The Runaway Heiress

Aldeborough felt Frances’s hand quiver in his grasp and try to pull free, but he merely tightened his hold and smiled reassuringly down at her.

‘Abduction? I think not.’ His smile, Frances decided, held all the sincerity of a cat releasing a mouse, only to pounce a second time. ‘If it does, my lady, I might be compelled to enlighten our acquaintances about Torrington’s role in the events. It is perhaps not good ton for a guardian to subject his ward to a lifestyle unfit for a servant, much less to make her the object of unseemly abuse. I would advise you of the foolishness of attempting to threaten me—or my future bride.’

‘Then good day to you, my lord.’ Viscountess Torrington inclined her head in false civility, bosom heaving in righteous indignation, an unattractive patch of colour high on her cheekbones. ‘As for you, Frances, I hope that you do not live to regret this day. Unfortunately you were always headstrong and selfish, in spite of all the care we lavished on you!’ In a swirl of outraged velvet and ostrich plumes, Lady Torrington left, sweeping past Rivers, who had materialised to bow her out of the room.

‘So! You are headstrong and selfish, are you?’ Aldeborough smiled as Frances grimaced. ‘And what warnings were those? Or can I guess?’

‘Only your dark and dreadful reputation, sir.’

He grinned, a sudden flash of immense charm that gave Frances insight into why so many misguided members of her sex were willing to be beguiled by the Marquis of Aldeborough. She chose to ignore the fact that it made her own heart beat just a little more quickly and put it down to the effects of her aunt’s harsh destruction of her character.

‘What I do not understand,’ mused Frances, ‘is why she was so determined to take me back. At best I was treated as a poor relation, at worst as the lowest of the servants. There was never any love in my upbringing. Only duty. And why should Charles consider marrying me if my reputation is so besmirched?’ A slight frown marred the smoothness of her brow. Aldeborough was moved by a sudden inclination to smooth it away with his fingers. He resisted the temptation. Matters were difficult enough.

‘That is not something for you to worry about. It is no longer necessary.’

‘You are very kind. And, indeed, I am honoured, but you need not marry me. The mistakes of a night—my mistakes—should not be allowed to blight the rest of your life.’

‘I was thinking of the rest of your life, Miss Hanwell.’

Frances raised her eyes to search his fine-featured face, touched by the compassion in his voice, but seeing little evidence of it in his expression. No man had the right to have such splendid eyes, she thought inconsequentially. Dark grey and thickly fringed with black lashes. But they held no emotion, certainly no warmth or sympathy, merely a cold, calculating strength of will.

She shook her head. Before she could reply, Rivers entered the drawing room again on silent feet and coughed gently.

‘Sir Ambrose Dutton, my lord.’

Aldeborough turned to greet his friend, instantly recognised by Frances as one of her uncle’s guests from the previous night. Her heart sank even further, if that were possible.

She could not face such an embarrassing encounter yet with someone who had witnessed her shame.

‘Excuse me, my lord. Sir Ambrose.’ She dropped a curtsy and followed Rivers from the room with as much dignity as she could muster, the enormity of her situation finally hitting home as she became uncomfortably aware of the cynical and knowing amusement curling Sir Ambrose’s lips at the very moment he saw her unmistakably in deep and intimate conversation with his host.

‘Well, Ambrose? Was I expecting you to drop by this morning?’ Aldeborough’s expression was a hard won study in guilelessness.

Ambrose’s brows rose. So that was how he wished to play the scene. So be it. ‘Yes, you were. How’s your head, Hugh?’ He cast his riding whip and gloves on to a side table. ‘You don’t deserve to be on your feet yet after Torrington’s inferior claret.’

‘If it’s any consolation, my head is probably worse than yours.’ He grimaced and threw himself down into one of the armchairs. ‘I hope I don’t look as destroyed as you do!’

‘You do, Hugh, you do!’ He paused for a moment—and then plunged. ‘Forgive me for touching on a delicate subject. But why is Miss Hanwell apparently in residence at the Priory? It would appear that you had a more interesting night than I had appreciated.’

‘You do not know the half of it!’

‘So are you going to tell me?’ Exasperation won. ‘Or do I have to wring it out of you?’

‘Why not?’ Aldeborough took a deep breath, rubbed his hands over his face as if to erase the unwelcome images, and proceeded to enlighten Sir Ambrose on the events of the night.

‘And so,’ he finished, ‘I brought her here, too drunk to think of the consequences. Although I am not sure of the alternatives since we were halfway to the Priory before I discovered her. I suppose I could have turned round and taken her straight back to Torrington. Still …’ There was more than a little self-disgust in his voice as he glanced up and frowned at Ambrose. ‘It was not well done, was it?’

‘No.’ Ambrose, as ever, was brutally frank. ‘It is always the same—too much alcohol and you can be completely irrational. And as for the girl, throwing herself in your way so obviously. Was she worth it?’

‘Show some respect, damn you!’ Aldeborough surprised his friend by surging to his feet, rounding on him in a sudden whiplash of temper. ‘Do you really think I would seduce an innocent young girl?’

‘Probably not. Probably too drunk.’

Aldeborough relaxed a little, bared his teeth in the semblance of a grin, admitting the truth of it. ‘You should know—I have asked Miss Hanwell to marry me.’

Ambrose paused as the significance of this statement sank in. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t realise. But, Hugh!’ He rose to his feet, took a hasty turn about the room and returned to stand before the fireplace. ‘Don’t let them trap you into marriage. You wouldn’t want to be connected with the Torrington set. And apart from that, she would not seem to have much to recommend her. She is no beauty.’

‘No, she is not. But I believe that she needs a refuge. I can provide one.’ Aldeborough turned away with weary resignation. ‘What does it matter? As my loving mother would tell you, it is high time I took a wife and produced an heir to the Lafford estates. Any girl would marry me for my wealth and title. At least Miss Hanwell is not a fortune hunter.’

‘What makes you so sure? Torrington would be more than happy to get his hands on your money through his niece. He probably put her up to it.’

Sardonic amusement flitted across Aldeborough’s face. ‘I am certain that Miss Hanwell is no fortune hunter, because so far she has refused my offer.’

‘I don’t believe it!’ Ambrose stared in amazement.

‘Oh, it is true. And, I might tell you, it has been quite a blow to my self-esteem to be turned down!’

The third stair from the bottom creaked loudly under her foot. Frances froze and held her breath, listening intently to the silent spaces around her. Nothing. Clutching her cloak about her with one hand and a bandbox containing her few borrowed possessions with the other, Frances continued her cautious descent. The splendidly panelled entrance hall, its polished oak floorboards stretching before her, was deserted—she had planned that it was late enough for all the servants to have retired. A branch of candles was still burning by the main door, presumably now locked and bolted, but it made little impression on the shadowy corners. If she could make her way through to the kitchens and servants’ quarters, surely she could find an easier method of escape—an unlocked door or even a window if no other means of escape presented itself.

After her rapid exit from the drawing room earlier in the day, she had remained in her room, pleading a headache, and submitting to the kindly ministrations of Mrs Scott. It had become clear to her through much heartsearching that she must not only make some decisions, but act on them before she was drawn any further into the present train of events over which she appeared to have less and less control. She had allowed herself a few pleasant moments of daydreaming, imagining herself accepting Aldeborough’s offer to allow her to live a life of luxury and comfort. She pictured herself taking the ton by storm, clad in a cloud of palest green gauze and silk. When she reached the point of waltzing round a glittering ballroom with diamond earrings and fashionably curled and ringletted hair, in the arms of a tall darkly handsome man, she rapidly pulled herself together and banished Aldeborough’s austere features and elegant figure from her mind.

He has no wish to marry you, she told herself sternly. He is only moved by honour and duty and pity. She had had enough of that. And since when was it possible to rely on any man when his own selfish interests were involved? It would be far more sensible to find somewhere to take refuge for a few short months until she reached her twenty-first birthday and the promise of her inheritance.

There was only one avenue of escape open to her. She would make her way to London and throw herself on the mercy of her maternal relatives. Even though they had turned their concerted backs on her mother following what they perceived as a mésalliance, surely they would not be so cold-hearted as to abandon her only daughter in her hour of need. Frances knew that it was a risk, but she would have to take it. London must be her first objective and here she saw the possibility of asking the help of the Rector of Torrington. If nothing else, he might, in Christian charity, be persuaded to lend her the money to buy a seat on the mailcoach.

So, having made her plan, determinedly closing her mind to all the possibilities for disaster, Frances continued to tread softly down the great staircase. She reached the foot, with its carved eagles on the newel posts, with a sigh of relief. All the doors were closed. There was an edge of light under the library door but there was no sound. Frances pulled up her hood, turned towards the door which led to the kitchens and sculleries and tiptoed silently across. Soon she would be free.

‘Good evening, Miss Hanwell.’

Frances dropped her bandbox with a clatter and whirled round, her breath caught in her throat. Aldeborough was framed in silhouette, the light behind him, in the doorway of the library. In spite of the hour he was still elegantly dressed, although stripped of his coat, and held a glass of brandy in one hand. Her eyes widened with shock and she was conscious only of the blood racing through her veins, her heart pounding in her chest. Aldeborough placed his glass on a side table with a sharp click that echoed in the silence, then strolled across the expanse between them. He bent and with infinite grace picked up her bandbox.

‘Perhaps I can be of assistance?’ he asked smoothly.

Frances found her voice. ‘You could let me go. You could forget you have seen me.’ Her voice caught in her throat, betraying her fear. She tried not to shrink back from him against the banister, from the controlled power of his body and the dark frown on his face. Memories forced their ugly path into her mind, resisting her attempts to blot them out.

‘I could, of course, but I think not.’ Aldeborough held out his hand imperatively. She felt compelled by the look in his eyes to obey him and found herself led to the library, where he released her and closed the door behind her.

‘You appear to be making a habit of running away. Might I ask where you were planning to go?’ he enquired. ‘Surely not back to Charles!’

‘I will never go back to that house!’ Frances replied with as much dignity as she could muster in the circumstances. ‘I had decided to go to the Rector of Torrington for help.’

‘And how were you intending to get there?’ He allowed his eyebrows to rise.

‘Walk.’

‘For ten miles? In the pitch black along country roads?’

‘If I have to.’ She raised her head in defiance of his heavy sarcasm.