Schooling the Viscount Page 11

  It hadn’t been easy. Pete Everett was a wily old devil who loved his only child and was ready to protect her, no matter what the consequences. Henry’s charm had proven useless until he began reminiscing about his war. Pete had followed suit. Henry knew much more about the Crimean War now than any history book or military manual had ever taught him.

  He knew more about Puddling too, and understood Rachel’s reluctance to break the rules. Henry was fully aware of what his own father was capable of—if he set his mind on destroying Puddling’s reputation, it would be destroyed. The pater was a bloodless fellow, never emotional unless it involved something Henry did or didn’t do.

  Henry blamed his mother, not that it was very filial to do so. He had only a cloudy recollection of her, but when she died, the Marquess of Harland died a little too. Henry had difficulty remembering seeing his father smile or laugh, but he had no trouble seeing the man shout when he wasn’t freezing everyone around him out.

  The Marquess of Harland thought he always knew best. In Henry’s case, he grudgingly thanked his father for sending him to Puddling. The results might not be exactly what his father expected, but life was unpredictable, wasn’t it?

  Henry could be happy being married to Rachel. He glanced down at her now under his lashes. Her cheeks were flushed from going up the incline, and her wispy fringe was curling enticingly in the damp air. She was robust. Sturdy. Last night demonstrated there was a carnality buried within her that would make her a very satisfying wife. Lying beside her after a bout of lovemaking might make the dreams stop

  It was time he married. His father said so. It was, apparently, one of the goals of his rehabilitation. But Henry, by God, was not going to allow his father to pick out his wife.

  There was, however, a sticking point. Rachel Everett wanted to be loved. Henry had no experience with that sort of thing. He’d gone straight from the barmaids at university to the barmaids near his billets. Going out with actresses and chorines when he got home from Africa had actually been a bit of an upgrade. He didn’t know how to woo a proper young lady. They required flowers and poetry, didn’t they?

  A ridiculous waste. Flowers belonged in the ground. When they were cut for vases, they only died. And poetry? Utter nonsense. Poetry was what drove him out of Oxford and into the arms of the army.

  Her mind had been turned by all the silly books she’d read. Her father showed Henry a pile of them on the kitchen dresser, far more of a deterrent to him than any gun would be. Henry was no hero, and knew that to his toes.

  Still, if he wanted her, he’d have to make an effort. Suddenly, his mind was blank.

  “Are you well, Lord Challoner? You’re so quiet.”

  “Please call me Henry. We’ve gone past titles and surnames, haven’t we?” His hand shook on the umbrella, causing droplets to fall on his face. Was he well?

  “I suppose. It’s not at all proper, though.”

  To hell with propriety, Henry wanted to say. Instead he concentrated on his feet, watching one shuffling step at a time up the slippery, steep road. His cottage was at the midway point of the rise, he’d discovered. Not too much farther. And then he’d give the umbrella to Rachel, because he really didn’t think—

  Henry didn’t mean to fall, and certainly didn’t mean to take Rachel with him. This was getting to be a habit, finding himself on his arse all over Puddling. This time he was cushioned by a soft woman, who was making every attempt to throw him off. How arousing she was. Did he say that out loud? She was frowning in a most ferocious manner.

  “Get off me!”

  Henry wasn’t sure he could. His body felt dreadfully heavy, his limbs leaden. God, he was tired. He could fall asleep right here in the mud if Rachel weren’t writhing under him with such vigor. It wasn’t restful.

  “Henry! Lord Challoner!” She might have been shouting, but her voice sounded so far away. Her lips were right there, though. Moving, pink, her breath soft against his face.

  He did what any red-blooded young man would do to his fiancée under such circumstances, and kissed her. Her body stilled beneath him, and after a few fraught seconds, she returned the kiss. The rain pelted his back, but he didn’t much care.

  Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Did that have something to do with Troy? Henry had been forced to study the classics, and found them wanting.

  The Odyssey. Rosy-fingered dawn, and other rubbish. Though he’d seen red skies for himself, wide sweeps over the plains of South Africa. Skies the color of blood, the ground saturated. Brilliant colors that led to death and defeat.

  He was home now. Not home. Puddling. There was something he meant to do, but he was so distracted by Rachel’s kiss that he’d forgotten what it was.

  He felt awfully hot. Was she hot too? They should get out of this weather.

  “Lord Challoner!” The voice came from above. God’s voice, or the next best thing in Puddling. Thunderous. A hand wrenched the collar of his coat and pulled him to his feet.

  Not quite. Henry slumped back down, knees like jelly. His trousers, he observed, were filthy and soaked through. And, even worse, there was a puddle, and poor Rachel was in it, flailing about.

  “Rachel Everett!” The arm reached for her and restored her to a much more secure position. She was now standing over him—looming, actually—her glorious hair tumbled over her shoulders, and her gray dress—well, not so much gray as brown now—soaked. He could see her peach skin and practically hear the beating of her heart.

  “What happened? Did he attack you?”

  Why was Vincent the vicar being such an idiot? He was supposed to be Henry’s friend. Have faith in him. Henry didn’t go around attacking girls. Hell, Francie and Lysette had really attacked him if one wanted to be perfectly clear.

  Henry tried to turn around, but his neck wouldn’t cooperate. Damn but his collar was stiff and wet. He really should consider wearing hats more often, but they made his head itch. He’d looked absurd in his pith helmet, but it did keep the sun from baking his brain.

  Perhaps not.

  “No, of course not. It was an accident. We slipped and fell,” Rachel said.

  “He was kissing you!”

  “You must be mistaken. It may have looked like that, but it—it wasn’t.”

  “I know what I saw, Rachel Everett.” The man sounded both shocked and hurt.

  Henry wiped his wet hair from his face and managed to swivel his head sideways. The pain was so exquisite he thought he might pass out. He really didn’t feel quite the thing.

  “Help,” he whispered, and then lay back down on the ground. There was some argument over him, but he didn’t care. He tucked his arm under his head and closed his eyes. The fabric of his jacket was scratchy on his cheek—in fact all his clothes were a trifle uncomfortable.

  “Is the blackguard drunk?” the idiot asked.

  Ha. If only. Some hot rum punch would hit the spot about now. Plenty of oranges and lemons. Those little cloves floating about. His bones felt cold, yet his skin was hot.

  “No! There’s something wrong! Dr. Oakley warned that he might suffer a concussion.” He felt Rachel’s cool hand on his forehead. Heaven.

  “But his injury was two days ago. Wouldn’t it have developed sooner?”

  “Shovel,” Henry said. But no one paid attention. Maybe he hadn’t spoken aloud. And anyway, he didn’t want to get his future father-in-law in trouble.

  “We must get him home, Vincent. Help me, and then go fetch the doctor.”

  Ah. Vincent the fiancé. His nemesis. Henry would die first before he allowed the man to touch him. He opened his mouth to object, but was quickly overruled as the vicar picked him up and slung him over his shoulder none too gently.

  It was clear Vincent was not his friend, no matter how many cups of tea they had shared. Had he divined Henry’s interest in his erstwhile fiancée? Maybe that spectacular kiss on the ground gave him a clue. Henry might be concussed, but the kiss had not confu
sed him at all. Rachel was the woman for him, the pater and Puddling be damned.

  The road looked diabolically wobbly from this vantage point, so Henry shut his eyes. The blood had rushed to his aching head, and the jiggling about wasn’t helpful. He was a little afraid he might vomit down Vincent’s back which, although tempting, would not be at all sporting. The vicar was only trying to help, even though Henry intuited from the rough handling the fellow would like to drop him in a ditch. No doubt he was jealous, finding Rachel in his arms.

  Or beneath him, to be accurate. Accuracy was important. Close only counted in hand grenades and horseshoes.

  Henry heard the squeak of his own front gate, and felt the ecclesiastical brute mount the steps. The crunch of gravel under Walker’s feet was deafening. Perhaps Henry’s hearing was returning—wouldn’t that be a miracle? Almost worth getting hit on the head as many times as he had since he’d arrived. He’d lost count of the total.

  Gosh, the very first day he’d hit his head on the beam upstairs and had fallen on his rump. It was an omen. But good could come from bad, no matter what the old wives’ tales warned.

  Henry had found his bride. Now if only he could find a bucket.

  Chapter 18

  “I suspect a touch of influenza. His temperature is quite high. I hope this doesn’t signal an outbreak in Puddling.” Dr. Oakley returned his stethoscope to his bag. “He’ll need to be kept quiet. Plenty of fluids. You know the drill, Millie. You’ve done your share of nursing in your time.”

  “What about me? Can we continue his lessons?” Vincent asked, his mouth petulant. Rachel didn’t think he looked much like a man of God at present. He was wet and muddy and generally grumpy.

  “Leave him be for a day or two. He’ll be close enough to the angels as is.”

  Rachel’s heart stuttered. “He might die?”

  “Now, now. I didn’t say that. Just giving Millie here a compliment.” The doctor winked at Mrs. Grace and she blushed. Gracious. Was he flirting? Rachel knew they worked closely together at Stonecrop and the other cottages. Romance was in the air everywhere.

  And that was a problem.

  Vincent took her by the elbow. “I need to talk to you.”

  “I need to talk to you, too. Mrs. Grace, may we use Lord Challoner’s parlor for a minute?”

  The housekeeper cocked her head toward her patient. “Look at him. I think you could dance on the roof and he wouldn’t notice.”

  Rachel obliged. Henry was lying still, eyes closed, his face as white as his sheets. She hadn’t been present when Vincent had removed his ruined clothing, but had refused to leave until Dr. Oakley’s verdict.

  “He l-looks awful.”

  “He’ll never know now, will he, sick as he is? Go ahead. I need to ask the good doctor some questions about his care.”

  I’ll bet, thought Rachel. She and Vincent went downstairs. It was extraordinary that she’d been allowed in Henry’s bedroom to begin with.

  Vincent got right to the point. “What is going on, Rachel Everett?”

  He’d been using her full name ever since he came upon them wallowing in the mud.

  “What do you mean, Vincent?”

  “I know what I saw!”

  “My father sent him down Honeywell Lane with an umbrella. I was in such a hurry this morning, I forgot mine. My hat, too. He was simply being gentlemanly.” Vincent snorted, but she went on. “The weather was so foul, we tripped. You know Lord Challoner is not always steady on his feet.”

  “Huh. You may have tripped, but you seemed in no hurry to get up. The man was…was…on top of you!”

  “Only for a second or two. It was very awkward trying to extricate ourselves.”

  “You didn’t look like you were trying too hard, Rachel,” he said stonily.

  Was he jealous? Oh, dear. Worse and worse. “I assure you I was. Think of a basket of kittens that get all tangled up with one another. Too many paws and tails.”

  Vincent gave her an incredulous look. No wonder. Kittens? There was no one less like a kitten than Henry Challoner.

  A golden lion, perhaps.

  “In fact,” she continued quickly, “I have done everything in my power to discourage Lord Challoner’s inappropriate attentions toward me. I know interacting with him is against the rules. In fact, I m-may have told him a little white l-lie to keep him at arm’s length.” Drat. Why was her tongue so uncooperative when she told white lies about white lies?

  Vincent folded his arms over his chest. It was broad, just not as broad as Henry’s. “You were considerably closer than that.”

  “As, I explained, it was just a very unfortunate accident. Anyway…I m-may have said that my affections w-were eng-g-gaged elsewhere.”

  Vincent lifted a sandy brow. Rachel knew he was attractive. Smart. Good-hearted. But her own heart didn’t stir standing in proximity to him in Henry’s cozy little parlor.

  “And who is the lucky gentleman?”

  “Y-you are.”

  Both of Vincent’s eyebrows rose to his somewhat receding hairline. “What?”

  “So you s-see, I’d like you to p-pretend if he asks you that we have an understanding.” Her tongue was as tangled as that basket of kittens.

  Vincent more or less fell into a chair. “You want me to lie? Unless, of course, this is a proposal.”

  “No!” Rachel cried, shocked. “I would never ask any man to marry me. It wouldn’t be right.” Although, she thought, why wouldn’t it be? Why did the men have to do the asking while the women waited around? But she couldn’t waste time considering such subjects now.

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Vincent said, who never uttered the word God unless he was in the pulpit. He had very strict ideas. Ideals. “None of this is right, Rachel. My dear, as we’re apparently engaged.” He ran his hands through his light brown hair, making it stand up every which way. Rachel had never seen him so discomposed.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? I thought we were friends of a sort. How am I to counsel Lord Challoner if I am being deceitful? I cannot do as you ask.”

  Rachel sat down on the other chair. She’d known her request was folly from the start. “All right. But if he asks about me, can you just give the slightest impression that we—that I—”

  “No,” Vincent said, quite firmly. “Not that you won’t make some man a fine wife. You know the old biddies here have us matched already. They have been after me since I arrived to court you.”

  Rachel suspected as much. “But you haven’t.”

  “No. My affections are engaged elsewhere, for all the good it will ever do me. It’s nothing personal toward you.”

  Rachel was both relieved and a tiny bit insulted. “Who is she?” Vincent was a catch, his salary substantial due to his duties for the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation. Why would a girl turn him down?

  Unless she was a Free Thinker or something. It might be hard to be a vicar’s wife if one wasn’t totally convinced of the Bible’s inerrancy.

  “Never mind. That is not pertinent to our present dilemma. We can have him sent back if he continues to bother you. Tell his father that he is incorrigible.”

  “No!” What would the marquess do then? Put Henry in some horrible private “hospital”? It would be like a prison, and Henry’s spirit might be broken forever.

  Vincent was staring at her. It was a bit unnerving. The probing look would have seemed right at home on a fire-and-brimstone minister’s face, where one might confess to anything just to be left alone in one’s sinfulness. “Do you have feelings for this man, Rachel?”

  Did she?

  She did. Very inconvenient, improper ones.

  “I hardly know him,” she evaded. “He has struck up a friendship with my father, though.” If you could call getting whacked with a shovel the beginnings of solidarity. “He wants to do something for veterans who suffer the ill-effects of war.”

  “Very interesting. I’d thought
him a selfish, callow fellow, only interested in juvenile amusements. He doesn’t strike me as a serious man. Just stares into his tea and rolls his eyes at everything I say.”

  Ah, yes. The chorus girls. The drinking, and worse. It was as if Henry was making up for the years he’d spent so far from normal society. “He served honorably,” Rachel reminded him. “Was grievously injured in the service of Her Majesty.”

  “His father told me he went into the army as an act of rebellion. I guess he got his comeuppance.”

  “What a horrible thing to say!”

  Vincent nodded. “You’re right. It was most unlike me.”

  “What have you got against him?”

  “For one thing, he was practically rutting with you in the road in broad daylight. It’s a good thing I came along when I did. Imagine if it had been Sir Bertram, or one of the other governors of the Foundation. You’d be ruined, Rachel. Lose your position and bring shame to all of Puddling.”

  Rachel knew he spoke the truth. She had lain on Honeywell Lane in the rain—how poetic!—and didn’t stop Henry from kissing her. Didn’t want him to stop kissing her.

  Oh, what was she to do with herself?

  Vincent’s next words left her speechless. “He should be forced to marry you, you know.”

  There would be no force involved—Henry had repeatedly stated his intentions. But Rachel couldn’t marry him.

  He didn’t love her.

  “Lord Harland would never allow it.”

  “Challoner’s of age. Has his own fortune. He can’t be cut out of the will—his father’s properties are entailed. Of course, the marquess could make things miserable for you.”

  “And for Puddling, Vincent! What if people stopped sending their disappointing relatives here? The village would suffer.”