Annie Burrows

by Reforming the Viscount

  And just like that, she was ready for him once again. In fact, if they really did go somewhere secluded where he could take advantage of her readiness, she thought the whole episode might very well reach its natural conclusion within a very few moments.

  Gracious heavens. When he’d suggested they do exactly that, she had been shocked. Outraged. Insulted.

  Yet she could not stop thinking about it.

  At this point her legs became so weak that she only just managed to totter to one of the benches dotted about the edges of the lawn before they gave way under her, depositing her upon the cool stone surface.

  However was she going to be able to concentrate on entertaining Rose’s guests, and maintaining some semblance of dignity, when the mere sight of him leaning against the door jamb of the pavilion made her want to slam herself up against him and wind her legs round his waist?

  She leaned forwards, shading her eyes with a groan.

  What was she to do?

  ‘Are you ill, Mama?’

  She lifted her head quickly to see her little son, Michael, standing beside her with a troubled air. Robert, too, was watching her, a frown on his face.

  She opened her arms and drew Michael into a hug.

  ‘A little tired, love, that is all. And I was thinking so hard that I quite forgot people might be worried by my frowns and sighs.’

  Michael reached up and rubbed at the crease between her brows.

  ‘Don’t think any more, Mama,’ he said. ‘Just come and have some pie. And a drink of lemonade.’

  Just like a male, she thought with a smile. Thinking that food would cure everything.

  But she took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the shady pavilion, even though it would mean walking right past Lord Rothersthorpe.

  She tried not to look at him. But when she passed within an arm’s length of him, she was very aware that all she would have to do was stretch out her hand and she could touch him.

  She blushed, darted a glance his way and found him looking back at her with such blatant hunger that she was amazed none of the other guests appeared to have noticed. She glanced round, to see if anyone had.

  The two naval officers were bearing down on Rose—each with a rather incongruous-looking glass of lemonade clutched in their large, work-worn hands.

  Mr Lutterworth and Lord Abergele were making steady inroads upon the buffet table. Their respective sisters were strolling around the pools, arm in arm, still hunting glimpses of the exotic fish. And Mr Bentley had taken a plate of food outside and was sitting on the grass, alternately ruffling Slipper’s ears and offering slices of cake to Cissy.

  Just as Michael had assumed all would be well with her, if only she had a plate of food. Men, she reflected, were always ruled by their appetites. In that, they were the more straightforward of the sexes. Only the females of the party required something more.

  Lord Rothersthorpe, she saw in a flash, saw nothing wrong in slaking his appetite for her, just as he would slake his thirst with a glass of ale, or his hunger with a plate of sirloin. See a woman who rouses desire? Take her to bed. Problem solved. There was nothing of emotion about it, any of it. It was all about appetite.

  Although perhaps that was not only because he was a man, but also because of the class of man he came from. He’d spoken to her about the habits prevailing in the kind of house parties he was used to attending, where the men wandered the corridors at night to spare the ladies’ blushes, as though it was perfectly normal.

  But it wasn’t! Why, the Colonel would never have dreamed of dealing with his sexual needs by taking a mistress. Or embarking on an affair with a willing widow—and she was sure there would have been plenty of those, given his wealth. Colonel Morgan had firmly believed that sexual incontinence was a weakness.

  That was one of the reasons why he’d never been long without a wife. No matter what Robert had thought of his multiple marriages, she had applauded his moral values, which, she supposed, Lord Rothersthorpe would condemn for being irredeemably middle class.

  Rather mutinously, she piled her plate high with a selection of cold cuts, pie, and bread and butter.

  ‘You won’t wan’ your dinner if you eat all tha’,’ said Cissy, bouncing up with Slipper frisking at her heels. Then she frowned and carried on, a little uncertainly, ‘That’s wha’ you always say to me when I ea’ too much cay at tea time.’

  ‘Cissy!’ Slipper nudged her hand and they both turned to see Robert, who had also followed Lydia into the pavilion. ‘Mama Lyddy only says that because you always do eat too much cake.’ He said it with a smile, so she knew he was not reproving, but teasing her.

  Then he leaned forwards and asked Lydia quietly, ‘Are you well? You look a little strained. It has been a rather difficult day for you, has it not?’

  More than he knew.

  ‘I think perhaps it might be a good idea if I went for a rest before dinner,’ she admitted. ‘If you do not mind?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘All our guests are quite happy milling about down here for now. When it is time for them to go in, Rose and Marigold and I are quite capable of showing them to their rooms and settling them in. You really have nothing to do except dress for dinner.’

  He had meant it kindly, but to her, it was yet another reminder of her position in this household. She had very little importance in her own right. Westdene was Robert’s house. For now, he wanted her to carry on living here, because she was a familiar female influence for Rose and Marigold. But once they had husbands and homes of their own, or even if he married himself, what then?

  Head bowed, she left the pavilion and made her way back to the house that she’d never quite come to think of as her home. It was not that she needed to worry about her ability to look after Cissy and Michael, once her usefulness to Robert came to an end. Colonel Morgan had left them financially secure. It was just...

  She shook her head impatiently at herself. There were enough problems to worry about for now without imagining possible new ones cropping up in the future. Chief among them being Lord Rothersthorpe, and the unsettling effect he was having on her.

  She’d always thought of herself as quite a moral person. And yet he only had to talk about...well, sex...and she became a woman she hardly recognised. Surely she could not seriously be contemplating doing all those things with a man to whom she was not married? But she was, she admitted. She wanted him. With a ferocity which puzzled and disturbed her.

  For she had never thought of herself as having any kind of sexual needs. The marriage act was not unpleasant, but never, until Lord Rothersthorpe had come back into her life, had she ever really thought much about it during the hours of daylight. It was a duty that she was willing to perform for the man to whom she owed so much. How many men would have taken Cissy into their household, in the state he found her in at that dreadful asylum? Or taken such pains to calm her, reassure her, and then to help her reach her full potential?

  No, she had never once thought of denying Colonel Morgan, when he asked if it was convenient to visit her bedroom. But it had not been an activity that she actually anticipated, never mind yearned for.

  She rubbed at the frown which was slicing its way into her forehead. Ever since Lord Rothersthorpe had come back into her life, the firm foundations on which she’d thought she’d been standing had become shaky. They were not married. The days when she had almost dared hope that love might have blossomed between them had long since passed. So how could she be filled with such...lustful longings? She did not like him any more than he appeared to like her, yet the desire that flared between them was frighteningly intense.

  And yet, because there could be no happy ending, in the way Rose meant, it was very tempting to see his point of view. Indulging in a brief, passionate, intense affair would harm nobody else, as long as nobody found out.

  She came to a standstill, her fists clenched at her sides.

  Dear Lord, she was actually contemplating it. Actually wondering if she
dared go down the road Lord Rothersthorpe was tempting her to take. Questioning the moral code with which she’d grown up. Abandoning her principles.

  And just letting herself go, for once. Letting herself do something that was just for her. That was not about anyone else’s needs or expectations.

  That was, in a word, selfish.

  Chapter Eight

  As Lydia climbed slowly up the stairs that led to the family wing, she tried to recall when she had last done anything that anyone could have accused her of doing out of selfishness.

  When she got to the landing, she paused, her hand on the banister. She shook her head. The opposite was true. Ever since her mother’s death, she had been hedged about by obligations of one form or another. Not that caring for her family was an obligation, exactly...only she had felt responsible for both her father and Cissy. She had failed with her father. There had been nothing she could do to prevent his downward spiral into despair. But at least she had been able to find a husband who had rescued Cissy from the fate to which her legal guardian had condemned her.

  She went to her bedroom and pushed open the door, wrinkling her nose with distaste. Her husband had designed this room and installed her in it as soon after their marriage as he could. Her eyes roved over the bed with its opulent silk hangings, made to look like a tent, or something out of a harem. She supposed she could have got rid of it and insisted on something plainer, once he no longer came to visit her in this shrine to the pleasures of the flesh, but it would have seemed...ungrateful. And how could she have explained to a grieving Rose and Marigold, not to mention Cissy and Michael, that all the silk, cushions and cords, and vials of oils and perfumes, did not equate with love at all—that she would feel better about herself if she could sweep them all away and sleep in a room that was plain and...wholesome?

  Even here, she had to consider how her own actions affected others.

  Her lips thinning, she entered the room and shut the door firmly behind her.

  She had told everyone she needed a rest, but in the mood she was in, she simply could not lie on that bed.

  Instead, she went to the window and flung it wide open.

  If truth were known, she was absolutely sick of being a slave to duty. She’d had no freedom since she’d been scarcely more than a child herself. She had never experienced the feeling that she could choose to do whatever she wished. Not like Rose. Although the house was full of her suitors, she did not have to marry any of them, not if she did not want to.

  Not that she was jealous of Rose. Exactly. It wasn’t as if she wanted to marry again. Not even if it were possible, which it wasn’t. Cissy had been so upset by her prolonged absence that she’d promised she would never leave her alone again.

  Which raised the problem of what that would mean for Rose’s Season.

  What she would like to do was to take Rose back to London after this house party and take Cissy with them. She thought she could manage it, too, if only she could hire someone to help take care of her. She took a deep breath of air that smelled of good earth and growing green things as she admitted to herself that, in that one respect, Lord Rothersthorpe had made perfect sense. She had only objected because he had described the person they needed to hire as a ‘nurse’. They had called the female warders in Cissy’s asylum, ‘nurses’.

  But if they all went up to London, there would be a perfect excuse for making all sorts of changes to staff. If she were to hire a lady’s maid for Marigold, then casually say that all young ladies needed someone of the sort, if they went to London, maybe Cissy would accept that. After all, they had engaged extra help for Rose at the start of the Season. And it was true that a young lady could not walk about unaccompanied in town. It just was not done. She had to have a maid to go with her. Then one always had to look one’s best, to receive callers and such like. London life involved several changes of garments each day.

  A great weight rolled off her shoulders. She could see Cissy accepting a personal maid on that basis. And then, when they returned to Westdene, they would just keep the woman on. It would mean keeping Marigold and Rose’s ladies’ maids on, too, but it wasn’t as if they could not afford the extra staff.

  Now all she had to do was find a sensible, motherly sort of woman, who would be able to look on Cissy as a child inhabiting an adult’s body and would therefore be able to deal with her occasional tantrums accordingly.

  And she would have a measure of freedom.

  A bumble-bee buzzing past the window made her start back. Freedom? What would she do with it, if she had it? Shutting the window, she went across the room to her dressing table, sat down and asked her reflection what it was she wanted, if she could indeed have anything.

  Her reflection shook her head at her, reprovingly. She already knew the answer. It was Lord Rothersthorpe. As he’d been when she’d first met him. Laughing and carefree. And, she thought, perhaps teetering on the brink of falling in love with her.

  Her lips twisted in scorn. She was hankering after a dream. For one thing, Lord Rothersthorpe had always been too shallow to ever fall in love with anyone, let alone her.

  She sighed and fiddled with the stopper of one of the bottles littering the table, absentmindedly dabbing a little attar of roses on to her wrists as she considered the second obstacle that stood in the way of having her dream.

  Which was the fact that any fondness he might have felt for her had been superseded by a resentment she didn’t really understand. When he looked at her now, there was nothing that she wanted to see in his eyes.

  Except passion.

  Such passion.

  Though it shocked her, confused her, even scared her a little, at least it made her feel...something.

  Ever since the Colonel’s death, she had been sort of drifting along, putting off making any decisions about her future.

  She could have moved straight out of Westdene and set up house with Cissy and Michael. Only she hadn’t liked to leave Rose and Marigold, shattered as they were by their father’s sudden and unexpected death. They had been a touch nervous about Robert coming back and taking over, too, and had wanted her to stay and shield them.

  Even when it had become clear there was no need for her to do anything of the sort, she had still not made any preparations for her removal from this house.

  But in a way, this house party marked the end of one era and heralded the dawning of another. It wouldn’t be long before Rose married and then Marigold. Did she really want to stay on here, keeping house for a stepson who would one day wish to install his own wife as mistress of Westdene? No. Not when she could guarantee that any such woman would not want such a youthful mother-in-law, not to mention a ‘backward’ female cluttering up the place.

  If she did not start making choices soon, somebody else would be making them for her, yet again. And she’d had just about enough of staying in the background, dutifully catering for everyone else’s needs while her own life drifted along, getting nowhere.

  She always seemed to come last in a whole long list of people who were more important. Why, even now, when she’d started out wondering whether she could really succumb to the temptation of what Lord Rothersthorpe was offering, she’d veered off into making plans for Cissy and Rose and Robert and Michael.

  With an expression of impatience, she got to her feet, went to the bell-pull and rang for a maid. She was not going to waste this afternoon drifting about her room, getting nothing done. She could at least take a bath and start preparing for dinner.

  One thing she did know, she reflected as she went to her armoire to select an evening gown, and that was that she was not going to get married again. She did not want to be so dependent on a man that she felt like a chattel. Not that it was very likely that any man would want to take her on, with both Cissy and Michael in tow.

  Especially not a man like Lord Rothersthorpe. Her mouth twisted in wry self-mockery. Why, even when she’d been young, and a virgin, she hadn’t managed to rouse sufficient interest for hi
m to go through the ordeal of marriage.

  Now that she was a widow he’d assumed she would be willing to indulge in a little sexual adventure. But that was all. That was all he thought she was good for.

  But then, wasn’t that more or less how she felt about him?

  Her hand stilled between her blue-silk and the silver-satin gowns.

  He only had to look at her in a certain way, and she started melting. Oh, who was she trying to fool? He only had to walk into the room and she began to burn. And after that kiss, she knew that their bodies would match perfectly. That if they once got into bed they would both go up in flames. In spectacular fashion.

  A shudder of longing went through her, so fierce she had to bite down on her lower lip. No wonder widows got a reputation for being wanton.

  At that moment her maid arrived.

  ‘Could you bring hot water and fresh towels?’ she said, grateful for the timely interruption to such disturbing thoughts. ‘I find that I cannot sleep after all, so I may as well relax in a warm bath, then dress for dinner so that I am ahead of Rose’s guests. Oh, and, Betsy,’ she added as though it was an afterthought, ‘I quite forgot to enquire when I arrived, but I do hope Mrs Broome was not too put out,’ she said, plucking a gown at random from the selection hanging in her cupboard, ‘by the last-minute announcement we were to have an additional guest? Lord Rothersthorpe.’

  ‘Oh, no, ma’am. Not at all. She said as how it was about time this house was opened up for visitors again.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it.’ She frowned at the damask rose which was far too heavy for the time of year and hung it back up. ‘There was no trouble about preparing a room, then?’

  ‘No, ma’am. She aired them all as soon as she heard you was throwing a party, just in case. So it was only a question of making up just the one extra bed.’