Their Wicked Ways Read Online Free

It’s a blessing, really. For you must know
that men cannot control their baser instincts.”
     
    Bronte gave her mother a
look, tempted to demand to know why that was an excuse for men when women were
not similarly excused from such behavior.  She saw no reason to shock her
mother further, though.  She knew very well her mother was not likely to come
around to her way of thinking.
     
    They were both distracted by
a scratching upon the door to the parlor.
     
    Elizabeth looked at her
butler questioningly.  “What is it, Fillmore?”
     
    “A couple of gentleman have
come to call, my lady,” he announced, walking sedately across the parlor and
presenting Lady Millford with a tray, upon which resided two handsome calling
cards.
     
    Elizabeth’s brows rose even
higher as she peered blindly at the cards, pretending to peruse them, too vain
to admit her sight was so poor the tray itself was little more than a blur, let
alone the cards.  “Come to call?” she repeated blankly and then smiled thinly.  “I
collect you mean that they have broken down or something of the sort?”
     
    “No, my lady.  I have shown
them into the salon.”
     
    “Who in the world...?”
     
    “Who?” Bronte asked the
butler point blank.
     
    The butler opened his mouth. 
Before he could utter a word, however, Lady Millford waved him away. 
“Neighbors, I’m sure.  No doubt they’ve heard you’re home at last and have come
to pay their respects.  Fetch them, Fillmore, if you please, and show them in
here.  The salon is far too drafty for my constitution.”
     
    “Yes, my lady,” Fillmore
responded.  Bowing, he retreated once more, closing the parlor door behind him.
     
    “I wish you had not, mother.”
     
    “Oh posh!  You cannot eschew
society all together.  I do hope it isn’t Vicar Collins and his son.  Such a
prosy … but a very good man, of course.  You must watch young Mr. Collins,
however.  He fancies himself a ladies man.  He will be trying to peer down your
décolletage, my dear, and to be sure as disgracefully low as yours is it will
be no great feat.”
     
    Bronte’s lips tightened at
the rebuke.  She’d stopped in London on her way home and ordered up the gown. 
The emerald hued gown with its scooped neckline was certainly no more risqué
than any other female of polite society might wear.
     
    She considered it as she
paced restlessly to the window to peer out at the gloomy day.  Honesty
compelled her to amend that thought, for although it had been recommended as
the first stare of elegance, the proprietress had also pointed out that it was
the extreme of fashion and only something a very daring young woman would feel
comfortable wearing.
     
    She was perfectly comfortable
wearing it, however.  She felt the need to behave outrageously, if the truth
were known, and had absolutely no compunction about doing so.
     
    Her birth had ensured her a
position in society, but the ton had never considered that required them to be
kind as well, only to allow her entree.  She could not truly be said to have
had a season, for she’d been promised to Isaac long before that--not that that
was a great source of joy for poor Isaac.
     
    Everyone had deemed it for
the best that she be properly paraded before the ton before she were properly
wed and thereafter properly relegated to the obscurity of a country estate
where she would, in time, properly produce the required heir.
     
    No one had made a push to be
anything more than polite, however, and then only to her face.  Behind her
back, they had whispered, shredding her confidence with their observations
about her awkwardness, her shyness, and her general appearance, comments that
were perfectly audible, as they were well aware.
     
    Well, she had no need for
their approval!  She was a widow now, not a young girl in need of the
acceptance of her peers, and quite comfortably well off.  She had yielded at
last to her mother’s demand that she return to her