Regency Mistresses: A Practical MistressThe Wanton Bride

by Mary Brendan

  He suspected she was not as innocent as a genteel spinster ought to be. But how experienced was she? Had Devlin taken her maidenhead, or had his devilish plot been devised so he might finish what he’d started years ago?

  Mark rose abruptly and strolled to the window. He struck a broad hand on the frame and looked into the blackness, his thoughts as hot as his loins. If he were to kiss her … and she were to melt against him as she had done before … what harm in that? They were miles from home and prying eyes, and if she were knowing and compliant … there were rooms upstairs …

  ‘Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?’ Mark asked abruptly. He shoved back from the window and paced to and fro to ease his rigid muscles.

  ‘I’m not hungry at all. I ate dinner with Nicholas …’ Emily glimpsed an immediate fierce light in Mark’s eyes at another mention of the Viscount. Quickly she added, ‘At first I thought it best to humour him as much as possible and accept his hospitality, while I waited for you.’ Inclining her blonde head, she brought her cup close to her lips and took a sip from it. She was obliquely aware of Mark’s jerky movement as he snatched up the decanter and refilled his glass.

  ‘Very wise …’ he eventually said with barely a hint of irony. His empty glass was replaced abruptly on the table.

  ‘Are you still angry with me?’ Emily asked quietly. She gave him a sweet, tentative smile. ‘I know I have put you to a lot of trouble. I know it was rash to go with Riley. Actually, it was a stupid risk; I know it now I have had time to think sensibly on it. But I honestly thought Tarquin might be in peril.’ She traced the rim of her cup with a slender finger, watching the movement as she said, ‘I was terrified my brother might die all alone … cold and hungry.’ Her soft lower lip was nipped between worrying teeth. ‘I didn’t know what to do; that was why I came to try to find you at your home.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘I hoped so much that you would be there to counsel me.’ She finished what was left of her mulled wine, then made a rueful admission. ‘That’s not quite true. I didn’t want your advice; I wanted you to take away the burden of it all and deal with it for me.’

  ‘And I would have done that, I swear, Emily,’ Mark vowed huskily. ‘I’m not angry with you. But I am angry with Devlin and Riley, and with your dolt of a brother who brought about this fiasco. I’m angry with myself too.’

  Emily would have interrupted at that point, but Mark gestured for her silence. ‘Let’s not speak of any of it again tonight.’ A long finger moved on her cheek, teasing back a stray curl that spiralled close to her mouth. ‘You’re safe and that’s the most important thing.’ He tilted up her face so she must look at him. ‘You’re tired and overwrought, as is natural considering what you have been through. And if that were not enough to get you immediately back to Callison Crescent, there is your family to think about. We must get you home, and hope you have not been missed.’ A frown corrugated his brow beneath a fall of dark hair. ‘Heaven only knows what excuse will satisfy your parents if they have noticed your absence.’ Mark gently urged Emily to her feet and, fetching her cloak, courteously placed it about her shoulders. ‘If you are ready, it’s high time we set again on the road.’

  ‘Mr Hunter?’

  Mark halted immediately on hearing his name barked in a cultured female voice. He turned his head. What he saw caused him enough dismay to make him swear beneath his breath, although his expression altered not one iota.

  Emily was positioned slightly in front of Mark, and her slender frame had tensed statue-still for she, too, had recognized those haughty tones. Even before Mark’s low curse reached her ears she knew she was once more that day in awful trouble. Her stomach lurched, and she pressed a hand against the wall to help support her on legs that felt boneless.

  ‘I thought I recognised you, sir.’ Mrs Violet Pearson emerged fully from the doorway of the Rose and Crown’s best parlour. She pulled her shawl tight about her scrawny arms to ward off the chill. But her inquisitiveness had been roused far too much for her to yet go back inside and seek the warmth of the blazing logs.

  When her son, Bertie, had gone upstairs to bed in a sulk, he had not properly closed the door behind him. Violet had cast a purposeful look at Mr Pearson, but he had contrived to nod off in the chair at that precise moment. Violet had thus stomped to perform the office herself rather than tolerate the draught. Just for the once she was glad that her husband and son could be lazy and inconsiderate for, as she put a hand to wood to push the door shut, she had spied something very interesting indeed in the corridor.

  A lady and gentleman, glimpsed through the aperture, had seemed familiar to her. For the fleeting moment she had them in her sights Violet had been instantly put in mind of another kind of familiarity: the kind shared by people in love. Not that Violet had experience of such sweet intimacy with Mr Pearson, but she conversely relished the bitterness the lack provoked.

  Violet was sure she could scent a rat … or rather a scandal, for although she had not got a good view of the young woman with Mr. Hunter, she had got a peep at golden hair curling beneath a bonnet. She also recalled seeing a classic profile and an enviably curvaceous figure. Few women could boast such remarkable attractions, and grace of movement. Naturally, she would never let on to the chit, or her mother, that she thought her pretty. So could it be Miss Emily Beaumont?

  Violet knew that Mark Hunter and Tarquin Beaumont were chums, so there was a connection of sorts between Emily and Mark. But it seemed remarkably odd that the two of them might be at an inn, halfway to Guildford, at ten of the clock at night. Perhaps Miss Beaumont was with a relation who was elsewhere in the building … or perhaps she was not …

  Violet’s riotous imaginings turned her mind feverish and her face florid. Suddenly she jerked to her senses as she became aware that Mark Hunter was almost at the door, and on the point of exiting the building now he had returned her a nod and a muttered greeting.

  Violet sought swiftly to detain him. ‘Fancy bumping into you here, sir,’ she called shrilly, speeding in his wake. ‘Are you going, as we are, to the Festival in Guildford? Last year it was a delight; the orchestra and the singing divine …’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Mark replied with a hint of irritation clipping his tone. I’m travelling in the opposite direction towards London.’

  Violet Pearson was not so easily put off by a dark look and a curt response. She sidled the corridor wall, her head leading the way as she tried to get a better look at the dainty female partially obliterated by Mark’s large frame. Violet’s tongue flicked excitedly to her lips; she was very aware that the fellow was deliberately trying to shield his companion from view. A glitter brightened her eyes. Would she be returning to town with a juicy tale to relate concerning the family of her arch-enemy? She advanced determinedly on the couple, already savouring the piquancy of a rousing victory over Mrs Penelope Beaumont.

  Mark propelled Emily forward. She understood perfectly the instruction in his firm guidance and did her part by quickening her pace and keeping her bonnet brim low to shield her features.

  Violet put on a spurt, and the exertion served her well. Suddenly she got a proper look past those powerful shoulders that, preposterously, were almost as wide as the corridor. ‘Why … Miss Beaumont, is it not?’ she purred. ‘How are you, my dear? And how is your mama? Is she here with you?’

  Emily stood rigid and tongue-tied for a moment. Obliquely a corner of her mind registered that she was hopelessly, irrevocably compromised. But she turned slowly to receive Mrs. Pearson’s horribly gloating look. ‘No, she is not,’ Emily said in a lightly quavering tone.

  ‘Oh … I see,’ Violet said, immeasurable insinuation conveyed by those few words. Barely containing her glee, she added sweetly, ‘I expect you heard me say to Mr Hunter that we are off to the Festival in Guildford. Are you going there? Or are you also travelling back to London?’

  Emily moistened her lips, about to speak, but Violet piped up again. ‘If your parents are not here, I expect your bro
ther is escorting you. No doubt Tarquin is somewhere about the place.’ She gave an exaggerated peer about as though she might spot the fellow lurking in a corner. ‘Of course, I know you would not be here alone with Mr. Hunter … would you?’

  ‘Miss Beaumont is travelling with me,’ Mark interjected coolly. He gave the woman a purely cynical stare. ‘Enjoy the Festival, won’t you …’

  ‘Indeed I shall,’ Violet said. She twitched a smile, and her skirts, in a travesty of respect. Even a blast of cold air as the couple went out into the night could not shift her. She stood for some minutes shivering in the draught, a wondrously smug smile on her thin countenance.

  ‘She is a malicious witch and will delight in making trouble for our family.’ Emily’s face fell forward into her cupped palms. ‘Oh, why did I ever set out today on such a stupid mission? Everything is now so much worse!’ she wailed.

  The curricle sped on through the night, but one of Mark’s hands relinquished the reins to slide about Emily’s shoulders and draw her close against his side. A thumb smoothed against a wind-chilled cheek, back and forth in soothing rhythm until she succumbed to his comfort. A small hand snaked about his waist and she clung uninhibitedly to him, her eyes screwed tight against the breeze and burning tears.

  ‘Hush …’ Mark said softly. ‘You did what you thought best, and your brother is fortunate to have a sister as loyal and caring as you.’ The equipage raced smoothly on as he encouraged her head against his shoulder.

  Emily snuggled readily into the lee of his powerful body, a watery snuffle muffled against his coat. ‘My intention was to shield my parents from further distress! Now look what I have done! I have increased their troubles tenfold!’ She miserably shook her head back and forth. ‘A wayward son is one thing. Society will tolerate a young man sowing wild oats, but not the shameless behaviour of his unmarried sister.’

  ‘Hush, Emily.’ Mark dropped his face to hers, nudging up her chin so he might touch together their lips. She tasted salty-sweet and he relinquished her mouth reluctantly to concentrate on the dark road. ‘It is not insurmountable. There are ways and means of putting this right …’

  ‘There’s only one way and you know it.’ Emily choked on a hysterical giggle. ‘We must announce we are to be married. And I think you know far too much about me now to ever want to do that!’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘You are a selfish wretch!’

  ‘I know … I’m sorry,’ Tarquin mumbled whilst shamefacedly contemplating his bitten nails. He suddenly leaned across the breakfast table, snatching at his sister’s hands to impress on her his apology.

  Emily shrank back, firmly crossing her arms over her waist as though to prevent him again touching her. ‘Do you comprehend the extent of the chaos you caused?’ A whirling hand illustrated the magnitude of it all. Emily tipped back her head in despair.

  Of course she already knew the answer to that! Her brother was ignorant of a great deal of the damage that had resulted from his foolishness. The worst of which was her horribly inopportune meeting with Violet Pearson, and the ruinous effect it might have on their whole family. There was much she must tell Tarquin, and ask him, but she could barely contain her temper well enough to talk to him at all. With a depressive sigh Emily turned her attention on the coffee pot. She poured a cup and immediately gulped a mouthful of the strong, bitter brew.

  ‘Have you yet told our parents of your real reason for running away? Sooner or later it is bound to come out. You cannot keep your wife hidden for ever.’ Emily had breathed the final sentence in an undertone whilst darting a wary look at the door. She hoped they had not been overheard.

  Her mother was no doubt still abed; it was not yet her usual time for rising. She was confident her father would already be out on matters of business, for he was an early bird however late he retired. But servants had a knack of gleaning titbits to chew over below stairs.

  Emily again thanked her lucky stars that she had got home yesterday just minutes before her parents returned from their evening’s entertainment. She had been halfway up the stairs when she heard a key in the lock, followed by their jolly conversation in the hallway. Despite her weariness Emily had instinctively sprinted up the remaining treads and out of sight. Concealing herself behind the banisters on the landing, she had called her goodnights in a sleepy voice as though she had kept awake especially to do so. Trudging off to bed, she had felt quite guilty at her spontaneous subterfuge, and then quite silly too. Forlornly she had recalled that, if Violet Pearson were bent on making mischief, her hellish jaunt with Riley would eventually be uncovered no matter how good had been her play-acting.

  Emily’s attention returned to Tarquin. She was still waiting to learn from him whether their parents were cognizant of the fact of their son’s scandalous marriage.

  ‘Jenny is dead,’ Tarquin blurted out. His eyes glittered as he added sombrely, ‘And she was not really my wife at all.’

  Emily clattered her cup and saucer together and her lips parted in astonishment. ‘Jenny is dead?’ she echoed in a husky whisper. ‘And you say you did not marry her?’ She clamped a hand to her brow and thumb and forefinger pressed indentations into pearly skin. ‘Was it all for nothing? Did you suspect all along the marriage was some sort of hoax?’

  ‘No! I believed we were legally leg-shackled, I swear.’ Tarquin concealed his trembling lips with a fist planted hard against them, only removing it to briefly enlighten Emily to the circumstances of poor Jenny’s demise at the hands of the fiendish Riley. He cleared his throat to gruffly continue, ‘Jeremiah Plumb is a clergyman, if a shifty character. It all seemed correct. The marriage was certainly consummated …’ Tarquin blinked nervously and blushed on recalling to whom he was expressing his thoughts.

  ‘Go on,’ Emily prompted, dismissing his tacit apology as unnecessary.

  ‘Jenny regained consciousness for a short while after Mark set out to rescue you. She told me before she expired that I was not her only husband. It was Riley’s idea, of course, to make of her a bigamist. At one time I think she was quite infatuated with him. But she came to know him for a selfish, avaricious swine.’ Tarquin flung his spine against the chair back. ‘Riley had successfully extorted money from other fellows who had been tricked into taking vows when stewed. Once sober, they readily parted with cash to seal Riley’s lips.’

  ‘He thought you would too. But you had none to give.’

  Tarquin nodded slowly. ‘So he had the confounded cheek to accost you instead for payment.’ His mouth thinned to a white line. ‘I would gladly murder the brute for that alone, never mind what he did to Jenny!’

  ‘And in doing so most definitely embroil us all in a terrible brouhaha.’ Emily pointed out angrily. ‘We are not yet over one calamity before you are talking of creating another.’

  Tarquin hung his head. ‘I shall arrange for a decent burial for Jenny in any case,’ he murmured on a suspiciously watery gurgle. ‘She wasn’t wholly a bad girl.’

  Angry as Emily was with Tarquin, he deserved her sympathy for his bereavement. Kneeling close to his chair, she looked up into his mournful damp countenance. ‘I’m so very sorry to hear about Jenny’s fate. Had I known earlier, I would not have scolded you so.’ Her pale fingers covered his, squeezed in comfort. ‘It’s a mess and no doubt about it. But I’m glad to know you cared for one another. Jenny could have gone to her grave saying nothing about the bigamy, but she chose instead to put your mind at rest over it all. She loved you back, Tarquin,’ she stressed softly.

  Tarquin nodded and made a snuffling noise before cuffing at his nose.

  Emily let him be and sank back on her heels. Her brother was deeply upset by the death of his illicit wife. Tarquin had fallen for a harlot, a woman who had conspired to trick him, but had ultimately risked and sacrificed her own life to help him. Emily felt no disgust on knowing on whom her brother had chosen to bestow his love. In fact, she rather admired him for having the pluck to buck convention in choosing his mate. She no
w suspected that, at the altar, her brother had been more in possession of his faculties than he cared to admit. Oddly that gave Emily a sense of serenity.

  Gracefully she gained her feet and paced to the window. She stared out into a beautiful spring morning. The sun was shining and her countenance tilted up to be warmed by its golden glow. The lime trees were more leaf than wood, for the buds were now almost fully unfurled. With a sigh Emily turned her back on the pleasant scene. ‘Will you tell our parents about the real reason for your disappearance?’

  Tarquin shook his head. ‘I am a widower—legal or not—and it is pointless now worrying them with news of a dead daughter-in-law.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Emily quietly concurred. She paced restlessly, then shot her brother a helpless look. ‘I’m afraid to say there might soon be something even worse to disturb them.’ For the first time that morning she allowed herself to ponder on her own distressing predicament. How long a reprieve might she have before Violet Pearson returned to town to ruin her future?

  Just a day ago—it seemed so much longer than that!—she had written a letter to Stephen Bond in which she had kindly let him know she would only ever consider him a good friend. She had acted from altruism; now she felt mean for being relieved the note remained undelivered and in her cloak pocket.

  But what would she do? Would she find the gall to encourage Stephen to propose simply to protect her reputation? That would certainly prove Sarah’s hints on her woeful character correct: she was selfish and inconsiderate.

  If her betrothal were official before Mrs Pearson returned to town, would the woman admit defeat and say nothing? More importantly, if whispers did start to circulate about her being spotted in scandalous circumstances with a bachelor, would Stephen renege on the contract? He would have every right to do so!

  ‘I can’t guess at it. You must explain what you mean,’ Tarquin prompted.