Improper Relations

by Janet Mullany

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Compromising liaisons, crossed wires and conflicting loyalties - it's another gem from Regency star Janet Mullany. After losing best friend and distant cousin Ann Weller in marriage to the Earl of Beresford, sharp-witted Charlotte Hayden feels inclined to be even ruder than usual to potential suitors. But after a compromising liaison with Beresford's wicked, wayward cousin, Shad, she's suddenly propelled into a reluctant marriage, and finds herself missing Ann more than ever. But when Ann returns from her honeymoon, she drops a bombshell - not only is she not sure she loves Beresford, she's also had a child out of wedlock, and is planning to betray her husband with her former lover. Charlotte's realisation that she's falling in love with Shad only serves to make her dilemma even worse: should she keep Ann's secret, or tell her husband the truth?

Release date: February 28, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 310

Sample

Miss Charlotte Hayden

My story begins with a wedding.

Not, I hasten to add, mine. I have been assured from allegedly reliable sources that certain farmyard creatures would sprout wings and fly were I to receive a proposal. My brother George, a year older than me, has declared me a filly no one wishes to mount, and although he was in his cups at the time, and I deplore his vulgarity, it is true I look to gallop in last to the finishing line of matrimony. Or, as my father thunderously pronounced, while I braced myself for the rigours of polite society, ‘If you can’t catch one this time, Charlotte, it’s off to the country and good works for you.’

I felt rather as an elderly horse must when the glue factory is pointed out.

Besides, the family needs a social triumph following the recent unpleasantness (or as my mama phrases it, the Recent Unpleasantness – you can hear the italics when she utters the phrase, usually with a flutter of hankerchief, a sigh, and the consumption of another glass of cordial) regarding my eldest brother Henry. Shortly before Ann came to live with us, Henry was hastily fitted out for a commission in a regiment, his debts paid off, and more parents of naïve heiresses (who anticipated marriage whereas Henry clearly did not) placated. Henry barely had time to shake his golden frogging at a few more fresh victims and run up a few hundred guineas more in gaming debts before the regiment left for Liverpool.

I was relieved. Mama was Prostrated with Grief, the Likes of Which One Who is Not a Mother Cannot Conceive.

But the wedding. Yes, Ann’s wedding. My best friend Ann, from whom I have been inseparable ever since she came to our family a few months ago. I had not seen her for years. She was someone who visited occasionally when we were both little girls, and with whom I swore vows of eternal friendship before she went home and we forgot about each other until the next visit. She was a vicar’s daughter in a family infinitely more shabby and far less money-grubbing than mine, who had spent the last three years as housekeeper to some obscure, dreadful old cousin, so as not to be a burden to her parents. And then suddenly Ann, dear Ann, orphaned and with all that money inherited from her cousin and employer, and with no one to look after her … of course she should live with us, for was not my papa her godfather and now her guardian? So it was off to London and high society as Papa managed Ann’s inheritance.

Fortunately she inherited so much money that Papa’s expenditures – or, giving the dear girl what she needs to triumph in society and Charlotte with her, as he puts it – have barely made a dent.

She is a beauty, the gentle and sweet-natured one who always knows the right thing to say, whereas I am the clever one, or so they tell me. I’m not too sure of this, for it sounds remarkably like a sop of kindness tossed in my direction. Not that I break mirrors – certainly by knocking one from the wall, but not merely with the impact of my reflection. I am moderately pretty. But compared to Ann – well, there is no comparison.

I don’t believe I’m more or less clever than any of the hopeful young ladies paraded in the marriage mart. I speak some dreadful French, embroider with a minimum of bloodshed, produce lifelessly correct watercolours, have several easy pianoforte pieces at my disposal for the drawing room and occasionally I read something other than fashion papers. In truth, I am quite accomplished.

But Ann. This is her day at this elegant gathering in the Earl of Beresford’s drawing room – nothing so vulgar as a church. Dear me, no. This ceremony is performed by special licence, with a fashionably languid clergyman brought in for the occasion, while the cream of the ton, London’s most fashionable and well-born – of whom today I am one, acting as Ann’s bridesmaid – speculate upon the bride’s innocence (I shall not say a word) and dowry (larger than you might think).

Gentlemen had flocked round Ann (and her fortune), and incidentally round me, to my father’s gratification. I have enjoyed some popularity as a conduit to Miss Ann Welling, until she met the man who is at this very moment becoming her husband.

‘Charlotte, I met a gentleman,’ she murmured as we travelled home from the stultifying boredom of a soirée a few weeks ago.

‘I met several. Dreadful, weren’t they.’

‘Oh, no.’ She turned the full force of her sapphire blue eyes upon me (and if you think that’s an exaggeration, you should see some of the poetry her admirers have written). ‘Oh, not this one.’

I felt a pang although I couldn’t exactly describe what it was – jealousy, anticipation? I must be glad for Ann, I told myself. For of course every woman wants to fall in love and have her own establishment and babies and all the rest (but what is all the rest?) for so we were raised. And so I became the onlooker as Ann fell in love with the Earl of Beresford, a handsome gentleman possessed of a large fortune, a large family (of which I am now a very small part) and, as of a few minutes ago, a wife. While he wooed her I became her confidante, privy to what the Earl said and did, and speculated with her for hours on what his lordship really meant. Each of his words was picked apart as though his conversation was an old stocking we intended to knit into something better. Were his intentions really honourable? What did he try to say when he sent a fan, ivory with seed pearls, fashionable to the point of plainness? The Greek vase? The books of poetry? Or the saucy garters, red ribbons, paste jewels, gold embroidery? They made Ann blush and we debated for hours whether she should allow his lordship a glimpse of them or whether merely telling him that she wore them was enough.

I’m not quite sure what the result of the garters was.

I was the one who sat with her, our hands tightly clasped, when Beresford called on my papa and they shut themselves in his study for what seemed like hours. Ann and I worked our way through a decanter of brandy while the settlement was thrashed out – or something, for the two gentlemen emerged talking of dogs – and Ann burst into drunken tears in her lover’s embrace and then fell asleep on the sofa. Beresford gazed at the trail of drool falling from her mouth and sighed.

Oh yes, he was in love too.

Between then and the wedding, I became the one who declared with great innocence that I had no idea where Beresford or Ann had gone (into dark corners and walks of gardens, into clumps of bushes, unused rooms, and so on). I would help her rearrange her hair and straighten her gown when she emerged, giggling and dishevelled.

She smiled sweetly at me and thanked me, but there was an end to confidences and giggled secrets. No word on the garters, the assignations. She received letters that she would tuck away into her bodice, and spring to her feet crying that we must try my hair in a new style, or make some adjustment to a gown, for she was convinced that now I must marry before the season was out.

And I realised that I was losing her, although I did not understand why. All I knew was that our short-lived intimacy was fading away, leaving me to the tender mercies of my family. She was Beresford’s now, becoming Lady Ann Jane Trelaise, Countess of Beresford, preparing to cross the divide between maidenhood and marriage and leaving me behind.

Now the new Countess, on her husband’s arm, turns to face the elegant congregation with a smile that somehow combines maidenly modesty with triumph. The Earl gazes at her, her hand in his. My mother is weeping like a sieve and my father blowing his nose. And I—

‘Pardon me, ma’am.’

I look up. Oh, my prayer book, which I must have dropped at some point, and a large, linen, masculine handkerchief.

I blow my nose and mumble, ‘Thank you sir, I must see to Lady Beresford.’

I gather Ann’s fan and bouquet of silk flowers, and take them to her, dropping a curtsy to the Earl, who beams at me in an alarmingly toothy way. He is a large, loud man, whom I would dislike if he were not Ann’s choice; whom in fact I do resent to a certain extent as he is the one who has taken her from me.

And I suspect he is not terribly clever.

‘Well, cousin Charlotte,’ he booms, taking my hands in his, ‘I may address you so since you are one of us, now. And we’ll marry her off soon, eh, Ann?’

Had I not returned the silk flowers to their owner I might have been tempted to slap him with them at this public declaration of my marital failure. ‘Thank you, sir, please do not go to any trouble on my account. I shall—’

‘Any help would be much appreciated, Beresford,’ my father interjects. And it is true that becoming a minor planet of the rich, powerful (and in my opinion, pompous) family of the Earl and Countess – they swarm over the drawing room, loud, voluble, handsome – should increase my chances of an offer.

I look at Ann to see if she shares my mingled embarrassment and annoyance, but she gazes at her new husband as though there is no one else in the room; and for her there is not. A swarm of Trelaises, declaring their happiness complete and what a charming bride, etc. etc., descends upon them, and I step aside. I still clasp the linen handkerchief and look about me for the gentleman to whom it belongs. Since I did not actually look him in the face – and there was no chance of an introduction since he arrived late, and I barely noticed him, other than realising someone had slipped into place beside me – I’m not quite sure how I shall recognise him.

While the others cluster around the bride and groom, there is one who remains sprawled on a chair. He wears plain black, very fashionable for a gentleman, of course, but on this man it looks as though he intends to fight a duel and possibly conduct the funeral service over his unlucky opponent all in the same day. His dark hair is unruly, also eminently fashionable, but in a way that, along with his unshaven chin, suggests he has but recently risen from his bed.

Goodness.

He is lean, dramatic, handsome as the devil, and I suspect the bed was not his.

A rake!

Will my reputation fall around me in tatters if I approach him?

I regard the soggy handkerchief in my hand and regret that the bosom of my gown, fashionably brief, does not allow for extra cargo.

While I have been staring at him I have in fact been moving towards him, like a mouse fascinated by a snake, so I arrive in front of him as he looks up – his eyes are shadowed, naturally, his eyelashes dark and lush, his face lean and bony – and gazes straight at my bosom.

He yawns.

‘Sir, I thank you for the loan of your handkerchief.’ I should really have waited for an introduction. I hold out the soggy item to him.

Then, as though his manners return, he lurches to his feet, blinks, and bows. ‘My pleasure, madam.’

His pleasure. I blink at that. But we cannot stand here blinking like a couple of owls. I dip a small curtsy, and watch as his hand – long, beautiful fingers – takes the handkerchief, folds it, and tucks it into his waistcoat pocket. I should of course turn away at this point, but I cannot.

‘I regret we have not been introduced,’ I say.

‘Ah. You must be Miss Hayden. Beresford told me all about you.’

This is nonsense as Beresford knows nothing whatsoever about me, except that I serve a useful purpose in allowing him to steal away with his affianced.

‘Indeed. And you, sir, are …?’

He smiles and his eyes dance with amusement or something more sinful. ‘I, Miss Hayden, am Jonathan Trelaise, Viscount Shadderly. I hold the distinction of being the wicked cousin – your wicked cousin, now.’

‘Perhaps I already have one. Besides, Ann is not a blood relative; my father is her godfather.’

‘Oh, I’m far more wicked. And doubtless far better bred. Look at us all.’ He gestures at his family. ‘Although soon I shall mend my ways.’

‘Why is that, sir?’

‘I intend to marry.’

Dreadfully, I feel a pang of disappointment. ‘And is the lucky woman here?’

‘I don’t even know who the lucky woman is, Miss Hayden. It’s a theory only. The family thinks I should marry.’

‘Oh, then of course you should.’

He gives me a quick glance as though he is trying to work out whether I’m making fun of him. I suspect this is a man who takes himself, particularly in the role of wicked cousin, rather seriously.

I assume my best innocent expression.

‘And as to you, Miss Hayden? Any luck recently?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Beresford told me your family was exceedingly put out that your cousin married before you.’

‘That’s none of your business!’ How dare he criticise my family – although what he says is absolutely true. I unfurl my fan in a businesslike way. ‘Possibly we should kill two birds with one stone by becoming engaged, my lord.’

For one wonderful, brief moment, he looks shocked. Then he laughs. ‘Touché, Miss Hayden, although generally I believe it is the gentleman who does the asking.’

Viscount Shadderly

My cousin Beresford looks as red and gleaming as a side of beef as he beams upon his tender little bride. She is as lovely as even he, with his limited capacity, could describe – remember how snowdrops look when you see them first in the spring, so pure and white, Shad, before your horse treads on them or your dog pisses on them? She’s a capital girl! He’d paused then, and refilled our glasses. Should I tell her about my mistress?

I’d advised him to be discreet. At least it was only one mistress. I wonder how Beresford’s snowdrop will fare with our family, who are all agog with curiosity that he should marry this unknown. I believe she was raised in a vicarage, orphaned, and taken in by the Haydens, a shabby, genteel, grasping sort of family. Had she not been the sole heir of a rich, miserly relative, she would have stayed with them as an unpaid companion indefinitely, darning stockings and reading novels aloud for her bread. Under the caring and tender wings of the Haydens she had her London debut and staged a comeuppance by becoming engaged within months, unlike the troublesome and troubled Miss Charlotte.

Now, of course I’ve only heard Beresford’s side of the story, and a drunken side at that. ‘I think Charlotte’s in love with me, Shad. Looks at me all the time. Poor girl.’ He gazed into his glass, sighing. ‘I feel sorry for her. No one’s going to marry her. D’you think I should, you know, just to—’

‘Absolutely not.’ Just to … what? Cheer her up? I saw his disappointment and added, ‘What if Miss Ann found out?’

‘Of course, of course. You’re absolutely right. Where would I be without you? Thank God you’ve come up from the country to help me.’ A hiccup. ‘How long until I get married?’

I squinted at the clock. ‘About ten hours.’

‘Maybe we should …’ His words became incoherent and his wineglass tipped and spilled as Beresford slumped on to the table with a snore.

One of the ladies of the house – regrettably, we were in low company – offered to help his lordship into his carriage, and thus it was that the Earl of Beresford spent his last bachelor hours.

I guess, correctly, that the lady to whom I lend my handkerchief – I arrive late and crapulous, after our carousing the night before – must be the lovelorn Miss Charlotte Hayden. She does not appear to cry more than any other woman at the wedding, and if her cousin Miss Ann Weller, now becoming the Countess of Beresford, is daylight and sunshine, she is an indeterminate sort of dusk. She lacks the porcelain complexion, blue eyes and curling fair hair of her cousin; her hair is brown with a reluctant wave, her eyes an uninteresting grey, her face narrow and sharp-featured, and somewhat red around the eyes, and she is of middling height. To be blunt, her best feature is her bosom.

A certain sharpness of tongue has doubtless frightened off most suitors, although I find it the second most attractive thing about her. I do however feel no compulsion whatsoever to take the lady up on her offer of marriage; no, I need a nice docile sort of girl, a pretty thing who will adore me and pop out babies regularly so the estate will pass directly to my line.

I know the price is a terrible boredom, but it is my duty.

After an hour or so spent at the wedding breakfast, the weight of so many relatives lies heavy upon me. Yes, I am come to town to take a wife. Yes, I am settling the lamentable state of affairs left by my dreadful old father (every day, it seems, a new creditor or other problematic visitor arrives). Yes, I should be most grateful for a good word to the patronesses of Almack’s, for my bloodlines are perfectly respectable, even if my bank balance is not.

Pleading fatigue I leave early, as I have business with a Mrs Jenny Perkins – or rather, Beresford’s business. She is the mistress in his (mostly) untarnished past, and I offered to end the liaison. Beresford himself has been far too busy waxing poetic about spring flowers to deal with this matter, or so he tells me. I’ve met Mrs Perkins before and wonder at how a sensible man could entangle himself with this grasping tart, although when her maidservant admits me to the lady’s presence, I am reminded of exactly why.

‘Why, my lord, what a surprise!’ She rises from her dressing table and offers her hand. ‘Pray be careful of my headdress, it has taken me an hour to arrange. Is not Berry with you?’

Ostrich feathers bob on her head, but she is wearing very little else; so little, in fact, that I am immediately suspicious that another lover is on the premises. If this is so, it will save Beresford a great deal of money.

‘I regret not,’ I reply. ‘The marriage was today.’

She sniffs, not in sorrow, but in disdain, while I examine the room for discarded breeches etc.

‘Is that a mouse?’ I cry.

Mrs Perkins shrieks and climbs on a chair, clutching her shift to herself.

I fling open the door of the linen press, expecting to find Beresford’s rival quivering in fear. No, only gowns and sheets.

‘I suppose you are come to pay me off,’ Mrs Perkins says, still atop the chair.

I offer my hand and she steps down, rather too close to me, moving very slowly.

I clear my throat. After all, I have been busy in the country and not in an amorous sort of way. I am beginning to find Mrs Perkins’ generous charms overwhelming.

‘Outstanding bills, ma’am,’ I manage.

She sits at her dressing table again. ‘Well, sir, there are these garters—’ hoisting her shift so I may view them and assess their worth, ‘blue silk, embroidered with forget-me-nots. I believe I paid five shillings for them. The stockings are clocked silk – handsome, are they not? I paid—’

‘Your bills, ma’am. I do not need to see the goods themselves.’

‘Oh, sir. You are so hard upon me.’ She glances at me to assess the effect she is having and dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief that probably is not paid for. ‘I am most put out that Berry should cast me off so.’

‘Of course. Would those be bills by your left elbow?’

She hands them to me. ‘You should know also that I have . . .