Schooling the Viscount Read online

  Welcome to Puddling-on-the-Wold, where the sons and daughters of Victorian nobility come for a little rest, recuperation, and “rehab,” in this brand-new series of rebellious romance from Maggie Robinson.

  After a harrowing tour of duty abroad, Captain Lord Henry Challoner fought to keep his memories at bay with two of his preferred vices: liquor and ladies. But the gin did more harm than good—as did Henry’s romantic entanglements, since he was supposed to be finding a suitable bride. Next stop: The tiny village in Gloucestershire, where Henry can finally sober up without distraction or temptation. Or so he thinks…

  A simple country schoolteacher, Rachel Everett was never meant to cross paths with a gentleman such as Henry. What could such a worldly man ever see in her? As it turns out, everything. Beautiful, fiercely intelligent Rachel is Henry’s dream woman—and wife. Such a match would be scandalous for his family of course, and Rachel has no business meddling with a resident at the famed, rather draconian, Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation. All the better, for two lost souls with nothing to lose—and oh so very much to gain.

  Books by Maggie Robinson

  Cotswold Confidential Series

  Schooling the Viscount

  The London List Series

  Lord Gray’s List

  Captain Durant’s Countess

  Lady Anne’s Lover

  The Courtesan Court Series

  Mistress by Mistake

  “Not Quite a Courtesan” in Lords of Passion

  Mistress by Midnight

  Mistress by Marriage

  Master of Sin

  Novellas

  “To Match a Thief” in Improper Gentleman

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Schooling the Viscount

  Cotswold Confidential

  Maggie Robinson

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Lyrical Press books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Maggie Robinson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fundraising, and educational or institutional use.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: January 2017

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0000-2

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0000-X

  First Print Edition: January 2017

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0003-3

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0003-4

  Table of Contents

  About The Book

  Books by Maggie Robinson

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Seducing Mr. Sykes Teaser

  Chapter 1

  April,1881 Puddling-on-the-Wold, Gloucestershire

  It was a cosmic joke. Exiled to a Cotswold village, the most candy-box, utterly banal sort of burgh one could ever hope to find, with a name fit for a nursery rhyme. Rolling hills, sun-kissed stone, front gardens and window boxes bursting with the kind of vegetation which would have kept the maddest gardener up all night in delight.

  There had been other exiles, he knew. Apparently this Puddling-place was some sort of a secret reformation spot. A health spa without the filthy-tasting mineral water. A Bath without Bath chairs and Roman ruins.

  Despite his infirmities, he was plenty healthy, thank you very much. He’d spent his first week marching up and down the streets—all five of them—staring into the faces of passers-by, wondering who else was subject to his current indignity. Visiting each shop—all five of them. Peering into cottage windows that overlooked the cobbled road—you couldn’t help but look in. He saw polite, bland inhabitants, seemingly happy to be living in a place time forgot.

  One hardly knew that this was the late nineteenth century, for God’s sake. Newspapers always were sold out when he came around to the combination Post Office and grocery on Market Street. There was not a modern invention to be found—no local train, no telegraph towers. Or burlesque girls. He was completely cut off from the world as he knew it, except for his daily afternoon tea with the vicar.

  Tea. Vicar. Two words usually not in his vocabulary.

  All of the Puddling people looked innocent. Jolly and clean. Untouched by any kind of debauchery or depravity. Well, that’s what fresh air and an excess of sheep and sleep did for one, he supposed. Any kind of conversation with the local specimens had resulted in a boredom so profound he was tempted to stick a fork in his working eardrum.

  He wasn’t going to let Puddling-on-the-Wold change him one iota. This petunia-scented imprisonment couldn’t last forever. The pater would eventually relent and allow him back to Town. All he had to do was steer clear of trouble and look sufficiently saved in front of the vicar. Born again. Slayer of his demons and ready to do battle as one of Britain’s young hopes.

  Faugh. He’d tried that in South Africa, and where had that led? Ten short brutal weeks of war, his disfigurement and a dependency on drink and the occasional opium pipe.

  And women. Lovely, curvy, wanton women, none of them candidates to follow in his late mother’s footsteps as the next Marchioness of Harland, not that he wanted his pater the marquess to pop off any time soon, no matter how draconian his father had been sentencing him to live in this blasted storybook village.

  Captain Lord Henry Challoner had some heart, after all.

  Henry wasn’t really a captain any more, although the paperwork
hadn’t quite caught up to him. He shouldn’t have been one in the first place. Hadn’t done much to deserve it. Men he’d commanded had died, and he himself had wound up captured with those who lived in a barn not fit for a flea-bitten jackass. There were no jackasses in the veld as far as Henry knew.

  Besides himself.

  He was on his required damned daily walk this bloody beautiful spring afternoon, equipped with a stout staff that wasn’t purely decorative. He’d been shot in the foot—thankfully, he hadn’t done it to himself or that really would have been the cosmic joke—and would probably limp for the rest of his life.

  Henry supposed he was lucky he still had a foot; the Boer farmers who’d briefly held him prisoner after the ambush had not been surgically adept. Now, if he’d been about to calve—

  The absurdity of his train of thought made him laugh out loud. He hadn’t laughed in a week, and the sound startled him. A bird trilled loudly enough for him to hear it from the clipped hedgerow, a temperate sun shone serenely overhead in the cloudless sky, and Henry wanted to raise his stick in revolt.

  Puddling-in-the-Wold was just too perfect. Each stone cottage was snug, each little shop stocked with exactly what one would want, providing one had taken a temperance pledge. There were no alcoholic spirits on offer—Henry had inquired everywhere. His bribes and blandishments had been useless. The entire town was teetotal.

  Even the Communion wine in the little Norman church appeared to be grape juice, and watered down at that. Moderation was all very well, but abstention? Henry shuddered.

  Perhaps there were some berries in a bush he could ferment somehow. Wine was made with dandelion weeds, wasn’t it? Being a viscount, he knew nothing about cookery, but knew better than to ask Mrs. Grace, his current housekeeper. She’d come with the cottage he’d been assigned, and was implacable in regards to his health and diet. It was as if he was back in the nursery again with Nanny, with wholesome soups and scrambled eggs and stewed fruit.

  At five and twenty, he was too old to be treated like a child, no matter how childish he’d been. He’d been in his African garrison for years keeping the Zulus and the Boers at bay. Bad enough Chelmsford had invaded the Zulu territory without the authorization of the British government, resulting in the bloodiest battles imaginable, but then the idiots at Whitehall decided to annex the Transvaal Republic to stir up the Boers. Henry had done his duty on both fronts, and he wanted a roast, by God, and horseradish sauce. New potatoes larded with butter and parsley. Sponge cake filled with jam. Apricots in brandy. Something rich and delicious he could sink his teeth into, since he was no longer nibbling on any slender necks. In the week he’d been here, he’d not seen one woman in the village under fifty, and he’d looked.

  Hard.

  But hold on. He heard children singing up ahead as he stumbled down the ever-narrowing lane that looked like it led to freedom from the Puddling Valley. Beyond was a perfect green hill and perfect white sheep, wide open spaces without a cottage in sight.

  If there were children, there had to be mothers, right? Women of childbearing age were youngish, and perhaps one of them was a lonely widow. Henry made an effort to trot a little faster, gritting his teeth at the grinding pain in his foot.

  He hadn’t come this way before. He was, in fact, breaking a rule. There was a fixed itinerary for his walk, and he wasn’t on it. Take that, Puddling prison guards!

  Rounding a corner, there was before him a gated stone wall, and beyond it a stone schoolhouse, with perhaps a dozen urchins dancing about in a circle in the grassy field. Henry’s own dancing days were finished, but he could appreciate the enthusiasm and joy before him, and he leaned on his stick to watch.

  He was spotted immediately by a towheaded girl of about six, who pointed and screamed. Even with his hearing loss, he was impressed with the infant’s lung power. He hadn’t had a reception like that since his father Arthur Challoner, the Marquess of Harland, discovered Lysette LaRue and Francie Jones in his bedroom at Harland House a week ago.

  Henry should not have brought the girls home. He’d still be carousing in London, smoking and drinking and dining and trying to forget if he’d only kept his pants buttoned. Sneaking Lysette and Francie in had been the last straw, and the pater had had enough. Hero or not —and Henry really wasn’t— Something Had To Be Done.

  Hence Puddling and rehabilitation. That same morning, Henry had been bundled up without his valet and incarcerated in the ancient Harland travel coach, his father blistering him verbally the many miles it took to reach this godforsaken place. Henry was almost grateful for the partial deafness in his right ear—he’d been a little too close to a jammed cannon, and when it unjammed, the damn thing let him down in the most audible way.

  He had been much better off with his Martini-Henry singleshot rifle, although in his opinion, the British army had been damn poorly outfitted all the way around. Much of the weaponry was obsolete, and it wasn’t very strategic to pop up on the dusty plain in bright red uniforms. The filthy, khaki-covered farmers they’d fought against for a short but hideous two months had been expert marksmen, bruising riders, and determined to maintain their independence by any means necessary.

  So now Henry was half-deaf and half-lame. Delightful.

  He knew there must be train service to this part of the world, but then his father would have been deprived of his limitless lecture if he’d purchased two tickets. Upon arrival, the pater had met with the vicar in the Rifle and Roses—whoever heard of a pub that sold no ale? Or, for that matter, a vicar who did business in a pub?—while Henry was confined to the carriage, practically in handcuffs. His head had been too sore to object to his treatment, and he knew he deserved it on some level. Almost welcomed it.

  He was a disappointment, and he was tired of himself beyond belief.

  It seemed he was some sort of devil as well. The shrieking child before him acted as if he had horns. Henry ran a hand through his hatless blond hair to make sure none had sprouted up.

  Someone stepped out the schoolhouse door at the commotion. A female someone, who was not over fifty. Henry felt his heart leap.

  She was dark-haired and rosy-cheeked, built along sturdy country lines, ample of hip and bosom and the most luscious thing he’d seen since he’d arrived. Henry grinned.

  The screaming continued. Did he have a spinach leaf from his nutritious but dull lunch stuck in his teeth?

  “Now, Mary Ann, be quiet. It’s just one of our Guests,” the young woman murmured in a low, soothing voice. She knelt in front of the little girl as the rest of the students gave Henry the stink-eye.

  “Good afternoon.” His voice was rusty, unused except when falsely complimenting Mrs. Grace on her culinary skills or inquiring everywhere about alcohol, although he’d given that up after the third day. Henry’s conversations with the vicar every afternoon were mostly one-sided, and the side wasn’t his.

  The children stared back at him, silent. Had they been warned about him? As far as he knew, he’d never hurt a child. Hurt men, yes, but that was his job. He’d been in the army for six years, much to his father’s displeasure, and he’d killed a lot of people one way or another.

  “I’m relatively harmless. You don’t have to be afraid.” Harmless Henry. There was a certain ring to it, even if it was untrue.

  The young woman rose and took Mary Ann by the hand. “Say good afternoon, sweetheart. We must be polite to our Guests.”

  What was this guest business? If Henry was being entertained in any way by the Puddling populace, they were doing a piss-poor job of it.

  Chapter 2

  Drat. Rachel Everett bit her lip. Lord Challoner was not supposed to see her. Up until today, he’d been methodical in his afternoon perambulation, following his prescribed schedule, turning left at his gate and wandering about the steep, twisting village streets aimlessly for an hour just as he was supposed to. Reports were that he looked cross and uncomfortable, which was the normal course of events for Pud
dling-on-the-Wold’s special Guests.

  Things were always hard in the beginning. There was resentment, and, very occasionally, some violence. The poor vicar and those before him had survived many a tossed teacup— and worse.

  The school was difficult to find, tucked away in a field near the bottom end of the hilly village, and not on Lord Challoner’s map. Rachel knew he had been strictly forbidden to leave the area—he hadn’t much money, and the nearest train station was five miles away. A walk of that distance was not impossible, but a man with his injury would find it unpleasant.

  Likely he would have a hard time getting back up the lane to his cottage today and might even need assistance. Everyone in Greater Puddling-on-the-Wold had been informed of his residence and would be on the lookout for any difficulty or irregularity.

  Like escape. It had happened. In 1807, a duke’s daughter smuggled herself out of town in a laundry hamper. The Sykes family, with whom she had lodged, were still living down the breach in security, although Lady Maribel had married Sir Colin Sykes so that had turned out all right in the end. And in 1854, an unfortunate Guest had climbed the church’s bell tower in a poorly-planned attempt to fly. Umbrellas had not been designed for such a purpose, even if he’d sported two of them. The young man had been coaxed down carefully and sent to Bethlem Hospital, which was better equipped to deal with his avian ambitions.

  Or so the people of Puddling-on-the-Wold hoped. Treatment methods had evolved over the decades, and there had not been an Incident in quite a while. The vicar kept a full accounting of the many success stories achieved in the last seventy-odd years by his predecessors. Their Guests had grown up, gotten married, become fathers and mothers. Most were respectably settled. Pillars of society. Their youthful follies were behind them, their families forever grateful. The coffers of Puddling-on-the-Wold were full, and each resident received a generous bonus every year just for living within the village’s boundary lines, whether they were instrumental in a Guest’s recovery or not.