Mary Brendan – The Virtuous Courtesan (страница 1)
‘He did not intend you become my housekeeper. He intended you become my mistress.’
‘And are you happy that your brother has organised your future?’ Sarah scoffed.
‘Of course I’m not happy about it,’ Gavin replied bluntly. ‘But I am willing to accept it.’
‘Because you want to claim your inheritance.’ The statement was tinged with acrimony.
‘Yes, I want my inheritance.’
Eyes that had become sleepy roved her figure.
‘And I want you.’
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 involved 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.
Recent novels by the same author:
WEDDING NIGHT REVENGE*
THE UNKNOWN WIFE*
A SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE*
THE RAKE AND THE REBEL*
A PRACTICAL MISTRESS†
THE WANTON BRIDE†
*
†
Dear Reader
The path of true love never runs smooth, so the old saying goes, and I have written a duet of novels with those wise words in mind. In this first book, THE VIRTUOUS COURTESAN, it is certainly a fitting adage! The heroine, Sarah Marchant, has suffered a traumatic childhood. When her future is cruelly bound to that of Gavin Stone—something neither of them wants—it seems matters must only get worse… or will they?
The second story features Ruth Hayden as the heroine. Widowed when very young, she has also endured a great deal of heartache in her early years. Then Sir Clayton Powell arrives, with an offer that should benefit them both. But can a marriage without love survive?
2008 marks the tenth anniversary of the publication of MR TRELAWNEY’S PROPOSAL, my first Regency novel for Mills & Boon. It is, therefore, a double delight for me to be part of this year’s centenary celebrations. Although I enjoy reading and writing historical fiction, it has been exciting to see the innovative and widening choice of books on offer by the world’s most famous romance publisher. The Mills & Boon success story is heartening proof that, despite uncertain times, very many people continue to have an enduring love of reading all types of romance.
In this special year I would like to take the opportunity of thanking all my editors and all my readers, past and present.
THE VIRTUOUS COURTESAN
Mary Brendan
Chapter One
It had been a calamitous few days for Joseph Pratt. Misfortune had first visited him on Monday when he had discovered his wife in bed with her young lover. On Wednesday he had lost thirty guineas on a wager, despite having it on excellent authority that the nag would secure a cup at the County races. Yesterday was no improvement; a rival firm of solicitors had poached one of his best clients. Now Friday had arrived and with it a raging toothache. Gingerly he probed the swelling with his tongue and flinched, whilst keeping his eyes fixed on the fellow seated opposite. Despite a throbbing gum his mouth stretched into a smirk, for he anticipated being soon so thoroughly entertained, it might compensate for his week of woe.
Beneath stubby fallen lashes, the lawyer took a summarising look at the preposterously handsome profile presented to him. The fellow was frowning out into a sunny afternoon and Joseph noted his honed, almost fleshless visage was unfashionably brown for a Mayfair dandy.
Mr Gavin Stone might possess an air of sleepy sophistication, but he obviously rose early enough on occasion to catch the sun and acquire a vulgar gypsy colouring. Joseph’s covert appraisal of his visitor continued; in fact, he found it hard to look away for the man was quite different to the louche individual he had been expecting. Not that his late client, Edward Stone, had spoken much about his younger brother. But he had gleaned from odd comments that the fellow was a damnable rogue.
Presently the rogue’s lips were compressed to a thin line and, if that alone did not signify his deep irritation, there were the long fingers drumming on a shiny boot perched atop an elegantly breeched knee. He might have a reputation as a libertine, and have his pockets to let, but he was not a man with whom one might take liberties, of that Joseph was sure.
Another look was slanted from beneath Joseph’s sandy brows at the fellow lounging in a chair. He had a hand plunged negligently into a pocket, ruining the effect of a suit of clothes that, even to Joseph’s jaundiced eye, looked to have cost a pretty city penny.
Joseph quickly averted his gaze as Gavin Stone lost interest in the pastoral scene beyond the window and cast a glower at the empty chair on his left. From the corner of his vision Joseph saw first one, then the other finely dressed long leg extend as they were stretched out. Joseph’s lips twitched a little maliciously. It was a small chair for such a well-built man and no doubt, after almost three-quarters of an hour stuck within its cracked leather arms, Gavin Stone was feeling cramped. Suddenly his visitor’s enviable physique was rudely impressed on him as the man surged to his feet.
The solicitor bent his head to peruse a document. Even when balled fists were planted gently on the edge of the desktop directly in his line of vision Joseph did not immediately look up. A moment later he met a penetrating blue gaze for he sensed that he continued to ignore Mr Stone at his peril.
‘How much longer must we tarry over this?’
Joseph cleared his throat; the smirk had long since withered from his lips. ‘I can only apologise, sir. My correspondence was most concise. The appointment was for one of the clock.’ Rapidly blinking eyes sought the wall clock. ‘I imagine Miss Marchant has been unavoidably delayed.’
‘I imagine you are right.’ Gavin’s response was silky irony. ‘But I am not prepared to wait for her any longer. We have given her the courtesy of forty wasted minutes. Let us proceed with the matter. You can advise the lady of her bequest at a later date.’
‘I’m afraid I cannot, sir,’ Joseph stressed in a horrified tone. ‘My late client was most specific in his instructions. His last will and testament must not be read until both parties are present.’
‘What?’ Gavin cursed inaudibly and pivoted on a heel. When he spoke his back was to the lawyer and his voice was speciously calm. ‘Why did you not inform me of this sooner?’
‘You did not ask, sir, and earlier there seemed no need to bring it to your attention,’ the lawyer argued.
Gavin’s back teeth met as he sought to control his vexation at that reasonable defence. ‘I intend travelling back to London this afternoon,’ he informed Pratt curtly. ‘I want to be on the road by three o’clock, four at the latest.’
Joseph grabbed at a little bell positioned on the edge of his desk. ‘There is yet time, then. Perhaps some more refreshment…’
The brass implement was snatched away by Gavin before he could again be tormented by its feeble clatter. He abruptly replaced it on polished wood. He had been fobbed off already with weak tea and stilted chit-chat and had no further stomach for either. ‘I think not… thank you,’ he curtly declined further hospitality. ‘I shall be at the Red Lion until four o’clock this afternoon. Should Miss…’
‘Marchant,’ the solicitor swiftly supplied the absentee’s name.
‘Quite…’ Gavin muttered impatiently. ‘Should she turn up before that time, send your clerk to the inn to inform me and I will endeavour to delay my departure. It is best to close this business today.’
It seemed that within one stride Gavin Stone’s tall figure was at the exit and he was stooping in anticipation of quitting the office through a low sloping portal. Slowly he straightened and frowned at the scrawny clerk who had silently appeared and was now in his way.
The young man stretched his neck in his stiff collar to take a peer around the broad chest blocking his vision.
‘Excuse me, Mr Stone…Mr Pratt,’ he piped. ‘Miss Marchant is below and sends her apologies for her late arrival—shall I…?’
‘Show her up…show her up,’ Mr Pratt hissed impatiently, finishing the nervous youth’s sentence for him. A flapping hand stressed the urgency to fetch her. ‘There…she is at last arrived,’ Joseph soothed. ‘We might speedily set to and you will still be refreshed and away in good time.’ He sidled closer. ‘Please, sit down?’ he hesitantly suggested, for the saturnine fellow remained close to the exit.
Gavin muttered something inaudible beneath his breath and, ignoring the invitation to be seated, strolled to an open window, braced a hand against the frame and moodily stared out. His dark humour started to evaporate as warm scented air teased his senses and he squinted against late summer sunlight.
At this time of the year this small country town was undeniably a pleasant spot. Picturesque cottages and the green sward of the town square could be seen from his vantage point. Pratt and Donaghue, the legal firm whose letter concerning his brother’s demise had summoned him from London, held offices on the first floor of a redbrick townhouse. The building was flanked either side by similar properties with sturdy entrance doors bearing brass nameplates of the educated fellows trading within. Along both sides of a narrow High Street were shops of varying sizes, some with wares displayed outside. It appeared enough was on offer in Willowdene to meet a person’s needs. Nevertheless, Gavin remained surprised that his brother had some years ago relinquished his Mayfair lifestyle to reside permanently in what, to Gavin, was simply a quaint backwater.