Henry had always enjoyed rainy days. There were too damned few of them in Africa. Each footstep there threw up a clot of dust big enough to choke a man. He had yearned then for the green and gray of England, the rolling hills, clouds dappling them with shadows. Fields of daffodils. The scent of lilacs. Church spires and hedgerows.
Just like Puddling.
And pale English ladies, who couldn’t imagine any of the horror of war.
The lice. The inedible food. The blood—so much of it. More than half his troops had been physically unfit before they ever stepped on the continent, and their conditions had no chance to improve.
Why was he thinking of such things as the English rain pattered down and a beautiful woman was by his side? He really must be ill.
“So, what shall we do?”
“Do?”
She seemed so nervous. Surely she didn’t think he was going to leap out of bed and ravish her. As delightful as that sounded, he was not in prime condition at present.
“To while away the hours until the dragon returns.”
“I could read to you, I suppose.”
“I don’t think there are any books here that are not improving tracts. Or the Bible. I’m afraid I didn’t think to bring any with me when my father shoved me into our traveling coach. I barely have a change of clothes.” His valet had packed in great haste, terrified of the marquess as all the servants were.
What was it about the man? Henry resembled his father down to the last eyelash, and no one was terrified of him. Of course, the pater’s temples were graying, and there were a few sun lines around his blue eyes. No laugh lines around his lips though. The Marquess of Harland was not a frivolous fellow, and looked to be an authority. He could cut you to the quick with one glance.
What Henry’s father needed was a woman to worry about; then maybe he’d leave his son alone to make his mistakes.
“You’ve looked very smart every time I’ve seen you.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Everett. Likewise.” He was fibbing a little. Rachel wore a faded brown printed dress, its hem still wet and muddy. She had tried to get her hair back in order though had not been entirely successful. But her color was fresh and she was simply a pleasure to gaze upon.
Henry liked her very much. He didn’t think his mind was playing tricks on him, that he was fooling himself into falling in love. There was no love that lasted. But didn’t he deserve a pretty intelligent female companion with some wit? They could make handsome children and build a comfortable life together. Henry would leave his dancers and actresses behind and live like a country gentleman somewhere, maybe within a stone’s throw of Kings Harland and Puddling both. What would be the harm? The Cotswolds were very pleasant.
She clapped her hands together. “I know! You can write to Sir Bertram. Explain everything.”
“Right now?” That didn’t seem like much fun. Rachel was already rummaging through his desk drawers for pen and paper.
“He’s gone away, but will be home tomorrow. He can find your letter waiting for him.”
“I haven’t really thought what I should say.”
Henry could see he wouldn’t have to think—Rachel was about to dictate everything he’d need to disavow his feelings for her. She shoved a well-thumbed book to lean on in his lap—Sermons I Have Known and Loved—and plopped the rest of the materials on the bedcovers.
“Now.” She actually rubbed her hands. “‘Dear Sir Bertram’ comma.”
As if he didn’t know his punctuation. Henry’s handwriting was precariously legible under the best of circumstances, and writing over the pebbled surface of the book was not helpful.
“‘It has come to my attention that a misunderstanding has arisen regarding my relationship’—no, make that acquaintance—‘with a female person in Puddling, one Miss…hm. Evergreen.’”
“Evergreen?”
“See, you don’t even know my true name. It’s brilliant. ‘I write this to assure you and the other honored governors of the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation that while I have befriended her father—’”
“Whose name I apparently also do not know,” Henry muttered.
“‘—I have only met the young woman in passing period I fully intend to adhere to every letter of my treatment program comma and look forward to formulating my Service period.’ That’s with a capital ‘s.’ You’ve read the Welcome Packet. New paragraph. ‘One’s reputation is sacrosanct comma and while I have besmirched mine—’”
“Hold on, hold on. Must I really kowtow like this? I am not ‘besmirched,’ as you put it. And you are talking much too fast.” Henry was getting more irritated by the word and hadn’t even written them all down. Rachel seemed to think he was some sort of secretarial automaton. He was unacquainted with Pittman shorthand, and even if he was, could never keep up.
“‘Besmirched mine comma,’” Rachel repeated, “‘Miss Evergreen is entirely innocent of any wrongdoing period It is most unfortunate that the livelihood of an unexceptional school teacher should be threatened by the scurrilous gossip of a few small-minded villagers period I did not go to war to come home to such iniquitous injustice period My father the Marquess of Harland shares my sense of outrage that a person of Miss Everdean’s—’”
“Evergreen,” Henry reminded her, scribbling furiously.
“‘Evergreen’s unblemished integrity has been called into question period. Her father has described her kindness and honor to me at great length comma and I almost feel as if I know her period But I do not period.’ New paragraph. ‘I trust you will accept the word of an officer and a gentleman that Miss Evergreen remains a sterling citizen of your fine community and should in no way be blamed from my simple misstep on the road when I was near death and she tried to assist me period.’”
Henry rolled his eyes. “You are exaggerating, my dear. A touch of influenza only. And the odd shovel.”
“Write it. ‘Yours most sincerely comma Captain Lord Henry…’What’s your middle name?”
It had come to this, twice in one day. “Agamemnon.”
“Really? How extraordinary. ‘Captain Lord Henry Agamemnon Challoner.’ There! That should do it. Sir Bertram is a dreadful stickler, and a snob, too. Your rank should convince him that there’s nothing to the rumors.”
“But my besmirched reputation might indicate that I lie on a regular basis. You know how we drunkards and debauchers are.” Henry blotted the letter. If Sir Bertram could actually decipher it, it would be a miracle.
Rachel gathered up the ink pot and the rest of the things and returned them to the little desk in the corner. She seemed very pleased with herself.
“Piffle. You did nothing no other healthy young man fresh from war would do. Wine, women, and song, etcetera. I believe your father overreacted.”
That had been Henry’s contention all along. He knew he liked Rachel for a reason.
“What else brings Guests here?”
“Oh, it varies. Usually it’s drink and general depravity. But one of our more recent guests had an unusual treatment plan. I can’t name names, you know. It goes against the rules. But she was a young woman preparing for her wedding, and her mama wanted her to lose a few stone to fit into a Worth gown from Paris.”
“So you kept her here and starved her?” Henry was appalled.
“Of course not! Mrs. Grace fed her plenty of wholesome, nourishing food.”
Ugh. Henry could imagine. Lettuce and carrot sticks and celery three times a day, as if the poor girl was a bunny in a hutch. “And did this treatment work?”
Rachel nodded. “It did. Although I don’t think Greta—that is the young woman was looking forward to her wedding, though. She was…subdued. Poor Vincent had to lecture her about the seven deadly sins, specifically gluttony, daily, and it bothered him. He’s as fond of his food as anyone. And she wasn’t a bit sinful, just very, very plump. She was sweet, really.”
“Sweets for the sweet. Did she stay here in my house?”
“She did. This is our best cottage.”
“The whole thing sounds barbaric. If she was such an eyesore, why did her husband want to marry her in the first place?”
“Money, I believe. Gr—the girl in question is a great heiress, and there was a bankrupt title involved. The marriage was arranged between her mother and the peer.”
“Ridiculous in this day and age. People should marry whom they please.”
“Don’t start.”
Henry looked at her with what he hoped was innocence. “What do you mean?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean. You’ll start proposing again, and I’ve told you it is a very bad idea. I am perfectly happy here with, um, Vincent. We are w-well suited.”
“Horsesh—I mean, I only have your best interests at heart.”
“That’s what men always say, and look how that usually turns out.”
Henry wasn’t up to arguing. Or wasting their few hours together with any lingering unpleasantness. But he didn’t think Rachel was ready to snuggle up and kiss him, especially if she was still fibbing about her understanding with Vincent Walker.
He didn’t believe it for a minute. Couldn’t. Henry could on occasion be as forceful as his father, and by the time this day was over, Rachel would be his.