Reforming the Viscount

Not that hope had lasted all that long.

The moment he’d put her down, he’d backed away, his face a picture of regret.

And he’d never come near her again.

The band struck up, the gentlemen bowed to their partners, and Lydia delved into her reticule for a handkerchief.

‘Mama Lyddy?’

Rose was looking at her with concern.

Lydia blew her nose rather crossly, since if there was one thing she hated it was letting her emotions get the better of her. ‘That is what comes of dwelling on memories of my own Season.’

‘They do not look as though they were very happy memories,’ Rose observed.

Lydia grimaced. ‘They were not.’

Rose sighed and glanced up at her half-brother, who was standing behind their chairs, glowering at the entire assembly.

‘Was it worse than this?’

‘Oh, Rose, are you not enjoying yourself?’

‘How can I,’ she muttered mutinously, ‘when Robert is being so impossible?’

Since the orchestra was going at full pelt and they were muttering to each other behind their fans, Lydia did not think Robert would overhear, even though she suspected Rose half-hoped he would.

‘I am sure he is only trying to be protective…’

‘Well, I wish he wouldn’t. I don’t see why he would not let me dance with Lord Abergele.’

Nor had Lydia, not really. Though since she’d got into the habit of playing peacemaker between the siblings, she said, ‘I expect he had his reasons…’

Rose turned to her, muttering crossly, ‘He probably thinks he is just a fortune hunter.’

‘Oh? Well, then…’

‘But I don’t care! It’s not as if I have come to town to get a husband, only to find my feet in society. And how am I ever going to do that if he will keep every man who shows an interest in me at arm’s length? Lord Abergele has a sister, who has the kind of connections that would be most useful. Now that he’s offended the brother, I have no hope of making a friend of her either.’

And what was worse, now that he’d turned down a perfectly respectable dance partner on her behalf, Rose couldn’t dance with anyone else this evening.

‘I will have a word with him,’ said Lydia. Not that it would do much good. He was far too much like his father, firmly believing he knew best, and expecting his family to fall in with his wishes without question.

And, yes, she conceded that it must be particularly hard for him to listen to her opinion, because she was four years younger than him. She could understand why he’d taken to treating her as though she was another of his younger sisters, rather than with the respect he should have accorded a stepmama, but it didn’t make it any less annoying.

Particularly when he stood over them both, as he was doing tonight, like some kind of guard dog, his hackles rising when anyone he considered unsuitable came anywhere near his beautiful sister. Signalling to the entire world that he did not quite trust her to keep Rose safe.

At the exact moment she firmed her lips with pique, and flicked her fan shut, the line of gentlemen stepped forwards in unison, and Hemingford’s eyes lit on her, briefly.

He did not smile this time, either, but he did grant her a slight nod of his head.

So he’d finally dredged up a memory that hadn’t troubled him for years, had he?

Or perhaps he had recognised her before, but it had been his guilty conscience that made his eyes slide away from her. Just as he’d slid out of the room, and out of her life, after uttering the statement he’d so clearly regretted the moment it had left his lips.

‘Oh, he does remember you after all.’

Rose was looking, not at him, but at her, with a perplexed expression. And she realised she was trembling. She’d become so angry at the casual way he’d broken her heart that she was physically quivering with it.

What was happening to her? For years she’d managed to preserve an outward semblance of serenity no matter what she’d been thinking. In fact, the last time she’d got so worked up she couldn’t control her physical reaction had been her wedding day.

Her knees had been shaking so badly she’d started to worry she might not make it all the way down the aisle. But even so, she’d managed to lift her chin and force a smile to her lips, determined that nobody should guess how scared she was. Particularly not her husband. Colonel Morgan had frowned when he’d taken her hand to slip the ring on her finger, feeling her tremors. He hadn’t liked the notion she might be afraid of him, of what she’d agreed to. So as she’d spoken her vows, she’d made secret ones of her own. That she was never, ever, going to let her feelings get the better of her again. She would keep a mask of calm acceptance firmly in place at all times.

And until tonight, she’d been able to do so.

Before she could pull herself together sufficiently to form some plausible excuse, Robert leaned down and growled into her ear, ‘I quite forgot that you knew him.’

Oh, lord, that was all she needed. Now she was going to have to convince Robert, too, that he had merely been an acquaintance. If he should guess she had been in love with him, and was, to judge by her remarkable reactions just now, still far too susceptible to him, he would no doubt redouble his guard-doggy role towards her, as well as Rose. It was bad enough that he was already undermining her role as chaperon, with his heavyhanded vetting of all Rose’s potential admirers. She simply could not hand him the opportunity to accuse her of setting a bad example for Rose to follow. That would be the end of ever getting him to listen to her point of view.

In an automatic gesture of self-defence, she parried his query with a thrust of her own.

‘You have a short memory, then. It was he who introduced you to me, in the first place. Do you not recall? He brought me to one of those picnics you used to hold at Westdene.’

‘But I thought you said you only danced with him once or twice,’ put in Rose.

‘Did I?’ She had to wave her fan quite swiftly to cool the heat that rushed to her cheeks. ‘Well, it hardly amounted to much more than that, really.’

Although he had been what her chaperon described as ‘particular in his attentions,’ after that first dance. They’d both been surprised by the number of times he’d called upon her, and sought her out as a dance partner, even though she’d blushed and stumbled her way inelegantly through set after set of country dances. He had not been put off by her stammer, or her apparent stupidity, not like the other men who’d shown an initial interest in her. If anything, he had redoubled his efforts to put her at ease. And gradually, she’d found herself unfurling in his company.

To the extent that one afternoon, as they’d been walking in the park, she’d let slip that she couldn’t understand why he bothered with her.

‘If that is a hint you wish me to leave you be,’ he’d warned her with mock severity, ‘then you are going to have to stop looking so pleased when I come to call.’

She’d blushed harder and studied her feet for several paces, before plucking up the courage to answer.

‘I d-do not want you to leave me be. I-I like your company.’

‘That is just as well,’ he said cheerfully, ‘because I have no intention of leaving you be until I have coaxed one genuine smile from your lips.’

‘B-but, why? I m-mean, what can it m-matter to you? M-Mrs Westerly s-says you aren’t interested in m-m—’

‘No! Do not say that word in my presence,’ he’d cried in mock horror. ‘There is more to life than…’ he’d looked round as though checking to see if anyone might overhear, before bending to whisper in her ear ‘…matrimony. We can enjoy a walk in the park on a sunny afternoon, or a dance together, just for its own sake, can we not?’

‘The sun is not shining today,’ she had remarked with sinking spirits, as they’d halted in front of a patch of equally depressed-looking daffodils which were straining their golden trumpets in the direction the sun would have been shining from, had it been able to penetrate the heavy layers of cloud. In spite of Mrs Westerly warning her not to read too much into the way he’d taken her up, her foolish heart had dared to think that perhaps he was not such a lost cause as everyone thought.

‘But we can still enjoy each other’s company, can we not,’ he’d said, ‘without expecting it to lead to wedding bells?’

She associated the scent of daffodils with the death of her romantic hopes to this very day.