and it didn’t smell familiar when she took a sniff.

  She hadn’t lied to the Marquess of Harland—she’d had nursing experience. She’d taken care of her mother for a year before she died, and now was watching over her elderly father. If she had a nickel for every cut and bruise she’d tended at the school, she’d be a rich woman. But dealing with Henry was not the same at all.

  She wished he was unconscious. When he looked at her with his falsely innocent blue eyes she wanted to—

  Kiss him.

  “No!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind.” Rachel needed to strangle that annoying little voice in her head that apparently had the nerve to speak out loud too. She filled a glass with water from the bathroom and poured a teaspoon of the medicine into it, stirring with more force than was absolutely necessary.

  “Drink this.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Henry dutifully sipped and made a face. “Vile. Why cannot anyone make medicine that tastes good? Something with cherry syrup, for example.”

  “Speak to an apothecary.” She wondered what her father was doing right now. He was self-sufficient, and there was plenty of food in the icebox and cupboard. He was too smart to go out into the garden in this weather.

  The rain continued to pelt down, falling on the roof like gunfire. Rachel looked at her wristwatch, counting the hours until she could go back out in it and drown.

  Her being here was such a bad idea. She should have spoken up when Henry’s father swooped upon her like a long-lost friend in the downstairs hallway. But he was a very forceful man, and despite Mrs. Grace shaking her head and making cut-your-throat motions behind him, Rachel had lost the use of her tongue and her mind.

  Henry was looking at her. Just looking. She felt a blush rise. No one had ever looked at her like Henry did, not even Wallace Sykes in the throes of calf love.

  Bah. Imagine having Sir Bertram Sykes as a father-in-law.

  But the Marquess of Harland would be worse.

  “So, swallowed a lemon? What are you thinking?” Henry asked.

  “How women are always ordered about by men, who think they know what’s best for us.”

  “Oh, dear. Was it something I said?”

  “It’s not just you, Henry. Sir Bertram, that pompous prig, annoyed me very much this morning telling me how I should behave. And your father just assuming because I knocked on the cottage door that I’d want to stay all day. Even my father doesn’t think I can manage my life without hitting someone with a shovel. It’s—it’s depressing.”

  Henry was silent, and then his mouth turned up. “Then we have something in common, although I cannot claim to be a woman. You’ve met my father. He’s overbearing. Knows all, and what he doesn’t know he thinks he does anyway. I’ve lived with that for twenty-five years. Even when I was in the army he managed to pull my strings. My judgment was always in question, from the color of my waistcoat to my politics to the girls I chose to nodge. And yes, that word means just what you think it does.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Oh, I know it’s not. There are many more opportunities for a man than a woman. But remember, society expects more from us too. To fight and win. To earn. To be right in every conceivable circumstance. It’s rather tiring to be in charge all the time.”

  How did he manage it? Rachel wanted to stay irritated and shake a mental fist at all men, but Henry had diverted her.

  “Shouldn’t you be napping?”

  “You act as a tonic, Rachel. Every inch of me is alert.”

  Her eyes slid to the blankets below his waist. He had corrupted her entirely.

  Chapter 24

  Henry had always enjoyed rainy days. There were too damned few of them in Africa. Each footstep there threw up a clot of dust big enough to choke a man. He had yearned then for the green and gray of England, the rolling hills, clouds dappling them with shadows. Fields of daffodils. The scent of lilacs. Church spires and hedgerows.

  Just like Puddling.

  And pale English ladies, who couldn’t imagine a
ny of the horror of war.

  The lice. The inedible food. The blood—so much of it. More than half his troops had been physically unfit before they ever stepped on the continent, and their conditions had no chance to improve.

  Why was he thinking of such things as the English rain pattered down and a beautiful woman was by his side? He really must be ill.

  “So, what shall we do?”

  “Do?”

  She seemed so nervous. Surely she didn’t think he was going to leap out of bed and ravish her. As delightful as that sounded, he was not in prime condition at present.

  “To while away the hours until the dragon returns.”

  “I could read to you, I suppose.”

  “I don’t think there are any books here that are not improving tracts. Or the Bible. I’m afraid I didn’t think to bring any with me when my father shoved me into our traveling coach. I barely have a change of clothes.” His valet had packed in great haste, terrified of the marquess as all the servants were.

  What was it about the man? Henry resembled his father down to the last eyelash, and no one was terrified of him. Of course, the pater’s temples were graying, and there were a few sun lines around his blue eyes. No laugh lines around his lips though. The Marquess of Harland was not a frivolous fellow, and looked to be an authority. He could cut you to the quick with one glance.

  What Henry’s father needed was a woman to worry about; then maybe he’d leave his son alone to make his mistakes.

  “You’ve looked very smart every time I’ve seen you.”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Everett. Likewise.” He was fibbing a little. Rachel wore a faded brown printed dress, its hem still wet and muddy. She had tried to get her hair back in order though had not been entirely successful. But her color was fresh and she was simply a pleasure to gaze upon.

  Henry liked her very much. He didn’t think his mind was playing tricks on him, that he was fooling himself into falling in love. There was no love that lasted. But didn’t he deserve a pretty intelligent female companion with some wit? They could make handsome children and build a comfortable life together. Henry would leave his dancers and actresses behind and live like a country gentleman somewhere, maybe within a stone’s throw of Kings Harland and Puddling both. What would be the harm? The Cotswolds were very pleasant.

  She clapped her hands together. “I know! You can write to Sir Bertram. Explain everything.”

  “Right now?” That didn’t seem like much fun. Rachel was already rummaging through his desk drawers for pen and paper.

  “He’s gone away, but will be home tomorrow. He can find your letter waiting for him.”

  “I haven’t really thought what I should say.”

  Henry could see he wouldn’t have to think—Rachel was about to dictate everything he’d need to disavow his feelings for her. She shoved a well-thumbed book to lean on in his lap—Sermons I Have Known and Loved—and plopped the rest of the materials on the bedcovers.

  “Now.” She actually rubbed her hands. “‘Dear Sir Bertram’ comma.”

  As if he didn’t know his punctuation. Henry’s handwriting was precariously legible under the best of circumstances, and writing over the pebbled surface of the book was not helpful.

  “‘It has come to my attention that a misunderstanding has arisen regarding my relationship’—no, make that acquaintance—‘with a female person in Puddling, one Miss…hm. Evergreen.’”

  “Evergreen?”

  “See, you don’t even know my true name. It’s brilliant. ‘I write this to assure you and the other honored governors of the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation that while I have befriended her father—’”

  “Whose name I apparently also do not know,” Henry muttered.

  “‘—I have only met the young woman in passing period I fully intend to adhere to every letter of my treatment program comma and look forward to formulating my Service period.’ That’s with a capital ‘s.’ You’ve read the Welcome Packet. New paragraph. ‘One’s reputation is sacrosanct comma and while I have besmirched mine—’”

  “Hold on, hold on. Must I really kowtow like this? I am not ‘besmirched,’ as you put it. And you are talking much too fast.” Henry was getting more irritated by the word and hadn’t even written them all down. Rachel seemed to think he was some sort of secretarial automaton. He was unacquainted with Pittman shorthand, and even if he was, could never keep up.

  “‘Besmirched mine comma,’” Rachel repeated, “‘Miss Evergreen is entirely innocent of any wrongdoing period It is most unfortunate that the livelihood of an unexceptional school teacher should be threatened by the scurrilous gossip of a few small-minded villagers period I did not go to war to come home to such iniquitous injustice period My father the Marquess of Harland shares my sense of outrage that a person of Miss Everdean’s—’”

  “Evergreen,” Henry reminded her, scribbling furiously.

  “‘Evergreen’s unblemished integrity has been called into question period. Her father has described her kindness and honor to me at great length comma and I almost feel as if I know her period But I do not period.’ New paragraph. ‘I trust you will accept the word of an officer and a gentleman that Miss Evergreen remains a sterling citizen of your fine community and should in no way be blamed from my simple misstep on the road when I was near death and she tried to assist me period.’”

  Henry rolled his eyes. “You are exaggerating, my dear. A touch of influenza only. And the odd shovel.”

  “Write it. ‘Yours most sincerely comma Captain Lord Henry…’What’s your middle name?”

  It had come to this, twice in one day. “Agamemnon.”

  “Really? How extraordinary. ‘Captain Lord Henry Agamemnon Challoner.’ There! That should do it. Sir Bertram is a dreadful stickler, and a snob, too. Your rank should convince him that there’s nothing to the rumors.”

  “But my besmirched reputation might indicate that I lie on a regular basis. You know how we drunkards and debauchers are.” Henry blotted the letter. If Sir Bertram could actually decipher it, it would be a miracle.

  Rachel gathered up the ink pot and the rest of the things and returned them to the little desk in the corner. She seemed very pleased with herself.

  “Piffle. You did nothing no other healthy young man fresh from war would do. Wine, women, and song, etcetera. I believe your father overreacted.”

  That had been Henry’s contention all along. He knew he liked Rachel for a reason.

  “What else brings Guests here?”

  “Oh, it varies. Usually it’s drink and general depravity. But one of our more recent guests had an unusual treatment plan. I can’t name names, you know. It goes against the rules. But she was a young woman preparing for her wedding, and her mama wanted her to lose a few stone to fit into a Worth gown from Paris.”

  “So you kept her here and starved her?” Henry was appalled.

  “Of course not! Mrs. Grace fed her plenty of wholesome, nourishing food.”

  Ugh. Henry could imagine. Lettuce and carrot sticks and celery three times a day, as if the poor girl was a bunny in a hutch. “And did this treatment work?”

  Rachel nodded. “It did. Although I don’t think Greta—that is the young woman was looking forward to her wedding, though. She was…subdued. Poor Vincent had to lecture her about the seven deadly sins, specifically gluttony, daily, and it bothered him. He’s as fond of his food as anyone. And she wasn’t a bit sinful, just very, very plump. She was sweet, really.”

  “Sweets for the sweet. Did she stay here in my house?”

  “She did. This is our best cottage.”

  “The whole thing sounds barbaric. If she was such an eyesore, why did her husband want to marry her in the first place?”

  “Money, I believe. Gr—the girl in question is a great heiress, and there was a bankrupt title involved. The marriage was arranged between her mother and the peer.”

  “Ridiculous in this day
and age. People should marry whom they please.”

  “Don’t start.”

  Henry looked at her with what he hoped was innocence. “What do you mean?”

  “You know perfectly well what I mean. You’ll start proposing again, and I’ve told you it is a very bad idea. I am perfectly happy here with, um, Vincent. We are w-well suited.”

  “Horsesh—I mean, I only have your best interests at heart.”

  “That’s what men always say, and look how that usually turns out.”

  Henry wasn’t up to arguing. Or wasting their few hours together with any lingering unpleasantness. But he didn’t think Rachel was ready to snuggle up and kiss him, especially if she was still fibbing about her understanding with Vincent Walker.

  He didn’t believe it for a minute. Couldn’t. Henry could on occasion be as forceful as his father, and by the time this day was over, Rachel would be his.

  Chapter 25

  Thank God. Henry had finally fallen asleep after fighting yawns for hours. Rachel had kept him at arm’s length all day. Which had been somewhat of a challenge. He had…twinkled. There was no other word for it. His charm had radiated like shooting stars, and he was nearly irresistible.

  Nearly.

  He had been charming before, of course. Very charming. Rachel had been attracted to him against her will from the very first. And the current quasi-helplessness in his illness appealed to her soft heart.

  But that way lay madness.

  Henry had even charmed her father, after everything. But even he could not see how Lord Challoner could court her when it would affect Puddling’s future.

  Rachel had had her first taste of the Marquess of Harland. In five minutes he’d reduced her to imbecilic agreement, and now she was obligated to stay with his son until Mrs. Grace returned. The marquess was quite a force of nature, alternately rude and, well, charming.

  Like his son.

  He was a handsome man, very like Henry. Or, more accurately, Henry was very like him. The marquess’s fair hair was turning from gold to silver, and he exuded the power of his position. He struck Rachel as a man who had rarely heard the word no in his life, and wasn’t interested in starting to hear it now.