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 Puddling-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.
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.