Schooling the Viscount Read online

  And that was crucial to the well-being of the town. The North had siphoned off the wool trade, and crop prices had been depressed—like some of their Guests—since before Rachel was born. There was no industry hereabouts but a small group of mad potters and furniture makers who were trying to redesign the art world. They contributed nothing to the economy of Puddling save for misshaped mugs and uncomfortable chairs for the church fete. Puddlingites bought them out of pity.

  Each Guest required an individual program, and Rachel Everett was not on Lord Challoner’s. He was meant to avoid female companionship, which had been somewhat awkward to arrange. Eventually the younger women of Puddling would be allowed out of their houses and back into the church and shops, but for the first two weeks of his stay Henry Challoner was to remain unaware of their existence during his walks until his carnal appetites were cooled and under control.

  The poor man was a sexual deviant. Addicted to spirits and drugs too. Rachel imagined his war experiences had left him shattered, and had some sympathy. She’d heard her own father had spent far too many hours in the Rifle and Roses after the Crimean War.

  The entire town was anxious to see the back of young Lord Challoner so the pub could open its taps again. It didn’t seem quite fair to some of the residents that they should have to suffer right along with their Guests, but sacrifices had to be made. Excessive drinking was a very common problem among the beau monde.

  At least they were not still hosting poor Greta Holmes-Hamilton, who had been sent to Puddling on a slimming regimen before her wedding. Rachel had missed the bake shop very much during the three months it had closed during Greta’s visit. It was much more convenient to buy treats than to bake for herself and her father, but Rachel had sealed up the windows of their cottage with dish towels so Greta wouldn’t smell the cinnamon rolls as she happened to pass by on her daily walk.

  Greta had been a vision in her bridal gown. The vicar had clipped the photograph out of The Times for the villagers to see, although she was not smiling in it. The poor girl was probably forbidden to eat her own wedding cake. From the conversations Rachel had with Greta, Mrs. Holmes-Hamilton was something of a martinet when it came to organizing Greta’s life.

  But Greta was gone now, hopefully to domestic bliss, and here was someone else in her place.

  “Tom, you may ring the bell. Children, you are dismissed.”

  It was only ten or so minutes before the usual time. The children reentered the schoolhouse for their lunch pails and belongings, then skipped away through the gate in the wall, scattering uphill through the village. A few glanced backward at the Guest and their teacher, who faced each other over the golden Cotswold stone.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he began.

  “I know who you are,” Rachel said, making him sound like Dr. William Palmer, the Prince of Poisoners. It was imperative that she freeze him out and send him back where he came from. In another week she might nod coldly if she encountered him, but not yet.

  “Then you have an advantage. Everyone’s in on this caper, yes?”

  Rachel tried to make her eyebrows ripple into one dark caterpillar. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “All of you Puddling persons are in this together. It’s like one charming, open-air jail, with each of you acting as coppers. I finally read my so-called Welcome Packet. I thought at first it was just the vicar chap and Mrs. Grace, but I’m beginning to see the error of my ways.”

  If only he were. But it was much too soon. Guests stayed a minimum of twenty-eight days, and some took much longer to take the Cure and perform their Service.

  “I’m sorry, Lord Challoner, but I must get back to grading papers. Good day.” Rachel turned to go, but as she did, Lord Challoner, using his stick for leverage, leaped over the low stone wall. He stumbled upon landing and fell in a well-tailored heap at her feet.

  “Damn,” he muttered, spitting out a blade of grass, “I should have used the gate.”

  “You should have gone home!” Rachel said with asperity. She reached a hand down to help him up.

  And promptly found herself pulled down into his lap.

  “If anyone sees us—” she hissed, punching his shoulder. Her blows were ineffective. He seemed to be made of marble and just grinned at her like one of her naughtier students. Only they would never dream of cuddling her in such a shocking way!

  “No chance of that, unless there are Puddling pigeons flying over us, and the sheep over there don’t care, I’m sure. You are lovely when you are angry. Forgive me, I just couldn’t help myself. There you were, above me like a solemn angel, offering succor. What could I do but reach for perfection? I simply forgot myself.”

  He took a great gulp of air. “By Jove, you smell like an angel too. Wisteria. Cloves. Pencil shavings. Ah, ambrosia.”

  The man was ridiculous.

  “When was the last time you encountered an angel, Lord Challoner? In some music hall? I am not that sort of woman.”

  “No, more’s the pity. I suppose you want to get up.” He sighed, the breath tickling her ear in the oddest way. “I’ve never held a woman against her will before.”

  Rachel could see why not—he was too handsome for his own good, not that she was moved in the least. Women of weaker virtue were bound to be quivering masses of feminine jelly after one smile. “Well, you’re doing so now. Unhand me.”

  “But of course. You didn’t get hurt when you fell, did you? Perhaps I should examine you for broken bones.” One fingertip touched her cheek.

  “I’m not the one who fell, you…you…”

  “Rascal?” he asked hopefully. “I have been called worse.”

  Rachel never cursed, but she was very close to that now. And the more she struggled to regain her footing, the odder Lord Challoner’s expression became.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. Then he kissed her.

  Rachel had been kissed before. When she was sixteen, she’d been terribly in love with Sir Bertram Sykes’s younger son Wallace, grandson of the wicked duke’s daughter Maribel, who had tested Puddling’s resolve more than Napoleon ever did. Wallace had kissed her—clumsily—behind the dunking booth at the St. Jude church fete before he went off to university.

  She never saw him again. The poor boy had died of influenza during Michaelmas term.

  There was not a surplus of young men in Puddling-on-the-Wold. Young women, either. Most did not want to stay and restrict themselves to the village’s peculiar customs of closed pubs, closed bakeshops and closed minds. They went off to school, to war, to London. Rachel couldn’t blame them—if she didn’t have her ancient father to care for, she would go too.

  So she was here. Being kissed. She didn’t have much to compare it to. Lord Challoner’s lips were firm and dry. He smelled good, not of wisteria and pencil shavings, but of some expensive, manly cologne she was unfamiliar with. Then he did something at the seam of her lips with his tongue—his tongue!—and she was so surprised she opened her eyes and mouth to yell.

  That was ill-conceived. His tongue was now touching hers in the most unsettling way, warm and swooping. Rachel had to shut her eyes so she wouldn’t go cross-eyed. But before she closed them, she noted Lord Challoner had very blond, very long eyelashes, which flicked every time his tongue did that twisty thing inside her mouth.

  Oh dear. This went against all his treatment plans. Why, she was probably setting him back in his recovery and his father the Marquess of Harland would ask for a refund.

  Rachel was becoming an enabler of an Incident. So she did what she had to do and slapped poor Henry Challoner’s face even if she didn’t want to.

  At all.

  Chapter 3

  Sweet God, but she was lovely. Delicious. She tasted of spearmint and was soft as a cloud on his lap.

  Not that she was at all wispy. Her bottom was plump and every time she wiggled, his cock jolted to attention. It had taken Francie and Lysette a great deal of anxious m
aneuvering to jolt his cock, and Henry was reasonably surprised at Miss Whosit’s ability to arouse him so easily.

  He’d been a trifle worried about his prowess lately, truth be told. Perhaps it had been the excess alcohol that had depressed his ardor most nights. Or the lack of sleep, or the irregular beating of his heart.

  Sometimes he imagined the damned thing would fragment in his chest like a mortar shell and he’d be put out of his misery.

  Henry had not been a coward when it counted, but he felt like a coward now in supposed peacetime. The armistice was signed just last month, too late to do him any good. How could he pretend everything was all right?

  Well, of course it was all right this very minute. He had a fresh-scented young woman in his lap, whose skin, what he could feel of it, was satin-soft. She was kissing him open-mouthed, her tongue tangling with his. He really had absolutely no complaints. This Puddling place was improving by the lick.

  Until the slap. Henry’s head snapped back against the stone wall with a sickening thunk, and for a moment he saw stars. Or perhaps swirling bullets—it was hard to tell. Then the young woman’s dismayed face came into focus.

  Lord, he didn’t even know her name, but she looked concerned, and so she should. He hadn’t been walloped like that since his school days. She might have even done him permanent damage, cracked his skull or some such. He was already physically impaired. Damn if he was going to wind up shuffling about not even knowing his own name.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry!” Miss Whosit tried to scramble off his lap, but Henry held her fast. “Are you hurt? Bleeding? I didn’t mean for you to hit your head.”

  Was he bleeding? Henry didn’t care for the sight of blood. He’d seen far too much of it recently. He refrained from trying to touch the back of his throbbing head—he’d have to release Miss Whosit to do so, and he had no intention whatsoever of doing that. She fit so nicely into his lap. Was so warm and cuddly and pretty. He felt…complete.

  Henry stared into the cloudless heavens. The sky was bright blue, and he fancied it matched his eyes. Would she make the comparison herself? He batted his eyelashes.

  “Who—who are you? Where am I?” he groaned.

  Was he laying it on too thick? Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  “Oh my God. You are injured.” Her cool hand stroked his brow, and it was all Henry could do not to get up and do cartwheels.

  “Head. Hurts. So very badly.” He squinched his eyes shut as if the sun pained him.

  “I’ll fetch the doctor.” There was more wiggling. “Please let me go so I can get help,” Miss Whosit pleaded.

  “So cold. Alone. Don’t leave me.” He drew her closer. Her breasts were…simply amazing.

  The famous actor Charles Kemble had nothing on Henry Challoner, though of course Kemble was dead, so it wasn’t that hard to surpass him. If his post-army career as a ne’er-do-well ever palled, he knew after this display he could always tread the boards.

  “I must leave you, Lord Challoner,” Miss Whosit said desperately.

  Her lips were close. Henry could feel her breath on his cheek, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose along with that other inconvenient thing. Exactly when would Miss Whosit notice?

  Ah. The elbow to his gut. Right about now, he reckoned.

  “Release me this instant or I shall scream and scream!”

  Just like little Mary Ann. There might be a positive aspect to being somewhat deaf at this close range.

  “Wha—who?” Henry began, trying to postpone the inevitable. He shook his head as if he was trying to clear it.

  “You, Lord Challoner, are a disgrace! I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. You’re trying to take advantage of my soft heart, and I admit you almost had me fooled. The only thing wrong with you is that you are a libertine! Get that—get that thing away from my bottom!”

  “Quite a natural reaction, you know,” Henry said soothingly, grabbing her pummeling fists. “A man can’t help himself. Even if you weren’t so awfully attractive, I imagine the results would be just the same. It’s biological. You’re an educated woman, I presume. A teacher and all that.”

  “I teach children, and such biological subjects have not arisen,” Miss Whosit spat.

  “Well, it’s risen now, and I’m afraid I have no control over it. I don’t mean to insult you. In fact, I like you quite a lot. You have spirit. Beauty. I’d like to get to know you better.” Henry gave her his best crooked smile.

  He couldn’t be faulted for trying. It wasn’t every day pretty women fell in his lap. Well, technically she didn’t precisely fall. But she was here now, in a state of absolute fury.

  She had odd eyes. Like slate or storm clouds. Blackish silver or silvery black. He could feel them boring holes into his head, possibly his soul.

  “Let go of me now, or I shall go to Reverend Walker at the first opportunity.”

  That did it. Henry loosened his grip and Miss Whosit sprang up, beating her dark, dull skirt as if it were on fire.

  Henry was not really afraid of Reverend Walker. The fellow was not much older than he was, and had a boring earnestness that was dead stultifying. But Vincent Walker was in communication with the pater. If Henry didn’t behave here, who knows where else the old man would send him to teach him the lessons of self-denial which seemed to be so necessary to continue the Harland line. The Arctic Circle? Back to Africa? Henry shivered thinking of them both, and Africa was hotter than Hell.

  “All right, all right. You win. But I have been starved for company, and there you were,” Henry said, feeling a trifle mulish.

  “You are not permitted female com—” Miss Whosit bit off the rest of her sentence.

  “Ha! I knew it! It’s a grand conspiracy and you’re all in it, monitoring my every move. Where are all the young women hidden, eh? The cellars and attics? You’re the first non-crone I’ve seen since I arrived.”

  Miss Whosit’s eyes shifted. “Never mind. It’s all part of your treatment for your addiction.”

  “My addiction! I’ll have you know Lysette and Francie were just an aberration. I was at loose ends and not entirely in my right mind. I don’t usually make it a practice to go to bed with two women at the same time.” Lately, it had been hard enough to go to bed with one, precisely since he couldn’t get hard at all.

  Until Miss Whosit. She was his good-luck charm. A talisman. Henry wasn’t a lost cause after all. Now all he had to do was persuade her to have an affair while he was cooped up here killing time.

  She didn’t look interested at present. Her arms were clutched over her magnificent bosom, and her luscious mouth was pinched in disapproval. No doubt gentlemen didn’t discuss such things with young unmarried ladies. Henry had been out of society and at war too long, but supposed that was no excuse. He had been raised a gentleman, though the best tutors and schools had bored him witless. As soon as he was sent down from Oxford he enlisted, buying his commission with his own money over his father’s vociferous objection.

  He’d seen some of the world. Too much of it. All he wanted now was some fun. What was wrong with that? He’d faced battle and siege, torment and starvation. No one seemed to understand. Was he was meant to forget everything that happened just because his father thought he should?

  He reminded himself that the recent Boer war had lasted barely ten weeks. His part in it had ceased as soon as his foot was done for and he was in hospital after being exchanged for some poor blokes with pitchforks the English had captured.

  He wished he could cooperate, he truly did. It was no picnic having the dreams he did. Sometimes he was even awake when they happened. A branch snapping, an actress’s shriek—who knew what would bring on the next episode? Henry was losing his mind one dimmed sound at a time, and was anxious to get the process over with.

  He knew he wasn’t the only fellow with bad memories, but his old army friends didn’t seem to want to talk about theirs. Instead they threw themselves into gay society jus
t like he did, hoping that revelry might dull the dread.

  But the dread was always there, even in this schoolyard. Henry’s temporary return to masculine normalcy abated, and he felt equal to standing without embarrassing either one of them further.

  The wind had definitely gone out of his sails. What had he been thinking to assault a blameless young schoolteacher? God forbid his thoughtless actions brought more time to his Puddling prison sentence. The kiss had been a revelation, but probably only because it had been a week since he’d kissed anyone. Or two anyones.

  His father had always drilled into him that he should think before he acted, and true to form, Henry had once again resisted doing the sensible thing. Now he’d imperiled his release from this reformation place.

  Rustication place.

  Rehabilitation place.

  Renewal place.

  Where did that last word come from? Henry couldn’t make himself new again. He was as jaded as they came. He tried to think back when he’d felt simple joy aside from five minutes ago.

  And failed.

  He straightened up and cleared the worrying lump in his throat. He was not about to cry, was he? That would put the icing on the loony cake. “I do most sincerely apologize, Miss…”

  “Everett,” she said with reluctance.

  He doffed an imaginary hat. “Viscount Challoner at your service. It’s just a courtesy title. Forgive my presumption. If we can keep this little incident between us and the sheep, I’d appreciate it. Reverend Walker might misinterpret it.”

  “I think Mr. Walker would understand your motivations completely. He may seem naïve, but he was picked for his position with great care. Not everyone is suitable to shepherd this parish. It’s…unusual.”