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

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MARY BRENDANwas 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

A Practical Mistress

‘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.’

George tightened his lips—he understood the allusion to the latest gossip doing the rounds. He stabbed a low-lidded accusatory glance at his wife. Iris had the grace to flush and flounce about to primp some more at her appearance.

Iris had never used discretion in her quest for powerful and wealthy lovers. Helen often wondered if her sister-in-law relished the attention she got from being the butt of gossip. The fact that George quite obviously resented, yet regularly endured, being made to look a fool by his wife, was also intriguing to those, such as his sisters, who cared enough about him to ponder on it.

‘Good grief, Helen, you’re a widow, twenty-six years old, and it’s high time you found another fellow to look after you and ceased being a burden on me!’ George blasted out the reprimand, more in embarrassment than in anger. He had hoped his sisters might still be ignorant of the likelihood of him again being a cuckold.

A sour taste dried his mouth as he dwelled on his wife’s current prey. Iris might deny it, but he knew she was infatuated with a man he detested. The same man who had been his enemy for many years.

His sisters rarely socialised; if news of Iris’s latest infatuation had reached Helen’s ears, then gossip was rife. Abruptly he stalked back to his chair to slouch into it. ‘You may live on Rowan Walk or in the poorhouse, it makes no difference to me.’ He raised a moody glance to his sister’s tense features. ‘And it serves you right for choosing to marry a pauper when you might have married well.’

‘I thought we might come to that. It was exceedingly bad of me, was it not, to marry a man I loved when I might have married a man old enough to be my grandfather.’

‘Scoville was dead within two years of proposing to you. It would scarce have been hardship to be a sick man’s wife—a very rich sick man’s wife—for such a short time. Had you given the decrepit old fool the heir he wanted, your future at nineteen years old would have been fine indeed.’