Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress

Meet Meg, Bella and Celina—

three loving sisters, desperate to escape

the iron rule of their fanatical rector father…

One by one they flee the vicarage—

only to discover that the real world holds its

own surprises for the now-disgraced Shelley

sisters! How will they get themselves out of the

scandalous situations they find themselves in?

Can betrayed widow Meg learn to love again?

Will pregnant and abandoned Bella find the man to turn her blush of shame to the flush of pleasure?

And how will virginal courtesan-in-training Lina discover the meaning of true passion?

Find out in…

The Transformation of the Shelley Sisters

Three sisters, three escapades,three very different destinies!

Welcome to the world of Margaret, Arabella and Celina Shelley. Brought up by a harsh and repressive father, all the sisters wanted from life was love—and by looking for it they found themselves branded as sinners and parted from each other.

Early nineteenth-century England was an unforgiving place for fallen women. Dreamy Meg, practical Bella and innocent Lina fought back against Society, and their own fears, to rebuild their lives and find their true loves, transforming themselves in the process.

This is the story of Meg, the middle sister. Dreamily romantic, she eloped with her childhood soldier sweetheart and found herself learning to be practical and realistic in the brutal world of the war-torn Iberian Peninsula. Now, alone and virtually penniless, she must find her way back to England—and her only hope is dark and brooding Ross Brandon, a man wounded in body and soul.

I hope you enjoy Meg and Ross’s journey as much as I enjoyed discovering it, and that you will rejoin the Shelley sisters to meet Bella in the next book in the trilogy.

Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress

Louise Allen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Louise Allen has been immersing herself in history, real and fictional, for as long as she can remember, and finds landscapes and places evoke powerful images of the past. Louise lives in Bedfordshire, and works as a property manager, but spends as much time as possible with her husband at the cottage they are renovating on the north Norfolk coast, or travelling abroad. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite atmospheric destinations. Please visit Louise’s website—www.louiseallenregency.co.uk—for the latest news!

Recent novels by the same author:

VIRGIN SLAVE, BARBARIAN KING

THE DANGEROUS MR RYDER*

THE OUTRAGEOUS LADY FELSHAM*

THE SHOCKING LORD STANDON*

THE DISGRACEFUL MR RAVENHURST*

THE NOTORIOUS MR HURST*

THE PIRATICAL MISS RAVENHURST*

* Those Scandalous Ravenhursts

Praise for Louise Allen’s

Those Scandalous Ravenhursts

THE DANGEROUS MR RYDER

‘Allen’s latest adventure romance

is a roller-coaster ride that sweeps readers

through Europe and into the relationship

between a very proper baroness and a

very improper spy. The quick pace and

hold-your-breath escape plans turn this love story

into a one-night read that will have you

cheering for the appealing characters.’

—RT Book Reviews

THE OUTRAGEOUS LADY FELSHAM

‘Allen’s daring, sexy and, yes, outrageous

spin-off of THE DANGEROUS MR RYDER

gently borders on erotic romance because of the

manner in which she plays out her characters’

fantasies (including a marvellous bear rug!) without ever losing sight of Regency mores.’

—RT Book Reviews

THE SHOCKING LORD STANDON

‘Allen continues her collection of novels

centring on the ton’s scandalous activities

with another delightful and charming

Ravenhurst story of love and mayhem.’

—RT Book Reviews

Prologue

July 1808

‘North Wales?’ Celina repeated blankly as Meg finished pouring out her news. ‘But that’s hundreds of miles away. We will never see you.’

‘That wouldn’t be so bad if we knew you were happy,’ Arabella ventured, ‘But Great-Aunt Caroline? She’s a recluse—’

‘She is mad as a hatter,’ Meg Shelley retorted, biting back the tears. ‘You only have to listen to those horrible letters she sends Papa. She is worse than he is.’ She reached out and took her sisters’ hands, wincing and letting go as the grip tightened on the livid weals across her palms. ‘I would rather be here with you both and be whipped every day, than go there.’

‘Perhaps if you promised Papa you would not read novels again?’Arabella suggested, picking up the worn shirt she was darning for the poor box and then dropping it back into the basket with a sigh. Meg felt the affection surge through her; at nineteen, her elder sister tried so hard to be dutiful, to do what was expected, despite constant carping and coldness from their father. How did she manage it? Meg wondered. Could she ever be as good, as submissive?

‘Or anything else but the Bible?’ she demanded. ‘If it is not books, it is going for walks, or trying to grow flowers, or talking to people or singing—I cannot do it. I cannot promise to stop thinking, stop doing everything that gives me any pleasure. I will go as mad as Great-Aunt Caroline. I don’t mind the housework and the laundry and the mending and the praying. I don’t mind working hard, but to be punished for wanting joy and beauty…’

‘And I don’t understand what he said about Mama,’ Celina said with a frown. ‘How can he say we all carry her bad, sinful, blood? Mama wasn’t a sinner.’

‘He has not been right since she died.’ Arabella glanced towards the door, as though expecting the Reverend Shelley, switch in hand, to stalk in at any moment. Meg shook her head impatiently. They had discussed this so many times, and still could not fathom what, beyond natural grief, had turned a naturally serious and strict father into an embittered and suspicious domestic tyrant.

‘He says Great-Aunt Caroline’s health is deteriorating and I must go and nurse her and be a companion. She could perfectly well hire a dozen nurses and companions, she is wealthy enough,’ Meg said. ‘It is just an excuse to punish me. We would all be better off in a nunnery.

‘You, Bella, are to look after him in his old age, you, Celina, will marry the curate—if he ever finds one dour and puritanical enough to suit him—but I am just a nuisance and, this way, he will be rid of me.’

‘But what can we do?’ Celina whispered. Meg shook her head. Celina was too sweet and too pretty for coldness and drudgery, but her seventeen-year-old sister always seemed unable to rebel.

All three glanced at the sampler hanging over the cold grate. Arabella had worked the first line, Margaret had stitched the second and Celina had managed the plain cross-stitch border. It was a favourite saying of the Reverend Shelley, one he fervently believed to be true.

Woman is the daughter of Eve—

She is born of sin and is the vessel of sin.

‘Is that a horse in the lane?’ Meg pushed open the window: any distraction was welcome. From high in the eaves of Martinsdene’s vicarage, the old schoolroom had a clear view down to the church and the village green.

‘Oh, don’t!’ Half-lying across the sill, Meg ignored the nervous plea from Celina. ‘You know how angry Papa was last time he saw us hanging out of the window, like common hoydens, he said.’

‘It is James!’ How very strange she felt inside. Was it love? It must be. ‘He’s come home at last and he’s in regimentals! He has joined the army as he said he would, despite Mr Halgate forbidding it. Oh, but he looks so handsome. Bella, don’t you think he looks handsome?’

‘James Halgate may look like Adonis…’ Arabella countered. Bella’s common sense was a predictable as Lina’s nervousness. Meg glanced back into the room. ‘And he might be a very pleasant and well-bred young man,’ her sister continued. ‘But you know Papa would never let him call and I shudder to think what would happen if you tried to get out to see James again. Remember before he went away? Papa had you locked in the attic for a week on bread and water. Really, Meg—’

Meg leaned out precariously and waved. ‘He must see me!’

Celina joined Meg at the window.

‘Look at him.’

Lina’s pretty mouth curled into a smile, but she glanced over her shoulder at the door before agreeing. ‘Oh, yes, he does look very fine. The Squire is going to be so proud of him. Surely he will forgive him for going off enjoying himself in London for almost a year?’

‘He has seen me,’ Meg whispered. Something inside her contracted, as though her heart had faltered for a moment. All those long nights dreaming about her childhood sweetheart, and now here he was and she still felt as she had when he had left. She was in love with him, she knew she was, and the fields of buttercups still stretched out in the sunlight where they had run hand in hand and exchanged soft, innocent kisses. Although perhaps, in retrospect, James’s had not been so very innocent.

Even as he reined in, taking advantage of the tall hedge to doff his shako and wave it to the two young women in the window, he was casting a careful eye around. Every one in Martinsdene knew the Reverend Shelley’s views on the upbringing of girls and how closely he guarded his three motherless daughters.

‘Now what is he doing?’ Celina wondered as James made gestures towards the stream that ran on the other side of the lane.

‘He means to leave a message in the old willow, just like we used to do before he went away.’ Meg clutched her hands to her bosom, although it did not stop her heart thumping. ‘He means to meet me.’ It was just like the fairy stories. Her knight in shining armour had come for her, he would scale the castle walls, cut through the hedge of thorns that surrounded her, carry her off to a lifetime of happy ever after.

Meg watched as the bay mare walked on down the lane and out of sight, then there was nothing to do but go back to the table. She kicked the mending basket out of sight.

‘Oh, Meg. Do you truly still feel affection for him?’ Arabella asked, her expression the familiar one of mingled sympathy and exasperation. ‘You know Papa will whip you if he finds out.’

‘I don’t care.’ Meg sank down on her chair, perilously close to tears again. It was not the thought of the switch. It hurt and was humiliating, but she went away in her head while she was beaten or lectured, off into her imagination. ‘If he would only treat us with some trust then I would not have to sneak out. I am eighteen, I know my own mind. And I love James. I always have. We are meant to be together. I love James and he loves me, so where is the sin in that?’

What was so wrong with love that it was classed with crimes like theft or murder? She had asked that once, when she was fifteen, and had hardly been able to sit down for a week.

‘Only in the defiance of Papa’s authority,’ Bella said, with a thoughtful frown. ‘Otherwise it is a perfectly eligible match, I am sure—for anyone else. Lina, would you be very kind and go and ask Cook if we might have some lemonade?’

There was something in Bella’s placid tone that had prickles running up and down Meg’s spine. Hope?

Bella waited until the door closed. ‘You are the one he punishes most, because you are such a dreamer, so romantic. And being shut away with Great-Aunt Caroline would be dreadful for you. If James truly loves you, means to marry you—then I’ll help, somehow. We mustn’t say anything to Lina, then she can swear she was ignorant, and I never do anything wrong—Papa will not suspect that I had anything to do with it.’

More than hope. A plan. A surge of feeling, of joy and anticipation and fear, and with it the realisation of loss. But this would not be like losing Mama. Bella and Lina would still be there, she would be with them again one day. ‘Bella, thank you! But to leave you both—’

‘In any other household but this we would have to part soon anyway, because we would become betrothed and move away. We will miss you, dearest, but it will be more tranquil without your constant friction with Papa, so perhaps Lina will become less nervous.’ Arabella reached for her hand, her own warm and strong. ‘And I want you to be happy. James will have to swear you have Papa’s permission for a licence, of course, but once you are married, even Papa is not going to object—think of the scandal if he did!’

‘It is a good match. Provided we are married there will be no scandal.’ Meg’s mind was racing. ‘James will be going overseas. I sneaked a look at Papa’s Morning Post yesterday and it says they are sending troops to the Peninsula. If he does go to Portugal, I will go with him. But—oh, Bella, it could be years before we see each other again!’

It felt like goodbye already, the fierceness of Bella’s hug. ‘It would be years if you are sent to Wales. I want you to be happy. Let us see if he proposes first. If he does, then love will find a way. Somehow.’

Chapter One

20 April 1814—Bordeaux

The breeze funnelling down the Gironde estuary from the sea was chill, Meg told herself, snuggling her shawl around her shoulders. And it was a long time since she had eaten much and the bag containing her pelisse was somewhere on the battlefield of Toulouse with an abandoned wagon train. That was all these shivers were, not fear.

A group of people were coming along the quayside, making for the England-bound ship moored further along. She put her shoulders back and her chin up. It was important to look respectable, competent and not at all needy. One of them, surely, would welcome a willing pair of hands to help on the voyage in return for her passage? That did not seem a very certain plan, but it was the only one she had now.

A tall gentleman with a lady on his arm, a valet and maid, a stack of baggage—they most certainly had no need of her. A plainly dressed middle-aged man with a valise in one hand, a clerk at his elbow. A businessman, no doubt. Then more luggage. The porters shoved a loaded cart to one side to reveal another passenger and shock had her stepping back in superstitious dread.

Death was striding—no, limping—along the quayside in the bright spring sunlight. For goodness’ sake! Meg took a grip on her nerves. He was a flesh-and-blood human being, of course he was. Just a man. But very much a man. He seemed to dominate the long quayside until there was nowhere else to look.

Tall and strongly built, clad in the dark green of the Rifle Brigade uniform, he was bare-headed, his sword at his side. His red officer’s sash was stained and blackened and, unusually for an officer, a rifle was slung over his shoulder. The right leg of his trousers had been slashed to allow for the bulge of a bandage just above his knee and flapped around the long black boot with each stride.

His hair was crow-black, a stubble beard shadowed his jaw and his dark eyes squinted against the sun beneath heavy brows as he scanned the quay with the intensity of a man expecting enemy sniper fire.

His scrutiny found Meg. She forced herself to look back indifferently, letting her glance slide across him. Her experience had taught her to size men up fast, a habit that was no longer one of life and death and which perhaps she should lose. Not that she had ever had to assess anyone who looked quite this dangerous.

Not only was this dishevelled officer big, dirty and obviously wounded, even cleaned up he would not be a handsome man. His big nose had been broken, his jaw was brutally strong, his expression grim and those dark eyes had a slant to them that was positively devilish under the thick brows. No wonder she had thought of Death when she first saw him.

Then he was past her, a porter following with a trunk and a few battered bags stacked on his barrow. Meg had heard yesterday that now that Napoleon had surrendered they were sending part of the Rifle Brigade straight off to America. But this man was obviously not fit for the rigours of that war; like her, he was heading back home.

To England, she corrected herself. Was that home? It was so long since she had seen it that it felt more alien than Spain. But it was where her sisters were and she had to find them.

More passengers. Forget the grim officer and focus on this group. In front was precisely the sort of person she had been hoping for: a well-dressed Spanish or Portuguese lady with three—no, four—children and a maid with her arms full of the fifth, a squalling baby. Meg fixed a respectful smile on her lips and stepped forwards to approach the harassed woman.

‘Whee!’ A small boy rushed past her, following his hoop as it bounced and clattered over the cobbles. How good to see a child happy and safe after so much death and destruction.

‘José! Mind that lady—come back here!’ The woman’s voice was shrill with an edge of exhaustion. She would welcome help, surely?

‘Signora, excuse me, but may I be of assistance?’ Meg asked in Spanish. ‘I see you have a number of children and I—’

‘José!’ There was a splash. Meg spun round to see no child, only the hoop teetering, then falling to the ground by the edge of the quay.

She picked up her skirts and ran. There might be a boat…She looked over the edge at the brown swirling water fifteen feet below her and realised that not only was there no boat, but that the tide was flooding out, the level was falling by the second and there were no steps down. She couldn’t swim in this, no one could. A small head bobbed up, then vanished again. She ran along the edge, trying to keep up with the child in the water. Where was everyone? Where was her pitiful French when she needed it to call for help?

Then a dark figure brushed past and launched into a long, flat dive that took him slicing into the river just behind the boy. ‘Aidez-moi!’ Meg shouted as men began to run to the edge of the quay. ‘Une corde! Vite!’

He had him. She was panting with the effort of keeping up, the need to somehow breathe for all three of them. The black head turned as the man struck out for the quay, the child in his grasp. But he was slowing, hardly making any way against the ebbing tide. It was the darkly sinister officer, she realised. With his bandaged leg, the heavy, painful limp, it was a miracle he could swim at all. Ahead she saw an iron ladder disappearing down the stone face of the quay and measured the angles with her eye. Would he make it to there? Could he make it to the edge at all?

The breath rasped raw in his throat; his right leg had gone from burning pain to a leaden numbness that dragged him down. Ross shifted his grip around the child’s chest and fought the muddy current, angling towards the sheer cliff of the quayside. Diving in with his boots on didn’t help. And only one leg was obeying him anyway.

The boy struggled. ‘Keep still,’ he snapped in Spanish. He wasn’t going to let this brat drown if he could help it. He’d seen too much death—caused too much death: he couldn’t face another. Not another child.

Then the sheer weed-slimed granite wall was in front of him without a single handhold up the towering face except perhaps…‘Boy!’ The child stirred, coughed. ‘See that metal ring?’ They bumped hard against the stone, the water playing spitefully with them as he tried to keep station under the rusty remains of a mooring ring. It was big, large enough to push the boy’s head and shoulders through.

‘Si.’ The brat had pluck. He was white with terror, clinging with choking force to Ross’s neck, but he looked up.

‘Let go and reach for it.’ He boosted the child up, the force of the lunge pushing him completely under the surface once, twice, and then the weight was gone. He surfaced, spewing water, and saw the boy half through the ring, wriggling into it like a terrified monkey. ‘Hold on!’ The child managed to nod, his little face screwed up with determination as he clung to the rusty metal.

But something was very wrong. Ross’s vision was blurring, his shoulders burned as though his muscles and tendons were on fire and his legs were too heavy to kick.

Hell. So this is it. Thirteen years of being shot at, blown up, frozen, soaked, half-starved, marched the length and breadth of the Iberian peninsula—we win the war and I die in a muddy French river. Everything was dark now. Ross tried to kick, tried to use his arms, more out of sheer bloody-mindedness than any real expectation that he could swim any further. Doesn’t matter. Didn’t want to go back anyway…Duty. I tried.

He hit something with the only part of his body that wasn’t numb—his face—put up his hands to fend it off and found himself clutching a horizontal metal bar. Hold on…Why? No point…

‘Hold on!’ The words echoed in his head, very close to his ear. In English. A female voice? Impossible—which meant he was hallucinating. Not long now. Someone took hold of him, gripped one arm, and the blackness claimed him.

When was he going to come round? Meg pushed her hair out of her eyes and stood up to pour dirty water into the slop bucket. Her soaked skirt clung unpleasantly to her legs, but that would have to wait. She had just the one other gown left and she was not going to risk ruining that. Time enough to do some washing and make herself respectable when she had dealt with her patient.

She stood back, hands on hips, and studied the man on the bunk with some satisfaction. It had taken four dockhands to get a rope round him and haul him out of the water, not helped by having to do it with Meg bent double, still hanging on to his arm, twined into the rusty ladder as the river surged around her knees. He was big; with him unconscious and soaking wet, it had felt like trying to shift a dead horse. She rubbed her aching shoulders at the memory.

The crew of the Falmouth Rose had not asked who she was when she walked up the gangplank in the wake of the men carrying his body on a hurdle. She was with Major Brandon and that, as she had gambled, was enough to gain admittance to the ship. Fortunately he had his name on his luggage, and she could read uniforms as easily as her prayer book by now—she had removed enough of them over the past eighteen months.

The men who had lugged him down to the cabin had been obliging enough to strip him for her, otherwise she supposed she would have had to cut his clothing off. It was dripping now, hung on nails that some previous occupant of the cabin had driven into the bulkhead, and he lay with just a sheet covering him from upper thigh to chest.

Meg had washed the scrape on his face where he had hit the ladder. Now she poured fresh water into the basin, opened the sturdy leather bag that sat beside her valise and took out scissors to cut away the sodden bandage on his leg. ‘Aah!’ The breath hissed between her teeth. This was battlefield surgery, rough and ready, and then he had neglected the wound. The edges of the messy hole in the side of his leg just above the knee were raw and puffy.

Lead had been dug out with more speed than finesse, and not very long ago by the look of it. No doubt he had been wounded at Toulouse. It was hard luck to take a bullet in the leg during the last battle of the war, almost within hours of the news of Napoleon’s surrender and abdication.