Schooling the Viscount

by Maggie Robinson

  Rachel realized she wanted to see Henry, even if he was thoroughly inappropriate for her. “You could still visit my father.”

  Henry brightened. “I could, couldn’t I? Then maybe I’ll find out what his name really is. How can I fix this business with your job? Sykes sounds ready to give you the heave-ho.”

  Rachel sat down on the bed. “I really don’t see how. Sir Bertram has never liked me. He had a younger son, you know, and we—well, it was just a crush. Nothing serious, and wasn’t apt to ever be. But Sir Bertram didn’t think I was good enough.”

  “Pah! The man’s an idiot! What happened?”

  “Wallace died at university. It was…” Rachel swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry. I’m over it, of course. It was seven years ago, after all. I was little more than a child. And I barely kissed him. But it was a terrible loss for the Sykes family and the community.”

  Henry put a hand on her shoulder. “Of course it was. One’s first love is always special.”

  “Who was yours?”

  “Oh, no one, really. I mean, I had encounters, but there was very little affection involved. It’s different for men.”

  “Is it? That’s too bad.”

  “I can’t agree. Why have one’s heart broken? Look at old Vincent. The man’s a wreck. It’s a wonder he can keep his faith.”

  “Faith is meant to be tested,” Rachel said. “Life is not all cakes and ale.”

  “Now you’re quoting Shakespeare. Sir Bertram doesn’t know the treasure you are.”

  Rachel brushed his hand away. “I don’t need to teach. I enjoy it, and feel useful, but we could get along without my pay. It isn’t much anyway.”

  “Then why don’t you resign? Let someone else deal with the little goblins.”

  She realized she could do just that. Who else would be stupid enough to take her place? The job was not as easy as some might think. Just because most people had gone to school themselves, they assumed they knew how best to teach difficult children. Sir Bertram must have been beaten regularly to think that was the way of it.

  “But what would I do?” She had plenty of hobbies, but none would fill her days completely.

  “You could marry me, of course.”

  Of course. It always led back to that. Rachel would have to give Henry some respect—he was not wavering in the face of her relentless refusal.

  She fluttered a hand at him. “We have discussed this for days. We are friends only. After listening to your father, I cannot imagine he will approve of anyone you marry but the daughter of a duke.”

  “He is a dreadful snob. My mother was the daughter of a duke.”

  Typical. Whatever pipe dreams Rachel might have were pointless. She took off her hat and tried to punch it back to life.

  “Here, let me.”

  “What do you know about ladies’ hats?”

  “You’d be surprised. Isn’t that why I’m here?”

  For a second she pictured Henry in a feathered bonnet. There had once been a Guest who preferred to wear women’s clothing, much to the dismay of his new bride, whose trousseau was immediately appropriated after their wedding day. Rachel was not exactly sure how the situation had been sorted—she had been considered too young at the time to know the particulars.

  Henry’s capable hands bent the brim back to its original position. “This is a very pretty hat.”

  “Thank you. I trimmed it myself.”

  “Did you? Is there anything you can’t do?”

  Rachel could think of a thousand things. “Stop complimenting me. I’m very ordinary.”

  “If you say so. Stubborn, too. Care to have some leftover soup with me?”

  Rachel shook her head. “My father will be wondering where I am. I’m supposed to roast a chicken for Sunday lunch. It will be more like supper by the time it’s done.”

  “With gravy, I bet.” Henry looked pained. And hungry.

  “Yes.” It was on the tip of her tongue to invite him, but that wouldn’t do. With the marquess and Sir Bertram on the loose, she would have to be much more careful.

  No touching herself in the garden. No Henry touching her, either.

  “I’m sure Mrs. Grace will be back any time now. And you do have your soup.”

  “Oh, joy. I’ll see you to the door.”

  Somehow, Henry’s hand was under her elbow as they descended the steep stairs to the front hallway. He angled the hat on her head, then ducked under the brim for a kiss. Rachel was too startled to turn her face or close her lips. She shut her eyes, and all her good intentions disappeared.

  Kissing Henry was just delicious. Better than gravy and her buttery mashed potatoes. The man knew how to kiss. Years of experience, she reminded herself. Years and years, apparently. He was touching nothing but her elbow but she could feel him everywhere.

  It was the curse of having a good imagination. Reading too many books. Dreaming too many things. Rachel’s spine was disintegrating disc by disc and she could barely stand up. Henry knew, and drew her into the parlor, the recent site of his earlier interrogation.

  She should snatch her elbow away and run out the door. But instead, they collapsed on the horsehair sofa together, not even breaking the kiss as they tumbled across the room.

  She was soon in his lap, his arms around her. The kiss deepened, settling somewhere inside her soul. Rachel was meant to be kissed in just this quiet way, the firm yet gentle breadth of Henry’s hand on her shoulder, anchoring her.

  As if she’d ever want to escape.

  Henry was deliberate. Calm. The frenzy of getting across the carpet was over, and now they simply reveled in their closeness. Rachel’s world stopped even if the clock continued to tick in the distance.

  There was nothing but careful fingers. Warm breath. Slowly sweeping tongues. Softness and strength and seduction. Henry seemed unhurried, deliberately in control, yet tender.

  He would be gone in two weeks. Rachel had only known him one. Surely this afternoon was ill-advised.

  But wonderful just the same. No, the word wonderful was inadequate. Rachel couldn’t think of anything suitable to call it at all without a dictionary handy. She couldn’t think, period.

  And that was just as well.

  Chapter 31

  How exactly had this happened? Henry had only intended to kiss her good-bye. Just a quick peck. If she had turned her head, he would have settled for a cheek or an eyelid or a nose. Hell, he’d settled for any piece of Rachel’s physical real estate—gently rolling hills and fragrant plains and intriguing valleys. She was just luscious, every bit of her, and Henry was hungry.

  But here were her pillowy, pliant lips, kissing him back. She nestled in his lap, still everywhere but for her gorgeous mouth, which met his in seeming delight and generosity. Henry had seen a praxinoscope, where the people in the pictures appeared to be puppets on invisible strings manned by maniacs. If he and Rachel were filmed in the illusion of movement, everything would be slow, as if they were swimming through honey. He had never been so aware of the purpose and power of his body as he was right this minute.

  His pleasure was not paramount. Whatever he could do for her was most important. But he was nearly afraid to touch her where he wanted to, to unleash the beast inside him. The sweet, silent synchronicity between them was a revelation. Their breaths mingled and tongues danced. There was no awkwardness or rush.

  This was all very, very different from any previous encounter Henry had ever had. A tiny corner of his brain—the convoluted wrinkled inch that was able to think instead of feel—realized he’d been going about life all wrong for so long. He’d sought the loud and the ludicrous to drown out the world and it never worked. His injuries and memories were still present when he sobered up, and more than likely he’d left a trail of idiocy behind him.

  Rachel was good for him. Wholesome like…oatmeal with brown sugar and cream. Oh, wouldn’t she clout him if he ever said such a thing? It was fortunat
e his lips were too busy kissing than passing off ridiculous compliments. One didn’t compare women to cereal or any other foodstuff aside from ambrosia.

  Could he love her? Did he love her already? It seemed rather sudden. They’d know each other what, seven days or so? He’d lost track of the exact day he’d seen her in the schoolyard in that patch of spring sunlight.

  And he didn’t believe in love. Want love.

  No, that wasn’t true. He had no objection to being loved and cosseted. He just wasn’t sure he could return the favor. He’d been brave in combat, but in life? Love was a risk he never planned to take.

  The best-laid plans…

  Rachel pulled away, trembling. “I—I really have to go home.”

  He tried to bring his eyes and mind into focus. “Do you? I don’t want you to.”

  “I don’t want to go. But my father—”

  “Your father and the damned chicken can wait. Five minutes. That’s all I ask.” She deserved hours.

  “What do you plan to do in five minutes?” she asked, breathless. She was so beautiful, face flushed, hat askew. He reached up and unpinned it from her hair.

  “I think you know.”

  “What you did yesterday.” Rachel’s voice was a mere whisper.

  “Yes. You did like it.”

  “I was…startled. I’m not sure I should let you do it again.”

  Henry was surprised at her hesitance. What woman would deny herself?

  “Let me?” He would never do anything Rachel wouldn’t want, but the natural conclusion to their current kiss was out of reach. Premature, he tried to convince himself. Doing what he did yesterday was a substitute, at least for her. He’d deal with his distress when she left.

  Which she was doing. She had pulled his arms away with amazing strength, bounded off his lap and stuck her hat back on her head.

  “I’m going home, Henry, before I forget how to behave. You make me…unbalanced.”

  She was probably right, damn it. He was supposed to be an officer and a gentleman, no matter how far he’d strayed since he got back from Africa.

  “Good. I myself feel like I’m on a ship in a hurricane.”

  He followed her to the front hall, the scene of much of today’s turmoil. She straightened her hat in the little mirror, refusing to meet his eye.

  “You’ll let me know if you need anything.” She turned the handle and slipped out the door into the drizzle.

  Oh, he needed. He was digging a hole deep into darkest need, and couldn’t see a way out. His father was in the village, bound to fight Henry when he discovered what he was up to. But Rachel was refusing to play, as was her right. Henry couldn’t connect the dots between his past, his cure and the future he wanted.

  But he would. He had to. There were two more weeks left to his imprisonment. Two weeks to woo Rachel, two weeks to convince his jailers and the pater he was healthy and whole. Henry had mastered most of the challenges life had thrown at him, warfare both at home and abroad. Surviving and thriving in Puddling and beyond should be child’s play now that he was finally clear-headed.

  He wished he had a friend to plot and plan with. Henry had lost touch with his boyhood friends when he entered the army—they had thought him insane to give up his cushy life at the time, as he recalled, and now they had nothing in common. So many of his army pals were in the outreaches of the Empire, bringing the dubious benefits of Britain to the unwilling. Or worse, underground, worm food, all promise wasted. Henry was in a kind of limbo, but he would manage.

  He had been feeling much better, but now that Rachel had gone, the effervescence evaporated. There was no point to foraging for lunch when there was no one to share it with him.

  Henry trudged back upstairs, suddenly exhausted, not even interested in dealing with his inconvenient erection. But a man could stand only so much frustration, and he dropped his clothes to the floor, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket. Naked, he stood before the window, watching raindrops splatter on the glass. The hills were covered in gray clouds—even the grass looked gray.

  He took himself in hand, not bothering with returning to the bed. He could stand on his own two feet for a little while longer, couldn’t he? He thought of kissing Rachel’s ripe, sweet center again, stroking her white thighs, unlacing her from her corset. He’d only seen the shadow of her breasts in the moonlight the other night, and felt them beneath too many layers of clothing. They were more than a palmful—she was plush and so very perfect.

  If she had a fault, it was her stubbornness. Henry looked forward to tempting her of it, convincing her that they would be good for each other. He could make her happy, her life easier, once he figured out how to…

  He shuddered and shuttered his practical thoughts. He’d been taking care of his needs for well over a decade, and now had the ideal fantasy to spur him on. The all-too-confining hills blurred beyond the window as a fictional Rachel dropped to her knees in front of him, her dark hair loose, her silver-black eyes opaque with desire. He traced the blush on her velvet cheek with one finger and her lids dropped and mouth opened.

  Sweet God. It was probably profane to drag God into this, but likely Henry was going to Hell anyway. What he was doing was a sin, but he couldn’t feel much sorrow. Heat streaked through him, buckling his knees. Rachel remained in place, for he willed her to do so. Her lashes flickered and her imaginary tongue worked its carnal magic until Henry could bear no more.

  He clamped the handkerchief down. To spare Mrs. Grace’s finer feelings, he would burn it as soon as his legs worked again. Falling into bed, he wondered if his fever had returned. His heart was pounding. Henry couldn’t breathe and gulped for air.

  He’d never come so hard in his life, and Rachel had not even been real. Surely that meant something.

  Perhaps it meant he was just losing his mind in the country. Someone might find it in a hayrick and wonder how it got there.

  He’d have to fetch it back himself, for he had need of it. His father had to be got rid of, Sir Bertram soothed, and Rachel wooed. But first, a nap was probably in order. He and old Vincent had practically watched the sunrise together, Henry holding the man’s head over a series of bowls. Henry had been proud that he’d washed every one of them himself.

  The gentle patter of rain was relaxing, and he soon drifted without too many obstacles into a deep sleep. It was a shock to wake up several hours later to a face he’d never expected to see.

  Chapter 32

  Guilt. Duty. Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

  All afternoon, Rachel had worried about Henry Challoner. He was alone, with his father’s recriminations ringing in his ears. Did he have more than old soup to eat? What if his fever returned and he was so weak he couldn’t climb the stairs, or worse, fell down them?

  Even her father had noticed her anxiety. He sat back in his chair after consuming a gratifying amount of roast chicken and waved his hand.

  “Go on,” he’d said. “Go to him. I’m fine, and I can clean up as well as you can. I know Millie Grace is still over to Sheepscombe. She won’t get back until tomorrow if this rain keeps falling unless she comes by boat.”

  Rachel hesitated. There would be plenty left over for her father’s lunch tomorrow even if she made up a plate for the viscount’s supper.

  But what if his father and Sir Bertram had returned to bedevil him? She couldn’t dive into in the fishpond if they were there; it was too shallow to cover her.

  Oh, hell. She’d risk it. Rachel felt honor-bound to take care of Henry, even if his father had been persuaded to change his mind about her.

  Wet. Dirty. No better than she should be. It was the marquess’s fault she’d arrived in such disarray yesterday. Puddling’s streets were not designed for massive traveling coaches—in fact, they weren’t designed for wheeled vehicles at all. Four-footed creatures being driven to market by bipeds, yes. The village was ancient, its narrow roads even older, from Roman times.

/>   “I won’t be long.”

  Her father raised a bushy gray eyebrow but said nothing. Could it be Henry had charmed him too?

  She parceled up the carrots, potatoes, rolls and chicken and filled a small jug with gravy. Adding wedges of apple pie and cheese, she tucked it all into a covered basket, feeling a bit like Little Red Riding Hood. The wolf had proved too difficult to ignore.

  Rufus watched her in anticipation, tongue lolling.

  “No. You may not come with me. Don’t even think about it.”

  He wagged his stump of a tail.

  “Oh, all right. But you are to behave yourself. He’s the heir to a marquess. None of your usual tricks. You are to let him eat his lunch without making a nuisance of yourself, unlikely as that is.”

  The dog followed her out the kitchen door. It was still raining lightly, and Rachel avoided the puddles where she could. She was not going to turn up on Henry’s doorstep in the same condition as yesterday. Rufus was not so particular, dashing about and encrusting himself with as much mud as possible.

  If Henry was resting, she didn’t want to ring the bell and get him out of bed; she’d leave the food for him in the kitchen. At the last minute, she remembered he had pocketed the key that was always under a flower pot. But the handle turned—he hadn’t thought to lock the cottage up when she left in her cowardice.

  “You are a filthy disgrace. There’s no point in looking at me like that, either. I am impervious to your charms.”

  Rufus whined, but Rachel was steadfast. “I will be out in a minute. Stay.”

  He huffed, reluctantly taking shelter under a bush. He gave her one last reproachful look before he turned around in three circles, lay down, and shut his eyes. Rachel was jealous that the dog could sleep virtually anywhere.

  The house was silent. Fortunately Henry’s lifeless body was not sprawled across the stairs.

  “Henry?”

  There was no answer. The poor man deserved to rest. Apparently he’d had a trying night and morning. Now that she thought of it, Vincent had looked a bit green about the gills in church. She thought it had been a trick of the light through the stained-glass window.