Annie Burrows by Reforming the Viscount Page A

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