The Perfect Mistress. Victoria Alexander

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      Seven years ago, when Charles had announced his intention to marry Veronica Wilton, Harrison had done his best to dissuade him. Not that she wasn’t lovely with her dark red hair and tall stature and, indeed, her family was more than acceptable, her father was a viscount after all. But there was something in the woman’s manner, as if she were far more intelligent than anyone else and found the rest of the world amusing in its stupidity, that he found most irritating. In his experience, intelligent women were prone to making their own decisions and never overly concerned with the propriety of those decisions. Still, he had to admit, in many ways he had been wrong about her. While he never did understand what his brother saw in her aside from her appearance, and certainly one required more in a wife than a pretty face, she had made Charles happy and they seemed to have truly cared for each other. Which somewhat redeemed her in Harrison’s eyes. In this world, could one ask for more?

      Veronica laughed. “Goodness, Harrison, Charles would have found it amusing as well.”

      “Charles found much amusing that I do not,” Harrison said in what struck even him as an overly stodgy manner. While they shared the same mother, the two brothers could not have been more dissimilar in temperament.

      Charles was nearly seventeen years of age when his widowed mother had married Harrison’s father and had promptly borne another son. Harrison had adored his older brother in spite of the disparity in their ages. But it wasn’t until he was an adult that they had become close even though the characters of the two men were decidedly different. While Charles was brilliant in all matters of finance, he had lived his life with a devil-may-care attitude and a passion for wine and sport and women—especially women. He was well past his fortieth year when he had at last decided to marry. No one was more surprised than Harrison by his brother’s decision and his choice. He had rather expected his brother to fall head over heels for an actress or another unsuitable sort rather than a woman who, in spite of Harrison’s initial concerns, was still a fitting match for the Earl of Smithson.

      In recent years Harrison had been searching for an appropriate wife of his own. He was well aware of his responsibilities and his duty to provide an heir, as his half brother had failed to do. Charles’s title had passed to a distant cousin upon his death. Harrison had no intention of allowing the same fate to befall his heritage. Indeed, he was currently considering several suitable candidates for the position of Countess of Mountdale, young ladies of good family and unblemished reputation. That he hadn’t selected a wife yet he attributed only to the fact that he had yet to find one he considered absolutely right and had nothing at all to do with the lack of particular affection he felt for any of them. Affection would come in time.

      “Even Charles would not be amused to see the infidelities of his father available at a bookseller’s for all the world to read.”

      Veronica raised a brow.

      “Well, perhaps he would.” His brother had always been amused by scandal. “But his father is dead and mine is very much alive. However this …” He cast a disgusted look at the pages in front of him. “The scandal this will cause will kill him.”

      Veronica laughed. “I very much doubt that.”

      Harrison drew his brows together. “My father is seventy-six years of age and—”

      “He is the youngest elderly gentleman I know.”

      “His constitution is not what it once was,” Harrison said staunchly.

      “How is your father’s health?”

      “Acceptable.” Harrison ignored the fact that his father’s physicians pronounced him the picture of health, save for stiffness in his knees. “Regardless, it is a risk I do not intend to take. Now, you say this friend of yours—”

      “You needn’t say friend as if it were an obscenity.” Veronica’s brows pulled together in disapproval. “She is a very nice woman and I am fortunate to count her among my friends.”

      “Very nice women do not publish the scandalous memoirs of their ancestors.”

      “Very nice women who have financial responsibilities do what they must to meet those responsibly. Goodness, Harrison, she’s not pandering in the streets.”

      “This is not substantially better,” he said. “What did you say her name was?”

      “I didn’t. It’s Lady Julia Winterset.”

      Harrison raised a brow. “The wife of Sir William Win-terset?”

      “The widow of Sir William Winterset.”

      “The barrister?”

      “I believe so. Did you know him?”

      “I knew of him. He had a fine legal mind and an excellent reputation. And he was of good family as well.” Harrison huffed. “No doubt this has him turning over in his grave.”

      “If he had provided adequately for his widow, if his good family had not abandoned any responsibility toward his wife upon his death, there would be no need to turn over in his grave and he could rest in peace,” Veronica said sharply.

      “Yes, I suppose.” Harrison drummed his fingers on his desk. “Obviously, I shall have to deal with this myself. I shall request a meeting with your friend and persuade her of the error of proceeding with this venture.”

      “Such persuasion to consist of nothing more than your gallant manner and charming disposition?” Veronica said mildly.

      Harrison glared at his sister-in-law. “I can be quite persuasive and most charming when the occasion calls for it.”

      “Harrison.” Veronica rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “Have you listened to a word I’ve said?”

      “Each and every one.”

      “Apparently not.” Veronica leaned forward and met his gaze. “Julia Winterset is badly in need of funds. If the state of her finances was acceptable, I daresay she would never think of selling her great-grandmother’s memoirs. She is very nearly as proper as you are.” Veronica shrugged. “Or at least she used to be.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “When you have lost a husband, when without warning you find yourself completely dependent on your own resources, you have very few choices other than to take your life in your own hands. If you wish to survive.” She shook her head in a long-suffering manner, as if he were entirely too stupid to understand. “I met Lady Winterset two years ago. I have watched her since then. She has changed, grown if you will. She has become quite independent and discovered a strength of character I suspect she ever knew she had.”

      Harrison glared. “If you are trying to make a point, Veronica, you are not doing it well.”

      “My point is that while Lady Winterset is a woman of intellect and grace and any number of other sterling qualities, she is also desperate. Desperate women do what they must do and they do not easily succumb to fine words and charming manners.”

      “Still, if she is indeed intelligent, she shall surely be reasonable as well.” Even to his own ears, the assertion sounded absurd. Women, intelligent or not, were rarely reasonable. “I have no doubt that I can convince her that making this … this rubbish public will cause her and all involved irreparable damage.”

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