Like his son.
She needed help, and Vincent had refused to lie for her. Could she make herself so unappealing that Henry would come to his senses?
If he hadn’t objected to her horrific mud-splattered self when she arrived, there was no accounting for his taste.
The true problem was basic. Rachel didn’t want to dissuade Henry. She liked him. Very much. But she just couldn’t see how any relationship they might establish would prosper.
She sighed.
“What’s wrong?” His voice was thick and rough. Surely she hadn’t been that loud, and he was supposed to be partially deaf, too.
“Nothing. I was just breathing. You didn’t sleep for very long. Can I get you anything?”
“Some water, I think. No, don’t get up. I’m not so weak I can’t pour it myself.” He sat up and reached for the carafe on the bedside table. His hair was adorably disordered, blond tufts sprouting like a collie’s ears.
It was still pouring. What a day for a wedding, though Rachel imagined some of the bride’s earlier ones may have boasted sunshine. Would grim Mrs. Grace come home tiddly on the local cider? That would be a sight to see.
“How have you occupied yourself while I was snoring away?”
“You don’t snore. I was thinking. Reading a little.”
“Which one of my boring books caught your eye?”
“Oh, I have my own with me at all times.” Rachel was not going to confess to the romance novel in her skirt pocket.
“Have we heard from our mutual friend Vincent?”
Rachel’s face grew warm. “I believe he was officiating at the wedding in the Sheepscombe chapel. He travels the circuit, ministering to three other parishes. The surrounding villages are too small to support a clergyman, so we all club together.”
“Excellent. No lecture today. He does go on and on, you know. If I weren’t so anxious to get out of here, I’d lock the door against him.”
“Nothing can stop Vincent when he is determined.”
“Is that how he wooed you? With determination? Like a bulldog? Or like Rufus with my cane, gnawing on it until it drops to the ground in relief and is delighted to be turned into sawdust?”
“I didn’t drop down to the ground! Vincent was a perfect gentleman. He’s very…he’s very sensitive to my feelings.”
“Has he kissed you?”
“A thousand t-times,” Rachel said, vexed. She hated to lie, and was so bad at it.
“Merely a thousand? He’s been here four years.” He paused, thinking. “That’s one-point-one-one-five kisses per day. The fellow is a slow-top.”
Rachel was impressed with Henry’s mathematical skills, but wasn’t going to tell him so until she had a piece of paper and a pencil to check his work. “Our understanding is of more recent origin. He’s been much more attentive than that.”
“Are his kisses as nice as mine?”
“Henry! A lady doesn’t discuss such things.” And nice was a vastly inadequate adjective. Henry’s kisses were stirring. Sensational.
Sinful.
“Where else has the fellow kissed you?”
Rachel blinked. What did he mean? Oh, of course.
“My hand. Sometimes my fingertips. Vincent is very continental.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s plenty, my lord. We certainly will not anticipate our vows,” Rachel said firmly. If and when she married, she intended to come to the marriage bed a maid. In the parish women’s sewing circle, she’d knitted too many booties for six-month babies. And sometimes the weddings never came off at all, and the poor girls were left with a baby and a bad reputation.
Vincent wasn’t the sort who would break rules anyway. Not that she was going to marry him—she’d never even dreamed of kissing him. Briefly she wondered who had captured his heart. Someone unattainable, perhaps a childhood sweetheart who didn’t care to be a minister’s wife after all. Poor Vincent.
“So he’s never…” Henry’s lips quirked. “Kissed you where it counts most.”
“What do you mean? I have told you he’s kissed me!” Rachel felt confused.
“He’s never—of course he hasn’t. If he had, you wouldn’t be trying to find your own pleasure in the dark with such determination.”
Oh, damn him. He was a disgrace. She had almost forgotten that embarrassing night.
“A gentleman would not bring up such a thing.”
“Who said I was a gentleman? If you ask me, old Vincent is too much of one. He could take care of you and you would still be intact. Surely he knows that.”
She couldn’t believe she was discussing the state of her virginity with Lord Henry Challoner. This was the most improper discussion of her life, if you didn’t count almost every other time she’d talked to him.
“I shall go downstairs and fix you some soup or something.” Rachel tried to rise, but he caught her elbow.
“I don’t want a taste of soup. I want a taste of you.”
Rachel tried to wiggle her elbow free. “I will not kiss you!”
“Who asked you to? I’m going to kiss you.”
The man made no sense. His fever was down, but the numerous blows to his head over the last few days had left their mark.
“I will not kiss you back.”
Henry threw his head back and laughed, then winced. “Remind me not to laugh quite yet. Rachel, my poor innocent, you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
She didn’t, but did not want to admit her disadvantage. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s inappropriate and horrible. Let go of my arm!”
“I don’t want to. And there’s nothing truly…inappropriate or horrible about what I’m proposing. You won’t be harmed at all. Old Vincent will never know unless you tell him.”
Rachel was tired of hearing her faux fiancé referred to as “old Vincent.” He was only a year or two older than Henry, not some shriveled-up pensioner. Before she had a chance to object, somehow Henry had drawn her down into his bed. His arm was around her, cradling her carefully. She felt entirely too comfortable and should be beating him off, but it was rather nice lying next to his warm form. His breath tickled her ear, and goose bumps rose on her scalp.
“We don’t know how much time we have, so I’d better be efficient about it all,” Henry murmured.
“You need to let me up,” Rachel said with much less force than she should have.
“I don’t think so. Relax.”
The word had an opposite effect. Every sense was on alert now. She smelled Henry’s cologne, his tooth powder. The lavender sheets. She saw at close range the red bristles of the beard he’d been too weak to shave off this morning. Without forethought, her hand brushed his cheek. He hissed, and his blue eyes dropped in apparent bliss.
“You cannot touch me,” he whispered. “I’ll not be responsible.” He took her hand away and kissed her palm. He’d done it before, and the same loose feeling shot through her body. He had the most beautiful mouth for a man, Rachel thought. Good thing she was lying down—she was a bit dizzy. Was she succumbing to the same malady as Henry?
His lips and one set of fingers concentrated on her hand, stroking, licking, tickling, but his other fingers…oh dear. He was tugging up her skirt and petticoat and she should tell him no. She would tell him no, if only she could remember how to say it. Her tongue only needed to go to the roof of her mouth to get the word started.
Instead, she licked her lips. And then it was too late. His hand slipped inside her drawers, caressing her curls. His touch was simply so much better than hers. This was all wrong but felt so right. He was looking straight into her eyes, one wicked eyebrow raised, waiting for the ‘no’ that would not come.
She shut her own eyes in compliance, and then he dipped a finger inside her. She trembled as he stroked, almost too gently. It was so very…something. A dictionary might be helpful, though she doubted she could see straight to focus on the words.
“What—”
“Hush.” She felt his breath across her thighs and shivered. She felt him part her folds, then watched as he buried his golden head between her legs.
“Henry!”
This was the kiss he meant, this wicked, wonderful kiss. Rachel bit her lip to keep from crying out again. His mouth was hot against her center, his movements unerring. Lips, tongue, teeth worked in concert to build up her release in what seemed like seconds. Whether it was the idea of what he was doing or what he actually did, Rachel shattered before she had a chance to consider.
It didn’t stop him from continuing, ratcheting the pulses up again until no amount of lip-biting could prevent her keening. She knew she was smiling as she did, the widest smile of her life, as if her cheeks would crack. She couldn’t help herself—her body was his, her reaction out of her control. The sensation was so intense she wanted it to stop.
Or go on forever. Rachel was past being rational and consistent.
When she was absolutely exhausted from the spasms, Henry finally stopped and returned to her side. His face was flushed, his hair disordered from her pulling at it.
“There. I challenge old Vincent to match that. Did you like it?”
Was that the only reason he did such a thing, as a kind of one-upmanship over his supposed rival? Rachel felt a flash of irritation.
“I am not some bone to be fought over.”
“Ah, I agree, even if you are tender and juicy and delicious.”
Rachel’s face was on fire. Perhaps she had the fever now. “You are impossible.”
“So I have been frequently told. You didn’t answer the question.”
Did she like it?
More than breathing.
Chapter 26
Henry was rather proud of himself. He didn’t think he’d ever caused such a fulsome response in all the years he’d been pleasuring women. In truth, there had not been all that many women, no matter what his father thought. Zulus and Boers rather interfered with one’s ardor and availability, and when Henry had returned home, he was far more interested in getting his own tenuous satisfaction.
He had been selfish. Depressed, too. But he was feeling one thousand percent better now.
It must be the country air. The country girl. Rachel lay beside him, her cheeks rose-stained, her glorious dark hair somehow free of its pins. She was still mostly covered by her clothing, and Henry couldn’t wait to see her out of it.
But not today. He reckoned he’d better not press his luck, amazed that he’d gotten this far. The taste and scent of her had made him hard as stone, but this afternoon had been for her. His time would come, God willing.
“You are happy, yes?” He couldn’t have been mistaken. She had throbbed against his tongue like an electric current and nearly ruptured his good eardrum with her screams.
“I suppose.”
Henry swallowed back a laugh. She was embarrassed, but truly, this had been a beautiful thing.
“I take it this was a new experience for you?”
“I think you should shut up now,” Rachel said. He could see she wished she had a ruler with which to rap his knuckles. The poor thing was shy about what happened, but she needn’t be. Henry didn’t believe women should just lie there and submit like an inert china doll. A willing participant was always so much more satisfactory.
“All right. I do want to thank you for the privilege, though. It means a great deal to me that you trusted me.” Henry was entirely sincere.
“If I had known what you were going to do, I would have said no.”
He brushed her damp fringe from her eyes. “Would you have? Then you didn’t like it?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Are you waiting to be complimented? Fine. It was extraordinary,” she huffed. “I had no idea such a thing could be done. Who on earth would think of it?”
“Adam, I imagine. Maybe eating the apple had nothing to do with him getting thrown out of the Garden of Eden.”
She gave him a little shove. “Don’t blaspheme! You’re in enough trouble as it is.”
“I daresay you’re right. Well, Miss Everett, how are we to spend the rest of the afternoon? I doubt I can top my previous endeavor.” He was a smug bastard.
“I wish Mrs. Grace would come home.”
“I don’t,” Henry said. There would be no more fun, and he planned on kissing Rachel in a more conventional manner later. He tried to bring her closer but she was already rolling off the bed.
“I must get up.”
“No, you mustn’t. Aren’t we cozy with the rain beating down? There’s nothing like the smell of a spring rain.” Henry made a show of inhaling. Shouldn’t she be checking his temperature? That required propinquity.
Rachel moved to the open window and closed it. “More like a deluge. The curtains are wet.”
“They’ll dry.” He pulled himself up, feeling only slightly light-headed. He put his own hand to his forehead but it was impossible to tell whether he was warm from fever or his ministrations. Rachel remained at the window, staring out at the gray gloom. It really was a filthy day.
“Someone’s coming up the path.”
Henry sat up straighter. “Who?”
“I can’t tell. They’re under an umbrella. Oh, God.” She’d seen herself in his shaving stand mirror and began frantically twisting up her hair. Rachel was entirely disordered, hair unbound, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed.
“Bloody hell. Why can’t people leave me alone?” Henry resolved then and there to pick up the extra key from under the flower pot. A man needed some privacy to make love to his future wife, didn’t he? If they had been interrupted just a few minutes ago…
The bell below jangled. Rachel smoothed down her skirt, but could do nothing about the high color of her face without a powder puff, and he didn’t have one handy.
“Tell whoever it is to go away,” Henry growled. He didn’t want their time together invaded in any way.
“It may be Dr. Oakley come to check up on you.”
“Tell him I’m dead.”
“Henry!”
It was almost true. He was going to die of frustration. Just when things were going his way.
Rachel left him. Henry heard his front door creak open, heard the male voice below. Oh, hell. Double hell.
After an agonizing amount of time, both Rachel and the Right Reverend Vincent Walker entered his bedroom. Walker, despite his umbrella, dripped on the carpet, and Henry was inclined to tell him to go to the devil and dry off in the heat of Hell.
“Miss Everett tells me you are much improved from the last time I saw you, my lord.”
Henry coughed, considering his options. Should he pretend to pass out again and be spared his daily lecture? Feigning unconsciousness could become habitual. He might write a treatise on it to help other tortured souls.
“I will fetch some tea and cake,” Rachel said, disappearing again.
Henry didn’t want any damned tea, although he wouldn’t turn down cake. Good luck to Rachel for finding some wherever Mrs. Grace has stashed it. “What brings you out on such a dismal day, Walker? I thought you were busy with a wedding.”
“A matter of conscience. I have been enlisted by Mrs. Grace to take over here. Sheepscombe Brook has risen, and the road is washed out. She will be unable to return tonight from her sister’s house.”
“So?”
“She got a message through to let me know. Some nephew with a leaky punt. I barely got home from the wedding myself. You must see Miss Everett cannot stay here with you unchaperoned.”
No, Henry didn’t see. That situation sounded absolutely ideal. A night alone with Rachel would be just what the doctor ordered. By morning
she would be his and Walker could find someone else to do the altar flowers.
Henry gave the vicar a leveling look. “Do you doubt that I am a gentleman, Walker?”
“Let’s not pretend you are here for no reason, Lord Challoner. Your father—”
“Damn my father! He exaggerated everything out of all proportion!”
Walker paled. “I cannot stand by while you break commandments to my face. ‘Honor they father and mother,’ don’t you know.”
Henry did know. He’d tried to honor his father most of his life and where had that gotten him? Puddling-on-the-Wold.
Well, actually he supposed he should thank the pater. Henry would never have met Rachel otherwise, never kissed or cuddled her, never licked—
“You look hot. You’re still unwell, aren’t you? But I’m sure I can manage any symptoms you still have. You cannot expect Miss Everett to remain all night. Even someone like you can see that I’m right.”
No, even “someone like him” supposed he couldn’t expect Rachel to be alone with him, as much as he wanted her to be. If word got out, it would be hard to convince Puddling that Rachel was still an innocent.
Although now she was less innocent than she used to be, Henry thought with well-earned satisfaction.
He would be stuck with old Vincent until the cock crowed or the flood receded. The fellow might actually be an improvement over Mrs. Grace in the companionship department.
“You’re right. I would never want to compromise Miss Everett’s virtue,” Henry lied.
“I knew you would see reason. Do you play chess?”
“Not well. I haven’t the patience.” Chess was the marquess’s game—the man planned ahead like no one’s business. As a boy, Henry became bored easily and didn’t care who took whose bishop.
He’d been the despair of his father even then and hadn’t even begun to flex his rebellious muscles.
“I suppose I could read to you,” Walker said doubtfully.
Spare me, Jesus, Henry thought. The drone of old Vincent’s voice reading improving texts would lead him to madness and Hades.
Schooling the Viscount Page 15
