Annie Burrows

by Reforming the Viscount

  ‘Perhaps,’ he suddenly said, ‘that would be the answer.’

  ‘W-what is the answer? Answer to what?’

  ‘The answer to what we should do about this inconvenient attraction I feel for you.’

  ‘What? I...I don’t understand you.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you do.’ He closed the distance she’d put between them and murmured into her ear again. The heat of his breath slid all the way down her spine. ‘We should become lovers, Lydia. And lay the past to rest in your bed.’

  He straightened up, and gave her a slow, sultry perusal. ‘Just send me word, Lydia. Whenever you are ready, I will be more than happy to oblige.’

  ‘N-no...’ she tried to say. But somehow the word barely managed to make it past the huge lump in her throat. When she’d started to try to tell him what she wished might happen between them, it hadn’t been that. She’d just hoped they might be able to recapture something of the friendship they’d used to feel for each other, that was all. She wouldn’t have asked anything more of him, if only he could try to set aside the animosity that kept flaring in his eyes, that kept spilling from his lips.

  Instead of which he’d grossly insulted her by assuming she was the kind of woman who could indulge in an extra-marital affair. She should have slapped his face.

  And then he wouldn’t have given her that knowing look. And he wouldn’t be stalking away with that self-satisfied smirk on his face.

  At least, she couldn’t see it, but she could tell from the set of his shoulders. She’d never seen such a smug back. It was no use saying it was entirely her own fault for gasping and melting when he’d suggested they should go to bed together. He was the one who’d made her gasp and melt, with his wicked suggestion.

  Ooh, if only she had a heavy object to hand, she would throw it at him. Never mind who was watching.

  Though people were watching. People who mattered to her.

  People she’d forgotten entirely, for the entire time Lord Rothersthorpe had been talking to her.

  Though the moment she looked at Rose, she knew that she had not taken leave of her senses. Her eyes were flicking from Lord Rothersthorpe, who was stalking from the room, to her.

  And they were brim full of speculation.

  Chapter Five

  Lord Rothersthorpe reined to a halt, pulled a kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, muttering a string of oaths under his breath. Lydia had driven him to take to his horse yet again.

  The moment he’d received her note, delivered to his door at dead of night by one of her footmen, he’d realised it had been a mistake to issue her a challenge. He should have known she wouldn’t let him escape her clutches now she’d reeled him in again.

  He’d thought that telling her the truth—that nowadays he found her only fit for bedding, not for wedding—would have put her in her place.

  Instead, he’d discovered just how different Mrs Lydia Morgan was from the girl he’d believed Lydia Franklin had been. That Lydia would never have taken a lover.

  But then that Lydia wouldn’t have taken a shrivelled-up old man for a husband, either. Had he learned nothing? How could he have been so taken in by that little show of outrage she’d put on when he’d made his proposition? She’d been so convincing he’d wondered if he owed her an apology for insulting her, even though he’d cloaked it under an air of nonchalance as he’d taken his leave.

  Just as well he hadn’t turned round and made that apology. Or he would have felt a great fool when he held that note in his hand.

  It had all been an act. Put on lest someone had overheard him, he supposed. She must really want people to believe she was a respectable widow.

  He grudgingly conceded that she did at least draw the line at flaunting her affairs to the detriment of her stepdaughter’s chances at making a good match.

  Then he shut his eyes and shook his head, unable to credit the fact that he was sliding into an attitude of looking for some good in her. When was he going stop letting his youthful folly affect his judgement as an adult?

  She was the kind of woman who used the cover of a batch of eager suitors for an innocent girl’s hand to embark on a clandestine affair.

  So what did that make him for taking her up on it?

  What kind of man dragged on his clothes at first light, dashed straight round to the mews and saddled his horse as though getting to Westdene was a matter of life or death?

  The horse in question snorted, and gave its head a little shake. He stopped wool-gathering, stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket and urged his mount into motion.

  To think he would actually have been glad if she’d accepted his proposal back then. Though, he grudgingly conceded, she might have made him happy, to begin with. But the truth was he’d had a lucky escape.

  Lydia was too avaricious to have understood, let alone supported him in his quest to improve life for his tenants. When he’d started sacrificing so much of his own personal wealth to redress the imbalance that had so appalled him, she would soon have ceased looking up at him with those puppy-dog eyes. She would have pouted and rebelled by running up enormous bills at the dressmaker’s.

  The way he saw it, his life would then have gone in one of two directions. Either he would have stayed enamoured of her and ended up living to please her. Or he would have grown disgusted at having tied himself, in his youth, to such an ambitious schemer. In either case, it would have spelled disaster for his self-respect and his tenants in about equal measure. He shuddered as he imagined his estates still lying waste, his tenants driven to rioting through hunger, while all their rents went on buying her silken gowns.

  He trotted along, his face grim. Whichever version of married life he envisioned, she was very far from being the helpmeet he yearned for now.

  So what was he doing, riding his horse through this insufferable heat, just because she’d summoned him to her bed?

  He rested his horse when he came to the brow of the next hill, scowling along the road that descended through a narrow, steep-sided valley. If he had any sense he would turn round and send a note expressing regrets, saying he had pressing engagements which would keep him in town for the entirety of the next week. And she would have her answer. She could damn well find some other man to slake her carnal appetites!

  No sooner had he pictured some other man in her bed than his stomach clenched in revolt.

  Anyway, why the hell should he deny himself the satisfaction of possessing her, just for a few nights, simply because he had a few qualms about her character? Did a man look for virtue in a mistress? No.

  So what was the matter with him?

  It could not be that he was afraid she could inveigle her way into his heart again. This time round, he was not some green boy, blinded to her faults by infatuation. He was older and wiser, and could see exactly how worthless she really was. This time round, her attraction for him was merely physical.

  He was keen to bed her, yes, but that did not put him in a position of weakness. There was no point in taking a lover unless his level of interest was such that she could make all the sneaking around involved worth his while. And if he felt that it would kill him to let her slip through his fingers, then it was only because she had been his secret, sexual fantasy for such a long time.

  She might still be disturbing his peace of mind, but she no longer had the power to touch his heart. She could not deflect him from the future he’d mapped out for himself. This was just a short interlude before he commenced on the serious business of finding a suitable wife.

  A hard smile curved his lips at the notion of treating her as nothing more than a passing sexual adventure, after the way she’d used him as light relief during her own Season of spouse hunting. There was a pleasing symmetry to it.

  He urged his horse onwards. Hadn’t he recently likened her to a kind of pernicious disease? Well, this week would be the equivalent of taking the cure. He would immerse himself in her for the duration of this house party, or however long it took for this
inconvenient obsession with her to burn out.

  And once he’d slaked his lust for her, he wouldn’t have that gilded image of her, ethereal and fragile, shimmering in the background of his mind whenever he looked at any other woman.

  This week, he would take that image and shatter it beyond any hope of repair.

  He was amazed that it still existed in any form, given the years he’d spent hating her for marrying for money. Yet he’d only had to look at her across that ballroom, to feel a jolt of yearning so strong it had almost stopped his breath.

  Very well, she was still the most beautiful, the most desirable woman he’d ever seen. But her beauty went no deeper than her porcelain-fine skin. Apart from being mercenary, she was also damned insensitive. She must be, to have given him directions to the jetty where the barge carrying all her other guests was moored. Had she really forgotten the only other time he’d gone by water to Westdene? Had that day meant so little to her?

  He could still recall every single minute of it.

  Ironically enough, when he’d gone to collect her, she’d wanted to cry off. She’d said she wasn’t well enough to go out anywhere. Her chaperon had been deaf to her entreaties, practically thrusting her into the hack he’d hired to take them down to the jetty. When she’d winced at the brightness of the light reflecting off the water he’d been livid with her chaperon. Though rouge had given Lydia’s cheeks some semblance of normality, her lips had been completely white. And while the others had bounced, laughing, out of the barge once they’d reached their destination, her legs had almost given way. She’d stood on the jetty swaying, her hand pressed to her forehead. And all her chaperon had done was rather impatiently tell her to go and sit in the shade, and stop making such a fuss.

  Over the years since then, he’d often wondered if the Westerly woman had known her charge better than anyone. Perhaps her impatience with her die-away airs stemmed from a knowledge that Lydia had been acting all along and disapproved of her methods. But at the time, as a young man rather given to fits of chivalry, he’d sworn that someone had to rescue Lydia from that woman. And that, in spite of his youth, and the assumption that went with it that he wouldn’t have to consider marriage for years yet, he was going to be the one to do it. That decision reached, conventions and propriety seemed irrelevant. He’d scooped her into his arms and carried her up to the house. For she’d told him once that only complete darkness and absence of sound would bring any relief from the devastating pain she suffered when she got one of her headaches.

  Robert had been too busy with his other guests to pay him much attention. He’d taken the opportunity to put his proposition to Lydia, but there had not been time for her to give him any kind of answer before the Westerly woman had come panting into the house behind them, vociferously objecting to his actions. He’d only managed to appease her by promising to go and fetch the housekeeper, the moment he’d laid Lydia gently down on the nearest sofa.

  And that had been the last time he’d seen her, as a single woman.

  Dear God, did she really think he could take part in a parody of that day by getting into a barge with a load of young people intent on their party of pleasure? When they both knew that at some stage over the next few days, they would become lovers? It would have been like rubbing salt into all the wounds she’d ever inflicted on him.

  His mouth flattened into a grim line. Even after all these years, he was still angry with her. He’d got her into that house. She’d used him to effect an introduction to Colonel Morgan, then turned all her charm upon him. She’d seduced the old man into making a proposal within the space of a few days.

  As effectively as she was seducing him now, he supposed, darting him those heated looks with those luminous great eyes of hers. While still managing to project an air of fragility—no, make that utter femininity.

  Oh, what the hell did it matter how he chose to describe what it was about her that called to everything that was masculine in him? The fact was that he wasn’t going to be fit to court another woman until he’d dealt with this obsession with her. If he did not take this chance to finally get to know her, in the biblical sense, he would forever wonder what it would have been like. He might even, God forbid, still find himself hankering for a version of her whilst selecting his own wife. Which would be disastrous.

  He needed to take these few days, or even weeks, or however long was necessary. Only then could he start looking for a virtuous young woman who would become a life partner. A woman he would be proud to have for the mother of his children. A woman who would care for his tenants compassionately and run his household with intelligence and tact. A woman he wouldn’t want to alternately strangle, or kiss, or shield from the slightest breeze.

  And speaking of breezes, he wished there was one now. Heat poured down the hillside and pooled in the valley floor, making the atmosphere insufferable. There was not a scrap of shade to be had anywhere. The only way to escape was to press on, climb the next hill and hope for a village with an inn, or at least a stand of trees so he could give his mount some respite.

  For the first time that day, he could see the point of travelling to Westdene by water at this season of the year. His lips curled in self-derision. He’d been in such a rush to set out that he’d only paused to give his valet instructions about packing and transporting clothes. It had never occurred to him that he ought really to have consulted a map. He knew, roughly, the location of Westdene in relation to the river. Knew where the nearest large town was, too. And assumed he could get there just as well on horseback, without having to have anything to do with the arrangements she’d made.

  This was the effect Lydia had on him, even now.

  Eventually the road, as all roads do, brought him to an inn where he got not only water for his poor beleaguered horse, but also an excellent pint of ale for himself. The landlord had not heard of Westdene, but he did introduce him to a wagon driver who often went up past Chertsey and that excellent fellow gave him detailed directions, liberally peppered with landmarks, culminating in the information that he wanted to look out for a dirty great big set of stone gateposts topped with pineapples.

  * * *

  Since Westdene was set on the brow of a hill, he caught glimpses of it through the trees long before he found the gateposts in question. And he was glad of it, for otherwise he might have been confused by the fact that the gateposts were actually surmounted by a pair of delicately carved marble lotus blossoms.

  He paused in the gateway, his jaw working as he gazed at the still far-off slender towers and domed turrets of the house, just visible above the tree tops. The eccentricity of its architecture had been a talking point when Colonel Morgan had the place built. It looked for all the world as though he’d transported a miniature Indian palace from the heat of the tropics and dropped it whole into the rolling Surrey countryside. But to him, those turrets and domes did not represent interesting architectural features. They were images that recurred in his most lurid nightmares, even after all this time.

  It was a while before he could tear his eyes from the outlandish structure and make himself enter the grounds that had belonged to Lydia’s husband.

  But after a few minutes, though he hated to admit it, he had to acknowledge that he’d never seen such spectacular gardens. Last time he’d been here, he had not taken much note of them, but now he could see exactly why people had vied for those invitations of Robert’s. Whoever had designed the place had taken advantage of the gradient to create a succession of weirs and cascades, and sweeping expanses of water, round which the drive wound so that at every turn he encountered a new, but equally enchanting, view. He did not know the names of most of the plants he saw, which told him they must be specimens imported from far-off lands. All of which added to the impression of having strayed into a realm where everything was out of the ordinary.

  Every now and then he caught glimpses of another horseman, cantering up the drive ahead of him, and, further on still, an unwieldy travelling coach
, lumbering up to the house itself. Evidently, he was not the only one who had chosen not to travel to Westdene by water.

  He was crossing the last of the stone bridges before the final sweep up to the house at exactly the same time that the coach lurched to a halt beside the shallow front steps.

  So he had a ringside view of everything that happened next.

  First of all, just like a creature from one of his heated nightmares, a wild-haired woman came rushing out of the house. Screaming.

  The horseman dug in his spurs, urging his mount to intercept the screaming woman before she could reach the carriage.

  As the woman tried to dodge round him, Robert—for Lord Rothersthorpe now perceived that it was he—kicked his feet free from the stirrups, dropped to the ground and caught the creature in his arms. She struggled frantically with him, screaming incoherently at the top of her lungs. Robert’s horse shied away, but after shaking its mane as though thoroughly disgusted by the behaviour of the nearby humans, trotted off round the corner of the house with its ears pricked up. Only once the horse was well on its way to what Rothersthorpe assumed was its comfy stable did Robert slacken his hold, allowing the she-demon to rain down blows upon his head and chest with clenched fists. She knocked off his hat and even caused him to stagger back a pace or two under the force of her attack.

  And yet Robert made no move to either defend himself or restrain her now that the horse had taken itself off out of range. He just stood there, absorbing the blows, whilst very deliberately blocking her access to the coach.

  It was such a bizarre sight that Rothersthorpe brought his own horse to a standstill. Robert’s horse had a place of safety, well known to it. But his own mount was far from its home and he wasn’t at all sure what its reaction would be. If the wild woman darted out of Robert’s range, it might rear and lash out with its hooves and injure her. He reached down and patted its neck, murmuring soft words of reassurance just in case.