Reforming the Viscount. ANNIE BURROWS

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

      ‘Answer to what?’

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

      ‘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. Whenever you are ready I will be more than happy to oblige.’

       AUTHOR NOTE

      The house in which I’ve set this story was inspired by Sezincote, the home of a genuine ‘nabob’. He had gone out to India as a young man, risen through the ranks of the East India Company Army, and returned to England in his later years a very wealthy man. When he designed the mansion where he intended to spend his retirement, he provided his architect with sketches he’d drawn of Mogul architecture, which he wanted incorporated in his home.

      In 1807 the Prince Regent heard about this unique house, whilst staying with the Marquess of Hertford at Ragley Hall, and drove over to take a look. He was so impressed that he promptly decided his Pavilion at Brighton should have domes and minarets, too…only more of them! There is still a picture hanging in one of the main reception rooms of Sezincote of the Prince Regent tooling his curricle up the drive.

      There are reminders of India throughout the grounds, too. Statues of Brahmin bulls adorn the parapets of the bridge that takes visitors over the stream that winds through the gardens. And instead of having a classical Greek temple, which is a feature of so many stately homes of England, there really is a temple to Suraya, the Hindu goddess of the sun.

      About the Author

      ANNIE BURROWS has been making up stories for her own amusement since she first went to school. As soon as she got the hang of using a pencil she began to write them down. Her love of books meant she had to do a degree in English literature. And her love of writing meant she could never take on a job where she didn’t have time to jot down notes when inspiration for a new plot struck her. She still wants the heroines of her stories to wear beautiful floaty dresses and triumph over all that life can throw at them. But when she got married she discovered that finding a hero is an essential ingredient to arriving at ‘happy ever after’.

       Previous novels by Annie Burrows:

      HIS CINDERELLA BRIDE

      MY LADY INNOCENT

      THE EARL’S UNTOUCHED BRIDE

      CAPTAIN FAWLEY’S INNOCENT BRIDE

      THE RAKE’S SECRET SON

      (part of Regency Candlelit Christmas anthology)

      DEVILISH LORD, MYSTERIOUS MISS

      THE VISCOUNT AND THE VIRGIN

      (part of Silk & Scandal Regency mini-series)

      A COUNTESS BY CHRISTMAS

      CAPTAIN CORCORAN’S HOYDEN BRIDE

      AN ESCAPADE AND AN ENGAGEMENT

      GOVERNESS TO CHRISTMAS BRIDE

      (part of Gift-Wrapped Governesses anthology)

      NEVER TRUST A RAKE

      Also available in eBook format in Mills & Boon ^® Historical Undone!:

      NOTORIOUS LORD, COMPROMISED MISS

      HIS WICKED CHRISTMAS WAGER

       Do you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Reforming

      the Viscount

      Annie Burrows

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To all the scientists and doctors who’ve discovered medicines to cure us, vaccinations to protect us, and treatments to help us through diseases that used to kill and maim the most vulnerable members of society.

       Chapter One

      ‘Who is that man you are staring at?’

      Rose’s question snapped Lydia straight out of her state of heart-fluttering, dry-mouthed, weakkneed tumult.

      ‘I was not staring at anyone.’

      She’d managed to remember she was supposed to be setting an example for her stepdaughter, and behaved with as much circumspection as she’d ever been able to achieve at the age of eighteen. She’d watched him surreptitiously, in a series of thirsty little glances, knowing that gazing at him directly, with her heart in her eyes, would be fatal.

      Though not only for herself, this time round. Poor Rose had enough to contend with, during her first Season, without the behaviour of her stepmama adding fuel to the fire. So far, people were treating her as though she was a perfectly respectable widow. To her face, at least. But a woman’s reputation was a fragile thing, and she knew—oh, yes, she knew—that there must be talk. How could there not be?

      ‘Yes, but you do know him, don’t you? The handsome one. The man over there, talking to Lord Chepstow and his friends.’

      ‘Oh, him,’ said Lydia airily, striving to conceal how guilty she felt at having been caught out. Sometimes, Rose reminded her of her own chaperon, Mrs Westerly. Both of them noticed everything.

      ‘Do not waste your time in that direction,’ the eagle-eyed woman had warned her, when she’d noticed her doing exactly what she was doing tonight. ‘The entire family is at point-non plus. Yet again. They have a habit of marrying heiresses to pull them out of the mire. Not that this particular Hemingford is showing any signs of wishing to give up his bachelor lifestyle just yet. But you mark my words, when the time comes, he will do as his forebears have always done.’

      ‘Yes, I do know him, slightly,’ she admitted. ‘That is the Honourable…’ honourable? Hah! Not so as you’d notice ‘…Nicholas Hemingford.’

      ‘Oh, do tell me all about him.’

      ‘There isn’t much to tell,’ said Lydia, blushing at the outright lie.

      For she’d fallen head-over-heels in love with him. In spite of his reputation. In spite of her chaperon’s dire warnings. Like a moth to a flame, she’d been completely unable to withstand the pull of that lop-sided, slightly self-deprecating smile of his, never mind the mischievous twinkle in his blue, blue eyes.

      She hadn’t stood a chance when he’d decided, for his own typically eccentric reasons, to turn the full force of his charm upon her.

      She mocked her younger self for feeling as though he’d thrown her a lifeline, for it had turned out to be no more than a gossamer thread of wishful thinking. Which had snapped the moment she had to put it to the test.

      ‘I danced with him once or twice during my own Season,’ she told Rose, striving to make it sound as though it had been a trivial matter.

      ‘And you have never forgotten him,’ observed Rose with typical astuteness.

      ‘No.’ She sighed. And then, because if she didn’t give Rose