Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride

Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride
Mary Brendan

The rake’s rescue… Sir Jason Hunter could not let young widow Helen Marlowe fall into ruin when he could so easily help. His intentions were purely honourable, until the lady herself surprised him with an offer of a carte blanche! Helen told herself her offer was practical – as Jason’s mistress she would be secure – but her heart knew better…One scandal led to another…To prevent a family scandal, Emily Beaumont must turn for help to the man who enjoyed vexing her at every opportunity, Mark Hunter. Mark was delighted to assist the delectable, witty, spirited Miss Beaumont but then he discovered that Emily truly was in danger… Two classic and delightful Regency tales!

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About the Author

MARY BRENDAN was born in North London but now lives in rural Suffolk. She has always had a fascination with bygone days, and enjoys the research in writing historical fiction. When not at her word processor she can be found trying to bring order to a large overgrown garden, or browsing local fairs and junk shops for that elusive bargain.

Regency

Mistresses

Mary Brendan

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

A Practical Mistress

Chapter One

‘How dare you even think to treat your sisters so abominably!’

‘Now, steady on, Helen, I don’t like your tone. You know I am not legally obliged to house you and Charlotte, or give either of you a penny piece.’

‘Not legally obliged, perhaps! Morally obliged indeed you are, and not simply to house us, but to keep us in comfort, and you cannot pretend you don’t know it.’

George Kingston seemed unaffected by the mixture of disgust and entreaty firing his sister’s tawny eyes. In fact, he lounged back in his chair and continued to probe his teeth with a little silver toothpick.

Helen Marlowe, née Kingston, felt her stomach churn with impotent rage as she observed her brother’s apathy. Tendrils of raven hair were angrily twitched back from a complexion that, customarily pale as porcelain, was flushed with righteous indignation. ‘I know you do not truly want to be mean to us, George, for I am certain you recall as well as I the undertaking you gave Papa. We are not asking for your money, all we want is the allowance to which we are entitled. And I need not remind you that Papa stipulated Westlea House was to be a home for Charlotte and me for as long as we needed its shelter.’ She paused to drag in breath to deliver a final conscience-pricking truth. ‘Our parents would be distraught to know you are planning to sell the roof from over your sisters’ heads.’

Helen’s small fingers curled into her palms as she realised that her brother was more irritated than swayed by her appealing to his principles. Abruptly she swished about in a rustle of lavender dimity and addressed her sister-in-law. ‘Have you nothing to say on the matter, Iris? Are you comfortable, knowing your husband seeks to eject us from our home?’

Iris briskly stepped to a gilt mirror to inspect her reflection. She tipped her hat this way and that on flaxen hair whilst making her snappish response. ‘Another house will be found for you both. George has already looked at one. I can’t understand why you and Charlotte would want to carry on so. You are comely enough to find a husband to support you, you know, Helen.’ It was said with a slight frown, as though already she doubted the value of her compliment. Dissatisfied with the floral embellishment on her new bonnet she tweaked it some more. ‘And Charlotte is quite a beauty. I’ll wager the girl could net herself a man with good prospects. Perhaps a banker or the like might take to her.’

‘Charlotte has a suitor. She and Philip are in love and want to announce their betrothal, as you well know.’

‘How sweet. But he has no money, and no prospects, as you well know,’ Iris countered acidly.

George Kingston plunged upright on noticing his sibling’s darkening expression. He was well aware that, dainty-built as she was, Helen could act the virago when protecting her own or Charlotte’s interests. As his wife and his sister locked combatant stares, he took the precaution of stepping across the rug between the two of them. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on his feet. ‘It’s not as though you and Charlotte will be homeless, Helen,’ he coaxed. ‘I’ve found somewhere for you actually. Just this afternoon I arranged a short lease on a property on Rowan Walk. Six months should be time enough for you both to make your own arrangements for the future.’

‘Rowan Walk?’ The tone of Helen’s voice was initially aghast. A moment later she repeated the address in a voice that had lowered threateningly.

‘Yes,’ George spluttered, conscious of the reason for his sister’s simmering fury.

Rowan Walk was not situated in an area where genteel women would choose to reside. In fact, he was aware that it housed a host of females kept in modest style by wealthy gentlemen of the ton. Such fellows might like a mistress conveniently close to home, but they baulked at paying exorbitant Mayfair rates. The eastern suburb in which Rowan Walk lay was within easy reach. A lengthy carriage ride would thus not take up time destined to be more pleasurably expended. The neat terraces of townhouses in the vicinity were of adequate size and quality and, because of their association with demimondaines, very good value, too.

‘If you think for one moment that Charlotte and I will move into such an area, you must be addled in the wits,’ Helen announced. A glance at her sister-in-law revealed her to be maliciously amused. ‘But perhaps you have not wasted your money, George. There might be someone you know who would appreciate an available house there.’