Annie Burrows

by Reforming the Viscount

  Betsy bustled up to her and caught hold of the blue silk. ‘This one, I think, Mrs Morgan,’ she said. And before Lydia even had to prompt her, Betsy volunteered the information that Mrs Broome had put him in the single gentleman’s guest room number three. Which was a huge relief, since she hadn’t dared ask bluntly if he had a room to himself. Even though it was just one along the corridor set aside for single male guests, at least the housekeeper had not put him in with one of the other bachelors. It had been a real concern, because in the Colonel’s time, he had often put the welfare of his own staff before the comfort of guests.

  ‘Guests come and go,’ he’d snapped the first time she’d entertained his visitors. ‘If they don’t like it here, they needn’t come again. But it’s devilish hard to get, and keep, decent staff.’

  But since Betsy might think it odd if she only enquired about his accommodation, she continued with the topic while they selected the accessories to complete her outfit.

  ‘So all the guests have a room of their own?’ She hid her blushes by delving into a drawer for her stockings. It was just so wicked to hide enquiries about how safe it might be to conduct an affaire with one of the male guests, amongst spurious concerns about the others.

  ‘Mrs Broome did think about putting both the naval officers in together,’ Betsy confessed, ‘but in the end she thought it would not do to treat them any different than any of the others. Why, only think how dreadful it would be if Miss Rose was to show a preference for one of them! We would not want him thinking we hadn’t treated him right, the very first time he stayed here, now would we? And we have plenty of rooms. And nobody begrudges Miss Rose the extra work, not for an occasion like this.’

  She tried to smile, though it was hard when she felt such a fraud.

  ‘Thank you for telling me all this, Betsy. I know that I really should have come and spoken to Mrs Broome about the arrangements as soon as I got here.’

  ‘Never you mind about that, ma’am,’ said Betsy. ‘You was busy with Miss Cissy, wasn’t you? We can see to the guests, and their baggage, and valets and whatnot. But Cissy needed you.’

  ‘Why, thank you.’ Lydia blushed even harder. For Betsy would not be looking at her with such trust, and admiration, and sympathy if she only knew what she was planning.

  ‘Once you have helped me out of my clothes, you may go,’ she said, unable to look Betsy in the face one moment longer. Embarking on an affair, she could see, was going to involve employing one stratagem after another. She had already duped Betsy into thinking she was being a dutiful hostess, when all she wanted to know was where Lord Rothersthorpe would be sleeping, and whether it would be feasible to visit him in that particular room.

  ‘I am sure you have plenty to occupy you elsewhere.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. The others will all be coming back in soon and no doubt they’ll all be ringing for hot water.’ Betsy dropped a curtsy and bustled out.

  Once she’d gone, Lydia paced to the window and looked out blindly, her arms wrapped round her waist.

  Why should she feel guilty? Didn’t she deserve some reward for all she’d endured, this last ten years? All her adult life had been one of unremitting sacrifice and duty. Why, even Colonel Morgan had acknowledged that she’d sacrificed her virginity on the altar of duty, in order to provide for Cissy.

  Didn’t she deserve to have a man in her bed whom she’d chosen, just for the sheer pleasure of it? Just once? No, more than once. They would be lovers for the duration of this house party. He wouldn’t want her any longer than that, she shouldn’t think. He’d made it quite plain that he found his desire for her rather irksome.

  Though that hadn’t stopped him from jumping on his horse and galloping straight down here when he thought she’d indicated she was ripe for an affair.

  And what was so wrong with having an affair anyway? All they intended was to share mutual pleasure for a short while. In many ways it would be perfect, since she did not want yet another male thinking he had the right to take over her life, which was what marriage would entail.

  And Nicholas had never wanted anything permanent from her. Hadn’t she already learned, the hard way, that it was pointless trying to hold out for love? She was not the type of woman to inspire it.

  And in her own case, all that was left of her youthful, romantic attachment was the physical attraction.

  All? She laughed at herself. It was an attraction so strong that it bordered on desperation. It had not diminished with the years, but developed into something so visceral that it was too...necessary to even attempt to fight.

  Four nights.

  That was not much, in the scheme of things, was it? Four nights of untrammelled pleasure. Four nights of giving rein to impulses of which she was already quite ashamed...but which were growing stronger by the minute.

  Footmen arrived then, bearing the hipbath and cans of hot water, obliging her to act as though she was still the dutiful, blameless widow they all believed her to be.

  While inside, she was turning into someone she wasn’t sure she recognised.

  When they’d left and she sank into the rose-scented water, it was all she could do not to moan as she half-closed her eyes, dreaming of the night to come. She would tiptoe along the corridor to his room, barefoot. She wouldn’t need to carry a candle. The moon would light her way.

  The warm water was like silk sliding over her skin, rousing rather than relaxing her.

  Though he would have cotton sheets, in the bachelor bedroom of his, not silk.

  They would feel cool and crisp against her back.

  And he would feel hot and hard as he pressed her into them.

  With a swoosh, Lydia abruptly stood up and got out of her bath. Lying luxuriating in the warm water was far too sensual. She would never make it to midnight if she did not, somehow, get her mind off her body and what it was anticipating.

  Besides, as hostess, it was positively her duty to be the first down to the music room, where everyone would gather before dinner.

  And hopefully he would be just as impatient to see her, too. For she had to find a moment to tell him what she’d decided.

  She would be going to his room. Tonight.

  * * *

  Lord Rothersthorpe faltered on the threshold of the room to which a smart young footman had directed him.

  It was a testament to the Colonel’s career in India. And the wealth accumulated there. Many-armed marble goddesses flanked the fireplace, ivory elephants supported glossy ebony tables scattered throughout the room and the carpet was such a work of art, it seemed a crime to walk on it.

  He took perverse pleasure in doing just that, stalking across to the piano, leaning up against it and folding his arms across his chest.

  This was what Lydia was used to now. This...rather tacky opulence. His mouth twisted in disdain as he wondered what she would make of Hemingford Priory. Most of the carpets there were threadbare, the tables were scratched and the walls sported rectangular stains where paintings had once hung.

  Not that they’d added anything to the décor. He’d been glad to see the back of the rather gloomy Rembrandt in particular, and all those writhing bodies on the Tintoretto which had given him nightmares as a child. Besides, it had been obscene to have such things hanging on his walls when his tenants did not have decent roofs over their heads.

  Suddenly, she was there. Like him, she hesitated in the doorway, though it could not have been on account of the décor, since she was used to it.

  No, it was the sight of him that had made her eyes widen. She just stood there, looking at him, a pulse visibly beating in her throat. And she was trembling.

  ‘G-good evening,’ she said, then blushed.

  For a few moments all he could do was gaze at her. Just drink her in. She was so damned beautiful. No woman had a right to be so beautiful. In fact, she did not look like a woman at all, with that blue silk shimmering round her body, but rather like some kind of naiad. Even her hair was swept up and contai
ned with something that resembled hundreds of tiny water droplets, but was in all probability just crystals.

  Or, knowing how wealthy her late husband had been, perhaps even diamonds.

  His mood darkening, he pushed himself off the piano and bowed.

  ‘Good evening Mrs Morgan,’ he just about managed to say without betraying his disgust at this fresh evidence of her mercenary nature. He hoped.

  ‘P-please, won’t you take a seat? I do not know how long it may take the others to arrive.’ She darted an anxious look over her shoulder.

  ‘Why, thank you, Mrs Morgan,’ he said, walking to one of the sofas and folding himself down on to it. He patted the cushion at his side. ‘Let us not waste these few moments alone on opposite sides of the room.’

  She’d only taken one hesitant pace towards him when they both heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway. It was some comfort to see she looked as vexed as he felt when Marigold and Cissy came tumbling into the room, all breathless blushes, the dog not far behind.

  Though he was annoyed the moment was lost, he got to his feet and made his bow.

  Cissy beamed at him as she rose from making her own curtsy.

  ‘I ly’ parties,’ she said. ‘This is my firs’ party. And Marigold’s.’

  Marigold looked a bit put out. He supposed she was at that age where she wanted, very much, to be thought grown-up, and she clearly did not like Cissy blurting out the fact that this was to be her first attendance at an adult party, too.

  ‘You both look charming,’ he replied gravely, wondering why Cissy was downstairs at all. Surely she should be taking her meals somewhere else? With Lydia’s son, for example. Although perhaps it was better not to leave her alone with the boy, not if she might be a danger to him.

  ‘Pretty.’ Cissy nodded, stroking the silk of her gown.

  ‘I kept on telling her,’ Marigold complained to Lydia, as Cissy skipped towards him to show off her finery, ‘that we were making her a pretty dress for a party. There was no need for her to go getting so upset. Why she would imagine we would make her such a dress if I was only making up tales about lots of guests coming here...’

  It was the kind of remark that revealed her immaturity. Lydia ought to tell her that if she wanted to be treated as a grown-up, then she ought to behave like one.

  Instead, she very calmly explained, ‘Nobody could have prevented Cissy from surrendering to her fears.’

  She’d half-turned away, while Cissy prattled on to him, so that, he guessed, she would not know they were talking about her.

  ‘You did,’ replied Marigold, moodily. ‘Look at her now. For weeks all she’s done is cry or suck her thumb and now she’s bouncing around as merry as a grig. Just because you have come home.’

  ‘Robert, too, don’t forget,’ said a determined voice behind them. Rose had managed to float into the room in a cloud of pale-gold muslin and lace without either of them hearing her approach. ‘Mama Lyddy might be able to comfort her, but when she’s being naughty, it takes Robert to make her behave.’

  Naughty? Was that what they called it? She’d attacked Robert with a ferocity that might have resulted in injury, had she turned all that wildness upon someone smaller or weaker.

  ‘Yes,’ Lydia confessed. ‘I am afraid I do tend to be rather too soft with her.’

  Although that softness had produced the desired effect. Cissy had crumpled to the ground, completely transformed by Lydia’s soothing presence.

  ‘As you are with us all.’ Rose smiled, linking arms with both her and her sister, and drawing them deeper into the room.

  Cissy, who had taken the place on the sofa that he’d intended for Lydia, leapt to her feet.

  ‘Left on a Mullet,’ she cried, as though pleased with herself for remembering a mangled version of his name.

  ‘Lieutenant Smollet,’ the stern-faced naval officer, who had just come in, corrected her.

  ‘Left on a Mullet,’ said Cissy again, bouncing across the room to him and sweeping him a deep curtsy. He answered it with a very correct bow, while Marigold placed her free hand over her mouth and creased up with mirth.

  Cissy, fortunately, had not noticed. She had eyes only for the handsome lieutenant. ‘Do you ly’ my dress, Left on a Mullet? I have never had such a pretty one.’ She whirled round to show him the entire creation.

  A minute ago she’d been showing it off to him. Were all the Morgan girls such incorrigible flirts?

  ‘Marigold,’ hissed Lydia out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Behave.’

  Lieutenant Smollet, meanwhile, completely unruffled by the girl’s boisterous and inappropriate behaviour, took command of the situation by crooking his arm, and, the minute she laid her hand upon his sleeve, leading her firmly across the room towards another sofa.

  ‘I ly’ you, Left on a Mullet,’ she confided, plucking at his sleeve as he sat her down. ‘I ly’ your shiny buttons.’

  Lieutenant Tancred, who had just come in himself, paused only for a second before remarking, ‘Cutting me out, Smollet?’

  To his surprise, the lieutenant did not take advantage of Smollet’s preoccupation with Cissy to monopolise Rose. Instead, he sat down on the sofa on the other side of Cissy and got her attention by tapping her on the arm.

  ‘I think I might just point out,’ he said with a smile that displayed nearly all his teeth, ‘that since I wear the same uniform, my buttons are just as shiny.’

  ‘He got here first though, Left Unanchored, because I spec’ you spend more time polishing ’em up.’

  The look on Tancred’s face surprised him into a bark of laughter.

  ‘I think this young lady has just accused you of vanity,’ he said.

  Lieutenant Tancred was still smiling, but there weren’t so many teeth in it.

  ‘What can I say? A man likes to look his best for such an important occasion as this.’ He shot Rose a very meaningful look.

  Rose smiled at him, but not with the warmth she had shown Lieutenant Smollet when he’d steered Cissy across the room, sat her down and calmed her down.

  Suddenly, he saw why the two officers were giving the sister so much attention. They were vying with each other to win Rose’s favour. These were two professional men who were clever enough to spot when they were being given a test. This was why Cissy was on display all the time. Rose meant to judge her suitors by the way they reacted to her unfortunate sister.

  There was no further opportunity for private conversation with Lydia. The other guests came down in ones and twos, and she was busy circulating, until it was time to go in for dinner.

  Robert took the head of the table, and she the foot, with the others ranged according to rank. Which meant that he was beside her.

  It was an exquisite form of torture, sitting so close to her that he could smell her perfume, yet not being able to yield to the temptation to touch her. Or speak to her of the burning issue of where and how they were going to become lovers.

  His only consolation was that she appeared as tense as he. She ate scarcely anything, merely pushing the food around on her plate.

  But she took frequent sips of her wine.

  And then licked her lips, making it almost impossible not to groan out loud. He wanted to taste those lips again. Soon. The kiss they’d shared that afternoon had been so heated he was amazed they had not burst into flames on the spot.

  He tore his eyes away and took a deep draught of his own wine. When he next turned to look at her, she was staring fixedly at his mouth. Her own lips were slightly parted. Her pupils were dilated, making her look somewhat dazed.

  ‘You had better not,’ he said softly.

  ‘What?’ She started, almost dropping her fork.

  ‘Look at me like that,’ he said. ‘As though you would rather be eating me than what is on your plate.’

  She blushed and looked away.

  ‘But I would,’ she murmured, so softly he might almost have imagined it.

  The witch! He was instantly so hard he was glad h
e was sitting down with the tablecloth concealing the entire lower half of his body.

  ‘Mrs Morgan?’

  They both looked up to see Mr Bentley giving them a very odd look.

  Ye gods, he hoped the boy had not overheard.

  ‘Mama Lyddy has a lot on her mind, Mr Bentley,’ said Robert smoothly. ‘I am sure she did not mean to ignore your request. But as for myself, I think it would be a very good idea.’

  Lord Rothersthorpe let out a slow sigh of relief as the conversation flowed on, without requiring any input from either of them.

  * * *

  He spent the rest of the meal struggling to get his body under control. It would never do to rise from table with his erection straining against his breeches. He could take his napkin from table with him, he supposed, to conceal it, but...

  He shook his head ruefully. He had not been so excitable since his voice had started to break. If then.

  Fortunately, the ladies left the table before the gentlemen. And once she was not within touching distance, it became a bit easier.

  None of the men wanted to linger over their port for very long. Robert led them all back to the music room, where Lord Abergele’s sister was tinkling out a tune on the piano. Lydia had taken up a seat in a far corner, well away from the younger ladies. Which suited him perfectly. While the other men jostled for ways to impress Rose, he made straight for her side.

  ‘When are you going to put me out of my misery?’

  She glanced away as he sat down next to her, but he’d caught a tormented expression in her own eyes.

  For a moment, panic seized him.

  ‘Don’t, for pity’s sake, tell me you have changed your mind.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘This is not easy for me,’ she said in a voice so low he had to bend closer to catch the words. ‘I did not intend...and I have never...’ She blushed, and reached for her fan.

  Relief and elation surged through him in about equal measure.

  ‘You are telling me that I will be your first lover since your husband died.’

  She nodded. Then looked up at him, over her fan, with such open longing he could not mistake the message.