LITMIR.BIZ

      Author Note

      During the Regency period, genteel ladies hoping to find a husband were expected to be of impeccable reputation. In writing THE HUNTER BROTHERS duet of books, I have created heroines who don’t quite fit Polite Society’s view of an ideal wife.

      In the first novel, A Practical Mistress, Sir Jason Hunter is captivated by a young widow brazen enough to proposition him.

      The subsequent novel, The Wanton Bride, features Mark Hunter and his pursuit of a woman with a guilty secret in her past.

      I hope you enjoy reading about two eligible gentlemen who are prepared to fight for the unique women they love.

      Available from Harlequin^®Historical and MARY BRENDAN

      *Wedding Night Revenge #203

      *The Unknown Wife #205

      *A Scandalous Marriage #210

      *The Rake and the Rebel #211

      **A Practical Mistress #865

      **The Wanton Bride #894

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter One

      ‘Nonsense, my dear! There is nothing sinister in it. Boys like to go off gallivanting once in a while. You’re worrying unnecessarily, I tell you!’ Mr Cecil Beaumont gave his beautiful blonde daughter a beaming smile. ‘Don’t look so glum. He’ll turn up when he’s good and ready.’

      ‘Tarquin is not a boy, Papa,’ Emily Beaumont pointed out quietly. ‘He is a man of twenty-seven and I suspect he has got himself into one scrape too many. Perhaps he has not succeeded in stalling his creditors and is in trouble.’ Her silver-blue eyes took on a faraway look as she pondered on instances when her older brother had brought himself close to ruination through gaming and wild ways. But he had never yet disappeared for more than a few days before turning up, like the proverbial bad penny, sober and remorseful. ‘Perhaps we ought to check with the authorities in case he is again in the Fleet.’

      Mr Beaumont waved a dismissive hand. ‘No need…no need, my dear.’ He picked up his pen, idle on a page of his ledger, and set about using it.

      His daughter was not so easily put off. Emily paced to the window of her father’s den, stared out sightlessly, before wandering back into the room, deep in thought. With a sigh she sank into an old armchair.

      Tarquin had been due to come to their parents’ home in Callison Crescent and take their brother Robert to the outfitters. But he had failed to arrive at the appointed hour five days ago and had not contacted his family to make his excuses or his apologies. Emily thought it highly irregular behaviour, even for someone as self-centred as her brother.

      Mrs Beaumont’s reaction on that afternoon was to mutter about the inconsiderate knave before she got her husband’s valet to take Robert to the tailors instead. When Emily had earlier today approached her mother about Tarquin’s lengthy silence, she showed herself no more concerned over her eldest son’s whereabouts than did her husband.

      Mr Beaumont raised an indulgent paternal eye to his daughter. He tossed his quill on to the blotter and clucked his tongue. ‘Come, my dear, no long face, I beg you. If Tarquin had been threatened with prison, he would have by now summoned my help, you may take my word on it.’ Cecil gave a cynical little laugh. ‘I’ll not go looking for him to sort out his troubles—if troubles he has—for they always find me soon enough.’ A nod concluded his philosophy and he resumed his writing. A quiet moment passed. Warily he peeked up to find his daughter still in the room and looking no less melancholy. ‘Emily!’ he expostulated with a hint of impatience. ‘If you’re unable to put your mind at ease over it, I’ll call in to Westbury Avenue and see if his landlady knows where he might be.’

      Emily brightened. ‘You promise you will do that, Papa?’ she asked.

      Cecil nodded affirmation. ‘I can go that way to Boodle’s later.’

      A smile erased the strain from Emily’s lovely features. Her father bowed his head over his ledger once more, gave a couple of short coughs, firmly letting Emily know their conversation was definitely concluded.

      Emily rose gracefully from his armchair and went upstairs to her bedchamber.

      Feeling lighter in spirits, she gazed out on to the street

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