The Runaway Heiress

Anne O’Brien

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To George:

who encourages me with humour,

wit and understanding

Prologue

‘Miss Hanwell, my lord.’

Akrill bowed stiffly and stood aside to allow the young woman to enter the room. She hesitated momentarily, aware of being the focus of attention from those awaiting her. In spite of her fiercely beating heart, she walked forward and willed herself to appear calm. From experience, she was too well aware of the many opportunities for humiliation in her uncle’s house; she could not believe that she would escape unscathed from this situation, whatever the cause of the peremptory summons.

‘Akrill said that you wished to see me, Uncle.’ She kept her voice low and expressionless, proud of her skill in hiding the fear that had already begun to sink its sharp claws into her flesh.

‘Come here, girl.’ Viscount Torrington gestured impatiently. ‘Come and stand here.’ He pointed to the space before his desk.

She stood tall and straight before him, defiantly meeting his hard stare. She was unaccustomed to seeing him seated at his desk—he had neither liking nor aptitude for matters of business—and he appeared ill at ease as he shuffled the spread of papers before him. Aunt Cordelia sat in a straight-backed chair by the fireplace, her face stony, unsmiling, but with a glint in her eye of—what? Greed? Anticipated fulfilment? Frances could not tell. By the window, his back to her, stood Charles, her cousin. His rigid stance and deliberate distance from the proceedings promised her no comfort.

‘You took your time, girl.’

‘I came as soon as your message was delivered, my lord.’

‘Then you should know,’ Torrington continued without preamble, ‘that it is all arranged.’ He cast a quick glance towards his wife, who chose to remain aloof. ‘In two days’ time you will marry my son.’

To Frances the words seemed to reach her from a great distance. They made no sense at all. Her lips were dry and she found it difficult to form any words in reply.

‘Marry Charles?’ she managed eventually.

‘It is a sensible and desirable family arrangement with financial advantages on both sides.’ The Viscount frowned at the litter of bills and receipts. ‘There will be no fuss. No guests. It will not be necessary. All the legal ends will be tied up within the week.’

‘Charles?’ Frances turned her eyes to her cousin in sheer disbelief. ‘Do you want this?’

‘Of course.’ He turned from his contemplation of the bleak, unkempt gardens. His face was bland, his voice pleasing and unruffled. He allowed himself to meet her eyes fleetingly. ‘It is a good settlement for all parties, you must realise. You must have expected it, Frances.’ There was a hint of impatience as he registered the shock on her face.

‘No. No, I did not … How could I?’ A cold hand closed its fingers inexorably around her heart. ‘I had thought that …’ She clenched her fists in the folds of her skirts to prevent her hands trembling. ‘When I reach my majority next month I will come into my inheritance—I can be independent. My mother’s gift will allow me to—’

‘Your inheritance is owed to your family,’ the Viscount interrupted with an abrupt gesture towards one of the more official documents before him. ‘Your marriage to Charles will benefit all of us.’

‘No! I will not.’

Viscountess Torrington rose to her feet and approached her niece with pitiless eyes. ‘You should be on your knees in gratitude to us, Frances. We have given you a roof over your head, food, clothing for the whole of your life—and with no recompense. Your mother’s high-and-mighty family wanted nothing to do with you.’ She almost spat the words as she walked to stand behind her husband, in unity against Frances. ‘You owe us everything. What right have you to refuse your uncle’s bidding? Now it is time for you to repay us for our care.’

Care? Frances would have laughed aloud if the horror had not begun to creep through her bones, her sinews, to paralyse every reaction. All her hopes, all the plans that had helped to sustain her, had been destroyed by her uncle’s words.

‘But I shall be tied here for ever,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot bear it.’

‘Nonsense, girl,’ Torrington blustered and swept the papers together to signal the end of the discussion. ‘The matter is now settled. You will not, of course, make any more ill-considered attempts to leave the Hall.’ His fierce glance pierced Frances. ‘You are well aware of the penalties for such disobedience.’

She closed her eyes briefly to shut out the brutal memories and her uncle’s implacable face. ‘Yes. I am aware.’

‘Then get back to your work. Akrill will give you your tasks. We have guests tonight.’

Frances turned away, the nausea of panic lodged securely in her throat. In two days she would be trapped forever in this living hell.

Chapter One

Aldeborough lounged at his indolent ease in the corner of his travelling coach, braced effectively against the violent lurching with one foot on the opposite cushion, as he covered the short distance to Aldeborough Priory. He closed his eyes against the lurking headache.

A dense shadow, darker than its surroundings, stirred on the floor in the far corner of the coach. The moon fleetingly illuminated a flash of pale skin.

Was he asleep? Frances was pinning all her hopes on it. In spite of her impulsive flight from the Hall, without possessions except for the clothes she stood up in, and certainly without any forethought, she had chosen the coach with care. It had just been possible for her to make out the shield on the door panel in the glimmer from the flickering lamps—to distinguish a black falcon rising, wings outspread in flight, a glitter of golden eyes and talons on a vibrant azure field. It had to be Aldeborough—and he would be the means of her escape from Torrington Hall for ever. She shifted slightly to ease her cramped limbs, trying to breathe shallowly, to still the loud thudding of her heart that seemed to echo in her ears. If only she could remain undiscovered until they arrived at the Priory, she would have a chance to make her escape. And no one would be the wiser. No one would follow her and force her …

The Marquis moved restlessly. Frances shrank back into her corner, tensed, rigid, until his breathing relaxed again. She wriggled her spine against the edge of the hard cushion. It promised to be a long journey. She closed her eyes in the dark.

Suddenly a hand shot out with astonishing speed to grasp the folds of her cloak and pull her violently from floor to seat where the grip transferred itself like a band of steel to her arm. She gasped at the pain from that pressure on her previous injuries and failed to suppress a squeak of shock and outrage at such manhandling.

‘What the hell …?’ Aldeborough drew in his breath sharply, reining in his impulse to strike out at the intruder with vicious blows to head and body as he realised his initial mistake, and he tucked a pistol back into its pocket behind the cushions. He laughed softly. ‘Well, now. Not an opportunist footpad after all. A lady, no less. I knew my luck was still in. What are you doing in my carriage at this time of night—or morning, as I suppose it now is?’

‘Running away, sir.’ It would be safer, Frances decided, to stick to the truth as much as she was able. Her voice held a touch of exhaustion, which she could not disguise, strained with other tensions that he could only guess at.

‘Ah. From Torrington Hall, I presume. Do you work there?’

‘Yes, sir. In the kitchens.’

‘And do you suggest that I should turn the coach around and return you to your employers? Would they welcome such an open-handed gesture from me? I doubt it.’ He mused on his reluctance to return to Torrington Hall, to put himself out for an errant kitchen wench.

‘No, sir.’ She tried to keep the fear that he would do exactly that from her voice. ‘I doubt it would be worth your while. I … I am only a servant and will not be missed.’

‘If not, why did you find it necessary to hide in my coach? There appears to be some logic here that escapes me. Do you suppose it is the brandy that is impairing my thought processes?’ he enquired conversationally.

‘Undoubtedly, sir.’

‘So what do I do with you now?’

‘You could take me to the Priory, sir.’ She sank her teeth into her bottom lip as she awaited his answer.

‘I could. That would be the easiest course of action. I could hand you over to Mrs— Devil take it! I have forgotten her name—my housekeeper. It would be far better to work for me at the Priory than for Torrington, I would wager.’

‘It could not be worse, sir.’ Her agreement was low, little more than a whisper. He almost missed her words.

There was silence for a short time as Aldeborough contemplated his unexpected travelling companion.

‘Come and sit beside me.’

‘I would rather remain here, sir.’ I must remain calm, she told herself as panic began to build inside her. ‘We seem to be travelling at great speed.’ She was wedged into the opposite corner, hanging on to the straps and as far away from him as possible.

Without more ado and once more taking her completely by surprise, Aldeborough leaned forward, grasped her wrist and pulled her ungently on to the seat next to him. She pushed herself back against the cushions only just preventing herself from falling against him or on to the floor as the onside wheel of the coach fell into a pothole. A full moon illuminated the carriage interior, but it was sufficiently erratic to allow the lady to hide with some relief her flushed cheeks and lack of composure. And, even more importantly, her identity.

‘So, we have established, to some extent at least, why you are here … so now—’ his gaze fixed on her unwaveringly like that of a hunting falcon ‘—tell me your name.’

‘Molly Bates, sir,’ she replied instantly in flat tones, thinking furiously and casting truth to the winds, intensely aware that he still had possession of her wrist and his grasp was burning a bracelet into her flesh.

‘Well, Molly Bates, I am afraid that I am drunk.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Although there was no indication other than the reckless fire in his eyes and a slight slurring of his words. ‘I believe you will have a fierce headache tomorrow.’ She felt a certain malicious satisfaction in her prediction of his forthcoming discomfort.

‘I wouldn’t take your bet.’ He grinned, showing a flash of white teeth. ‘Let me look at you.’

He pulled her closer, then released her wrist to push her chin up with his free hand and smooth the dark curls that, with unconfined waywardness, tended to hide her features. She was unable to meet his eyes, which searched her face, but sat stiffly, willing herself not to pull away from him. It might be wise, she told herself, if she did nothing to provoke him. He was clearly capable of reckless and unpredictable behaviour. She could expect no pity here if he were to discover the truth. She trembled beneath his fingers.

‘How old are you, Molly?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Almost one and twenty, my lord.’

With his thumb he traced her fine cheekbones and then along the line of her jaw. Instinctively, she pulled back with an intake of breath in protest.

‘I won’t hurt you, you know.’ His voice was as smooth and rich as velvet. ‘Not if you are obedient, of course. You must understand that there is a price to pay if a pretty girl takes refuge uninvited in the coach of a gentleman to whom she has not been introduced.’

She swallowed convulsively—she could not mistake his meaning. ‘Yes, my lord.’ In spite of her intentions to do nothing to antagonise him, she made no attempt to hide the wealth of bitterness and disgust in her reply.

Aldeborough laughed softly; it made Frances’s blood run cold.

Suddenly his hand tightened in her hair and he drew her inexorably closer. ‘You have spirit, Molly. I like that.’

Before she could respond he bent his head and crushed her mouth with his own. She struggled, her hands braced with all her strength against his chest, but to no avail against the power of his well-muscled body. His arm encircled her shoulders with uncompromising strength, his lips merciless, assaulting her senses, demanding a response. She was determined to make none, but the play of his tongue along her bottom lip sent a shiver through her body. When he deepened the kiss she fought to prevent her mouth from opening treacherously under his. She had never been kissed before and was horrified at the turmoil of emotions that surged within her.

Then he released her as suddenly as he had pounced.

‘How dare you!’ Anger won when she had recovered enough breath to speak, and decided, however waywardly, that she did not care to be kissed in that manner.

‘Dare?’ He laughed. ‘Since you were unwise enough to accompany me, to throw yourself on my mercy, then I call the tune. And you, darling Molly, must dance to it. You will very soon discover that I have no mercy. Besides, why the outrage? I am sure that you have been kissed before, as pretty as you are. Surely you have a greasy-handed sweetheart in the kitchens of Torrington Hall?’

‘No. I do not. And I gave you no leave to call me by my name.’ As she could think of no other response, she took refuge in formal dignity, however much it might sit at odds with her role of the hapless Molly. ‘You are no gentleman, my lord!’

Again Aldeborough laughed, but with an edge of cynicism. ‘Perhaps not, my dear, but I vow I shall be a good lover.’ As Frances gasped in renewed outrage, he tightened his hold and his mouth claimed hers once more.

This time the movement of the carriage came to Frances’s rescue. As the violent lurching flung them apart Frances took the opportunity to throw herself into the opposite corner again, where he viewed her with some amusement.

‘Perhaps this is not the most comfortable situation for a seduction scene.’ His mouth smiled, but she knew that she could look for no sympathy from this man. ‘We can wait until we reach the Priory. Don’t look so apprehensive, Mistress Molly. I will not touch you. Not until we get home, anyway.’

He wedged himself into the corner of the coach again, leaned his head back on the cushions and closed his eyes. Within a few minutes his breathing had deepened and he appeared to be asleep, leaving Frances the opportunity to review the traumatic events of the past hour. Her uncle’s callous indifference. The decanter of port as spoilt and fractured as her dreams of love and happiness. She closed her fingers around the stained napkin on her wrist and fought back the tears that threatened to engulf her. You are just tired, she told herself. Tomorrow you will be free of all this. She turned her head and studied her heedless rescuer in the fitful moonlight. It was a handsome face, not classically fair like her cousin, but a face which compelled her attention. His skin was tanned from time spent outdoors in all weathers. He had a straight, masterful nose, a firm chin and hooded eyes, hidden now in sleep, but as uncompromisingly grey as a northern winter sea. Lines of cynicism were engraved between nose and mouth—that mouth, unsmiling now but with such beautifully sculpted lips. His hair was thick and dark with a tendency to wave, his brows equally dark and well marked. It was a face of flat planes, and strong angles, a face used to authority and command and to keeping its own secrets. It betrayed no softness—indeed, in repose his face was stern and austere. He would be a dangerous man to cross in spite of the indolent manner she had witnessed tonight.

Her eyes dropped to his hands and she shivered at the memory of his touch. She had never been touched like that by any man. They were elegantly long fingered, but they had left her in no doubt as to their strength. She shivered again and clasped her arms around her for comfort as her spine was touched by an icy finger of fear. What had she got herself in to? She had left without considering the wisdom of her actions—anything to escape from Torrington Hall, a callously contrived marriage and the never-ending authority of her uncle. A means of escape had been offered and she had leapt to grasp it with both hands. But at what cost? Frances found that her tired brain could come to no conclusion at all. She touched her cold fingers to her mouth, which still burned from a stranger’s unwanted kisses.

Chapter Two

Aldeborough was woken by Webster, his valet, drawing back the heavy brocade curtains of his bedroom. The sun streamed in, indicating the hour to be well advanced, but the Marquis, in exquisite suffering, merely groaned and pulled the sheet over his head.

‘It is almost noon, my lord. I have brought your hot water.’ Webster ignored a second groan and set about collecting his lordship’s clothes from where he had carelessly discarded them on the floor.

Aldeborough struggled back on to the pillows, clasping his hands to his skull. ‘Oh, God! What time did I arrive home last night?’

‘I couldn’t say, my lord. Your instructions were, if you recall, that I should not wait up for you. I presume that Benson put you to bed, my lord.’

Aldeborough grimaced. ‘Yes. I remember.’ He winced at the memory of his coachman’s less than gentle ministrations as he had manhandled him through the door and up the main staircase. He sat up, gasping at the instant throb of pain behind his eyes. ‘What a terrible evening. What possessed me to spend it with Torrington’s set? If it hadn’t been for Ambrose’s powers of persuasion, I would not have gone back there.’

‘No, my lord. Very wise, if I might say so. Which clothes shall I lay out for you today, my lord?’ Webster had served Aldeborough for many years, since before his recent inheritance of the title when, as Captain Lord Hugh Lafford, he had fought with some distinction in the Peninsular Campaign, and thus his valet knew better than to indulge in trivial conversation after a night of hard drinking. Not that the Marquis had drunk quite so much or as often then, he mused. But things had changed, particularly since Lord Richard had died.

The Marquis took a cup of coffee from Webster and sipped cautiously as his brain began to function again amidst the lingering effects of brandy. ‘I have appointments on the estate today with Kington. Buckskins, top boots and the dark blue coat, I think.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Webster coughed discreetly. The Marquis, well used to his valet’s mannerisms, raised an eyebrow enquiringly, wincing at the effort.

‘Mrs Scott has instructed me to tell you that the young lady has breakfasted and is now waiting your lordship’s convenience in the library.’

Webster enjoyed the resulting silence.

‘Who?’ Aldeborough’s voice was ominously calm.

‘The young lady, my lord. Who accompanied you home last night.’ Webster carefully avoided looking in Aldeborough’s direction.

‘My God! I had forgotten. The kitchen wench. I remember remarkably little about the whole of last night!’ he admitted ruefully, running his fingers through his dishevelled hair. But enough of his memory returned like the kick of a stallion to fill his mind with horror. ‘Is she still here?’

‘Yes and no, my lord, in a manner of speaking.’ Webster kept the smile from his face.

Aldeborough frowned and then lifted a dark eloquent eyebrow.

‘Yes, she is still here, my lord. But, no, she is not a kitchen wench. She is quite unquestionably a lady.’

‘I see.’ There was a long pause. ‘I was drunk.’

‘Yes, my lord. Mrs Scott thought it best that the lady remain until you had risen. She was most intent on leaving the Priory, but had not the means.’

Aldeborough flung back the bedclothes, ignoring the clutches of his towering headache.

‘Thank you, Webster. I know I can always rely on you to impart bad news gently! Kindly tell—I can’t remember her name!—the young lady that I will have the pleasure of waiting on her in half an hour.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ and Webster shut the door quietly behind him.

Only a little after thirty minutes later the Marquis quietly opened the door into his library. In spite of the speed, he was immaculately turned out, from his impeccable buckskins to his superbly cut coat of dark blue superfine. His top boots were polished to glossy perfection and the arrangement of his cravat reflected the hand of a master. His hair was now brushed into a fashionable windswept disarray à la Titus. He was perhaps a little pale with a distinct crease between his brows, the only indication of the excesses of the previous night. For a moment he stood motionless, perfectly in control, his cold grey gaze sweeping the room.

At first it appeared to be empty, but then he saw that the lady awaiting him was seated at his desk in the window embrasure. Her back was to the light, the sun creating a golden halo round her dark hair. It made a pleasing picture surrounded as she was by polished wood, richly tooled leather volumes filling the shelves, heavy velvet curtains and Turkey carpets in deep reds and blues covering the floors. The furniture was old, acquired by earlier generations of Laffords, heavily carved oak chairs and sidetables with no pretence to elegance or fashion. A fire crackled and spat in the vast fireplace to give an air of warmth and welcome. It was his preferred room at the Priory and he rarely shared it with anyone. But now he was faced with an uncomfortable interview with a lady who had somehow involved him in a scandalous escapade that was none of his making. The lady’s face was in shadow, but he could see that she had borrowed a pen and was concentrating on a sheet of paper before her. As he watched, the lady, still unaware of his presence, and completely oblivious to the magnificence of her surroundings, threw the pen down with a despairing sigh and buried her face in her hands.

He closed the door quietly behind him and walked forward towards her. Hastily she raised her head and, with a guilty start, rose to her feet to stand slim and straight before him. Against his better judgement, he bowed slightly, and instantly regretted it.

‘Good morning, ma’am. I trust you slept well.’

‘Yes, my lord. Forgive me …’ she indicated the pen and paper ‘… I was only—’

Aldeborough shook his head and drew in his breath sharply. ‘My housekeeper has looked after you?’

‘She has been very kind.’

‘You have breakfasted, I trust?’

‘Thank you, yes.’

Aldeborough abandoned the banal in exasperation and some self-disgust. ‘Damnation, ma’am! This is a most unfortunate situation!’ He swung round to pace over to the windows, which opened onto the stone-flagged terrace, and stared out over the park with a heavy frown between his eyes. The silence stretched between them, but he could think of no constructive comment. He turned his head to see that she was still standing in the same place, very pale with faint shadows beneath her eyes and tension in every line of her body. And on her cheekbone flared the vivid discoloration of a bruise.

‘You are not Molly Bates,’ he accused her, the frown still in place. ‘My valet informed me that I had escorted a lady here last night and I see that he was quite correct. It is unfortunate that I did not come to the same conclusion before I allowed you to foist yourself on me! I confess that I remember little of what occurred last night with any clarity.’

‘Indeed, you warned me of that, sir.’

‘But … of course, I know who you are …’ his gaze focusing on the ugly wound marring her fair skin ‘… you are the wretched girl who showered glass and inferior port over everyone within ten feet of you!’

She made no reply, simply waited with downcast eyes for his next reaction.

‘So, if you are not Molly Bates, whoever she might be, who are you?’ He failed to hide his impatience at her lack of response to a potentially explosive situation.

‘I am Viscount Torrington’s niece, my lord.’

‘His niece? The heiress? I find that very difficult to believe.’ His eyes surveyed her slowly from head to foot, taking in every imperfection in her appearance. They were, Frances decided, as cold and predatory as those of the hunting falcon on his coat of arms.

‘It is true!’ Frances clenched her teeth, lifting her chin against the arrogant scrutiny. ‘Viscount Torrington is indeed my uncle. The fact that you thought I was one of the servants has nothing to do with it.’

‘You clearly have an excellent memory, ma’am.’

‘The entire episode is etched on my memory for ever, sir. I need hardly say I did not enjoy it.’ Her flat tones did nothing to hide the barely controlled emotion as the horror of the previous night reasserted itself. The memories flooded back.

As they did for the Marquis, in terrible clarity.

It must have been very late. Certainly after midnight. The fire had long since disintegrated into remnants of charred wood and ash and no one had thought to resurrect it from the pile of logs on the hearth. Candles flickered in the draughts, casting the far corners of the dining room at Torrington Hall into deep shadow, but failing to hide threadbare carpets and curtains and a general air of neglect. That is, if any of those present had been interested in his surroundings. Half a dozen men in various stages of inebriation and dishevelment were seated round the central table where the covers had been removed some time ago and empty bottles littered the surface, testimony to a hard drinking session.

They had spent a bone-chilling but successful day, hunting across Torrington’s acres, and had accepted an invitation from their host to eat at the Hall. They had dined meagrely—Torrington kept a poor table—but drunk deep so the company was past the stage of complaint. Lord Hay was asleep, his head slumped forward onto his folded arms. Sir John Masters studied his empty wine glass with the fixed intensity of a cat contemplating a tasty mouse. Sir Ambrose Dutton exchanged reminiscences of good runs over hard country with Torrington and his son, Charles Hanwell. The Marquis of Aldeborough, somewhat introspective, lounged completely at his ease in his chair, legs stretched out before him, booted ankles crossed. One hand was thrust deep into the pocket of his immaculate buckskin breeches, the other negligently twirled the stem of his wine glass, half-full of liquid that glinted ruby red in the guttering flames.

Burdened with a heavy tray of decanter and bottles, Frances entered the room in Akrill’s wake. She had no interest in the proceedings, in the affairs of the men who completely ignored her presence. Exhaustion from her long hours in the kitchen imprinted her delicate skin with a grey wash and she was still frozen into her own world of hopeless misery, resulting from the shattering plans for her future.

Torrington, eyes glittering, the candlelight etching deep lines of thwarted ambition on his ageing face, raised his hand to indicate a refill of the empty glass at his elbow. Akrill nodded. Frances lifted the decanter to carry it from sideboard to table where her uncle waited, arm still outstretched in demand. She reached his chair and leaned to pour liquid into his glass. To her horror, without warning, the heavy decanter slipped from her tired fingers to explode in a shower of crystal shards and vintage port at her feet, splashing herself and Torrington indiscriminately with blood-red drops.

He turned on her with the venom of a snake. ‘You clumsy fool, girl. Look what you’ve done. You’ll pay for this!’

He lashed out in frustrated anger, the back of his hand making contact with her cheek in a sharp slap that brought the room to silence. Frances flinched, silently, swallowing the sudden flash of pain, and would have retreated, but caught her heel in the worn carpet and fell amidst the sparkling ruin at Aldeborough’s feet. For a long moment, no one reacted, gripped by the exhibition of very public and casual cruelty, as Frances slowly pushed herself to her knees, hoping that the encroaching shadows would hide the worst of her embarrassment and humiliation. If she could only reach the door before her uncle drew any further attention to her …

A cool hand took hold of her arm and pulled her gently but firmly to her feet. ‘Are you hurt?’

She shivered at his touch. ‘No. I am quite unharmed, my lord.’

Aldeborough surveyed the girl before him with a faint stirring of pity as she tried ineffectually to brush the stains and slivers of glass from her skirts. Not a kitchen wench, he presumed from the gown she wore, despite its lack of style and elegance, but a poor relation, destined to a life of charitable poverty and dependence in the Torrington household. An unenviable destiny. His fleeting impression was of dark lashes, which veiled her eyes and cast shadows on her pale cheeks, and dark hair carelessly, hopelessly confined with a simple ribbon, falling lankly around her neck. Her fingers, he noted as he raised her to her feet, were ice cold and, although her voice was calm, carefully governed, her hand trembled in his and her cheek already bore the shadow of a bruise from Torrington’s ill temper. Aldeborough became aware that he had been staring fixedly at the girl for some seconds when she pulled her hand free of his grasp to step backwards away from him. He continued to watch her, sufficiently sober to register that she appeared quite composed. Perhaps she was unaware that her fingers, now clasped so tightly together, gleamed white as ivory in the gloom.

‘There is blood on your wrist and hand.’ His eyes might be hard, grey as quartz, but his voice was gentle with a compassion that she had never experienced in her life and the firm touch of his fingers steadied her. ‘I believe that you may have cut yourself on the glass. Akrill—’ he gestured to the hovering butler ‘—perhaps you could help the girl. She appears to have injured herself.’

He thinks I am one of the servants! Frances fought back the hysterical laughter that rose in her throat and threatened to choke her. That is what I will be for the rest of my life. How can I escape it? For the first time she raised her eyes to Aldeborough’s, desperately, in a silent plea, for what she did not know, but he merely released her into Akrill’s care before resuming his seat at the table and refilling his glass from a bottle of claret.

‘Well, Aldeborough. What did you think of my grey hunter? A better animal than any in your stables, I wager.’

Torrington’s words caught Frances’s attention as she stood patiently for Akrill to wind and secure a napkin as a temporary bandage around her bleeding wrist. Aldeborough! Oh, yes! She had heard of him in spite of her seclusion in Torrington Hall away from fashionable society. Titled. Wealthy. Owner of magnificent Aldeborough Priory. A reputation for hard drinking and gambling and, with his title and fortune, one of the most eligible bachelors on the Matrimonial Mart. But a man at whom mothers of unmarried daughters looked askance, for he was not above breaking hearts with cruel carelessness.

‘Most impressive, my lord. Excellent conformation. Good hocks. He took the hedges in style. I do not suppose you would be prepared to sell him?’

‘At a price I might!’ Torrington slumped back in his chair, fast sinking into morose despair as he faced his own private disaster. ‘I am near ruin, cleaned out, everything gone except the entailed property. We shall have the local tradesmen knocking at the door, demanding payment before long.’

‘Father!’ Charles intervened, grasped Torrington’s arm with a little shake as if to bring him to his senses and awareness of their guests. ‘This is neither the time nor place to discuss such matters.’ His attractive features carried lines of strain around eyes and mouth. His embarrassment was evident in his clipped tones.

‘Everyone knows!’ Torrington shook off the grasp impatiently. His clenched fist hammered on the table. ‘Not a secret any longer. The horses are my only hope.’ Then a sly smile curved his lips. ‘But I shall come about. You’ll see.’ His words slurred as he slopped more wine into his glass and drank deeply.

‘What’s this, Torrington?’ Sir Ambrose raised his eyebrows. ‘Hopes of a fortune to rescue you from dun territory? Or is it the wine talking?’ The mockery was evident in his smile.

‘That’s it. A fortune.’ The Viscount rubbed his hands together in greedy anticipation. ‘I have a niece—an heiress. She will restore our fortunes and then we shall come about. She will marry Charles—this very week. No one will look down on the Hanwell family then!’

‘I congratulate you.’ The sneer on Aldeborough’s face was unmistakable. ‘It must be a great comfort to you to see your restitution.’

‘You would not understand—with your fortune!’ Torrington’s lips curled into an unpleasant snarl.

‘Very true.’

‘You were very fortunate in your inheritance, my lord.’

‘Indeed.’

Tension vibrated in the room, raw emotion shimmering between the Marquis and his host. It could be tasted, like the bitter metallic tang of blood. Aldeborough appeared to be unaware of it. He searched in his pockets and drew out a pretty enamelled snuff box with gold filigree hinges and clasp, which he proceeded to open with elegant left-handed precision, apparently concentrating on the quality of the King’s Martinique rather than Torrington’s barbed words.

‘Of course, we were devastated by your brother’s death,’ the Viscount continued in silky tones.

‘Of course.’ Aldeborough replaced the snuff box and picked up his wine glass. Sir Ambrose, watching the developing confrontation, found himself clenching his fists as he contemplated the possibility of the Marquis dashing the contents in Torrington’s face and the ensuing scandal.

Instead the Marquis calmly raised the glass to his lips and turned his head, suddenly aware of the girl standing so still and silent by the door, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on him. He noted her extreme pallor, catching her gaze with his own, to be instantly struck and taken aback by the blaze of anger in her night-dark eyes. Was it directed at him? Unlikely—yet the tension between them was clear enough. Why should a dowdy servant or poor relation display such hostility, such bitter disdain, especially when he had been sufficiently concerned for her welfare to pick her up off the floor? But her hands had been so cold, her eyes filled with such intense emotion … Even now he caught a faint sparkle on her cheek. He shrugged. Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps he had drunk more than he thought—his imagination and the guttering candles were playing tricks. He had had enough of Torrington’s company, his shabby hospitality and his scarcely veiled innuendo for one night. It would be wise to leave now, before he so far forgot himself as to insult his host beyond redemption. Although the temptation to do so was almost overpowering.

He abruptly pushed his chair back from the table and rose to his feet.

‘Much as I have enjoyed your company, gentlemen, I believe that it is time I took my leave.’ He moved with elegant grace, giving no hint of the alcohol he had consumed, unless it was the slight flush on his lean cheeks and his carefully controlled breathing.

Ambrose rose too to grasp Aldeborough’s shoulder urgently before he could reach the door.

‘You can not go like this, Hugh. It is the middle of the night, for God’s sake. Are you driving your curricle? You will most likely end up in a ditch.’

‘Do you think so?’ For a moment Aldeborough froze, the expression on his face anything but pleasant. Memory of a curricle, overturned and broken, its driver sprawled lifeless beside it, lashed at him, the pain intense. And then, by sheer force of will as Ambrose winced at his own thoughtless and insensitive remark, the Marquis relaxed. ‘No. I have the coach with me. And there is a full moon. I shall be at Aldeborough Priory in less than an hour.’ He smiled cynically. ‘Your concern for my safety does you credit, my dear Ambrose.’

‘Hugh, you know I did not mean … I would never suggest …’

Aldeborough shook his head and managed a brief smile as he turned away.

He paused by the door to view the assembled company and bowed with a graceful mocking flourish. ‘I wish you goodnight, gentlemen,’ and then, with a sudden frown, ‘I am heartily sorry for your niece, my lord Torrington. She deserves better.’

Without a further backward glance, and no thought at all to the unfortunate dark-haired girl who had incurred Torrington’s wrath, he left Torrington Hall. Indeed, by the time he made his farewell, she had vanished from the room.

Frances Hanwell blinked, brought sharply back to her present surroundings by the sound of Aldeborough’s harsh voice.

‘But if you are Torrington’s niece, his heiress, why in heaven’s name were you playing the role of kitchen drudge?’ In a flare of emotion, exacerbated by his throbbing head, the Marquis promptly abandoned the polite words of social usage and spoke from the heart to interrupt his own and Frances’s bitter recollections. ‘And why in hell’s name did you need to hide yourself in my coach and take flight from your home?’

‘I do not wish to discuss the matter, my lord, except to say that I believed that I had no option in the circumstances.’

‘What circumstances?’

She merely shook her head.

‘You are not making this easy! What is your name?’

‘Frances Rosalind Hanwell, sir.’

He took a turn about the room and returned to confront her, so far forgetting himself as to run his fingers through his hair. ‘I should have taken you back, Miss Hanwell. Returned you to your uncle.’

‘I would not have gone. I will never go back. I would have thrown myself from the coach first.’ The dramatic words were delivered with such calm certainty that for a moment he was robbed of a reply and simply stared at her in icy disapproval. In spite of her outward composure she had picked up the quill pen again, clasping it in a nervously rigid grip so that he saw there was ink on her fingers. She was taller than his recollection. And why had he not remembered her eyes? They were a deep violet and at present even darker in the depths of anger and despair.

‘Have you no idea, Miss Hanwell, of the potential scandal you have caused? The obligation you have put me under? The harm you may have done to your own name?’ The edge to his voice was unmistakable, but she did not flinch.

‘Why, no. You are under no obligation, my lord. I merely used your coach—a heaven-sent opportunity—as a means to an end. No one will know that I am here.’

‘I wager that your butler does! Akrill, isn’t it? Don’t tell me that you did not ask him to help you to leave the house undetected. I would not believe you.’

She bit her lip, her face even paler as she recognised the truth in the heavy irony.

‘Servants gossip, Miss Hanwell. Everyone at Torrington Hall last night will know that you left with me and spent the night unchapearoned under my roof. What has that done for your reputation? Destroyed it, in all probability. And what sort of garbled nonsense Masters and Hay will spread around town I do not care to contemplate.’

‘I did not think. It was just—’ she sighed and dropped her gaze from the brutal accusation in his fierce stare ‘—it was simply imperative that I leave.’

‘You have made me guilty of, at best, an elopement,’ he continued in the same hard tone. ‘At worst, an abduction! How could you do something so risky? Apart from that, you do not know me. You do not know what I might be capable of. I could have murdered you. Or ravished you and left you destitute in a ditch. You were totally irresponsible!’

‘If I leave the Priory now, no one need ever know.’ Anger spurted inside her to match his. ‘I do not deserve your condemnation.’

‘Yes, you do. And you cannot leave. Where would you go?’

‘Why should you care? I am not your responsibility!’

‘It may surprise you to know, Miss Hanwell, that I have no wish to be seen as a seducer of innocent virgins!’ The muscles in his jaw clenched as he tried to hold his emotions in check.

‘I am so sorry.’ Frances turned her face away. ‘I did not mean to make you so angry.’

Aldeborough poured a glass of brandy and tossed it off. His anger faded as quickly as it had risen. She needed his help and probably suffered from enough ill humour at Torrington Hall. The stark bruise and Torrington’s obvious lack of restraint told its own story.

‘Do not distress yourself.’ He took a deep controlling breath and released it slowly in a sigh. ‘Let us attempt to be practical.’ And then, ‘I remember the dress,’ he remarked inconsequentially.

‘I can understand that you would,’ came a tart rejoinder. ‘It is hideous and once belonged to my aunt—many years ago, as you can probably tell.’ Her gaze was direct, daring him to make any further comment on the unattractive puce creation with its laced bodice and full skirts. ‘And I believe it looks even worse on me than it did on her!’

‘Quite. Never having had the honour of meeting Viscountess Torrington in that particular creation, I feel that I am unable to comment on the possibility.’ He retraced his steps across the library to his desk and held out his hand towards her in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Please sit down, Miss Hanwell. As you must realise, it is imperative that we broach the matter in hand and discuss your future.’ She ignored his gesture and instead fixed him with a hostile glare; he leaned across the desk and took her hands to remove the pen from her. Her hands, he noted, apart from being ink splattered, were small and slender but rough and callused, her nails chipped and broken. Around her wrists—so delicate—were cuts and abrasions where she had fallen on the glass. He released them thoughtfully and flung himself into the chair on the opposite side of his desk.

‘What were you writing?’

‘A list of my options.’

He picked up the sheet of paper and perused it. It was depressingly blank. ‘I see that you have not got very far.’

‘If that is a criticism, I am afraid my thoughts were all negative rather than positive possibilities. But I will not return to Torrington Hall.’

‘We have to consider your reputation, Miss Hanwell.’ He looked down at the pen, a frown still marring his handsome features. ‘You do not seem to understand that the scandal resulting from last night’s events could be disastrous.’ He abandoned the pen with an impatient gesture and leaned back to prop his chin on his clasped hands. ‘I believe I can accept your reluctance to return to your uncle’s house,’ he continued, ‘but have you no other relatives to turn to?’

‘No.’ She raised her chin in an unaccommodating manner. ‘My parents are dead. Viscount Torrington is my legal guardian.’

‘Then we must take the only recourse to protect your reputation.’ His face was stern and a little pale. ‘It is very simple.’

‘And that is, my lord? I am afraid the simplicity has escaped me.’

‘You must accept my hand in marriage, Miss Hanwell.’

‘No!’ Her reaction was immediate, if only more than a whisper.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. Most young ladies of his acquaintance would have gone to any lengths to engage the interest of the Marquis of Aldeborough. But not, it seemed, Miss Hanwell.

‘It is not necessary for you to sacrifice yourself, my lord,’ she qualified her previously bald refusal. Paler than ever, there was only the faintest tremor in her voice. ‘I am sure there must be other alternatives. After all, nothing untoward occurred last night, my lord.’ She blotted out the memory of his drunken kisses. ‘You were overcome by the effects of too much of my uncle’s brandy.’

‘Be that as it may, Miss Hanwell,’ he replied with some asperity, ‘I am afraid that my reputation is not such that polite society would give me the benefit of the doubt. And besides, as you have admitted, you have no other relatives who would give you shelter.’

She turned her head away. She would not let him see the tears that threatened to collect beneath her eyelids. ‘I could be a governess, I suppose,’ she managed with hardly a catch in her voice.

‘Are you qualified to do that?’ he asked gently, uncomfortably conscious of her unenviable position.

‘I doubt it. I am simply trying to be practical.’

‘But unrealistic, I fear. Can you play the pianoforte? Speak French or Italian? Paint in water colours? All the other talents young ladies are supposed to be proficient in? My sister frequently complains of the unnecessary trivia that appears to be essential for a well brought-up young lady.’

She could not respond to the hint of humour in his observation. Her situation was too desperate. She might, against her wishes, be forced by circumstances to return to Torrington Hall. It was too terrible to contemplate. ‘No, I cannot. Or embroider. Or dance. Or … or anything really. My own education has been … somewhat lacking in such details.’ The tears threatened to spill down her cheeks in spite of her resolution to deal with her predicament calmly and rationally. ‘There is no need to be quite so discouraging, my lord.’

‘I was trying to be helpful. What can you do?’

‘Organise a household. Supervise a kitchen.’ Frances sighed and wiped a finger over her cheek surreptitiously. ‘How dreary it sounds. Do you think I should consider becoming a housekeeper?’

‘Certainly not. You are far too young. And who would give you a reference?’

Frances sniffed and moved from the desk to sit disconsolately on the window seat. ‘Now you understand why my list had not materialised.’

‘Miss Hanwell.’ Aldeborough came to stand before her. ‘I hesitate to repeat myself or force myself upon you—something which you apparently find unacceptable—but there really is only one solution. Will you do me the honour of marrying me?’

She was surprised at the gentleness in his tone, but still shook her head. ‘You are very considerate, but no.’ She closed her mind to the despair that threatened to engulf her. ‘I have an inheritance that will be mine in a month when I reach my majority. That will enable me to be independent so that my life need not be dictated by anyone.’

‘How much? Enough to set yourself up in your own establishment?’ Aldeborough’s eyebrows rose and his tone was distinctly sceptical.

‘I am not exactly sure, but it was left to me by my mother and I understand it will be sufficient. My uncle’s man of business has the details. It was never discussed with me, you see.’

‘But that still does not answer the problem of the scandalous gossip which will result. Your reputation will be destroyed. You will be ostracised by polite society. You must marry me.’

‘No, my lord.’ She pleated one of the worn ribbons on her gown with fingers that trembled slightly, but her voice was steady and determined. ‘After all, what does it matter? I have never been presented, or had a Season, and it is not my intention to live in London society. How can gossip harm me?’

Aldeborough sighed heavily in exasperation, surveying her from under frowning black brows, allowing a silence charged with tension to develop between them. In truth, she was not the wife he would have chosen, brought up under Torrington’s dubious influence, incarcerated in the depths of the country with no fashionable acquaintance or knowledge of how to go on in society. And yet, why not? Her birth was good enough in spite of her upbringing. Certainly she lacked the finer points of a lady’s education, by her own admission, but did that really matter? She appeared to be quick and intelligent and had knowledge of the running of a gentleman’s establishment, albeit threadbare and lacking both style and elegance. Aldeborough watched with reluctant admiration the tilt of her head, the sparkle in her eye as she awaited his decision, and fancied that she would soon acquire the confidence demanded by her position as Marchioness of Aldeborough. She had spirit and courage in abundance, as he had witnessed to his cost, along with a well-developed streak of determination. And, he had to admit, an elusive charm beneath the shabby exterior. The Polite World would gossip, of course, on hearing that a mere Miss Hanwell, a provincial unknown, was to wed the highly eligible Marquis of Aldeborough, but since when had he cared about gossip?

Besides, as his mother took every opportunity to remind him, perhaps it was time that he took a wife. As he knew only too well, life was cheap—he owed it to his family to secure the succession. If Richard had lived … He deliberately turned away from that line of thought. It did no good to dwell on it.

But far more importantly, he could not in honour abandon this innocent girl to the consequences of her ill-judged flight. He frowned at her, his expression severe. It was all very well for her to shrug off the social repercussions, but a young girl could be damaged beyond remedy by the cruel and malicious tongues of the ton. It was in his power to save her from social disaster, and duty dictated that he should. It was really as simple as that. Her vulnerability as she sat silently in his library, refusing his offer of marriage, contemplating the prospect of a bleak future alone, touched his heart and his conscience. He had made his decision and he would do all in his power to carry it out. But he feared that to convince the lady in question of the necessity of this marriage would prove a difficult task.

‘I do not accept your argument.’ He finally broke the silence, his voice clipped, his tone encouraging no further discussion. ‘You have not thought of the implications and in my experience they could be, shall we say, distressing for you. But I have a meeting with my agent that I must go to—I have already kept him waiting. We will continue this conversation later, Miss Hanwell. Meanwhile, my servants will look after your every need. You have only to ask.’ He lifted a hand to touch her cheek where the dark bruise bloomed against her pale skin, aware of a sudden urge to soothe, to comfort, to smooth away the pain. He drew back as she flinched and wished that she had not.

‘No further discussion is necessary, I assure you, sir. I would not wish to keep you from your agent.’ She tried for a smile without much success, hoping that her pleasure from his touch did not show itself on her face.

‘You are very obstinate, Miss Hanwell. How can you make any plans when you have nothing but the clothes you stand up in?’

She could find no answer to this depressingly accurate statement, and merely shook her head.

‘I must go.’ Aldeborough possessed himself of her hand and raised it to his unsmiling lips. He left the library in a sombre mood. He did not expect gratitude from her, of course—after all, he had to admit, apparently, that he had some role in the disaster—but he did expect some co-operation. His sense of honour demanded that he put right the desperate situation that he had so unwittingly helped to create.

Chapter Three

‘Lady Torrington has called, ma’am. I have explained to her that his lordship is unavailable, but she has insisted on seeing you. I have shown her into the drawing room.’ Rivers, Aldeborough’s butler, bowed, his face expressing fatherly concern. ‘Do you wish to see her, ma’am?’

Frances felt her blood run cold in her veins and a familiar sense of panic fluttered in her stomach. Since Aldeborough’s departure to keep his appointment with Kington she had enjoyed a number of solitary hours in which to contemplate her present situation. It had made depressing contemplation. Mrs Scott had provided her with a light luncheon, which she had no appetite to eat, and she was now taking advantage of his lordship’s extensive library. Her education might have been limited, but she had been free to make use of her uncle’s otherwise unused collection of books and normally Aldeborough’s possessions would have been a delight. But not even a magnificently illustrated tome on plants and garden design, which should in other circumstances have enthralled her, had the power to deflect her mind from the present disaster.

‘Will you see Lady Torrington, miss?’ Rivers repeated as Frances hesitated.

‘Yes. Of course,’ she stammered. On one thing she was adamant. As she had informed Aldeborough, she would not go back to Torrington Hall. So the sooner she confronted her aunt, the better.

‘And shall I bring tea, ma’am?’ Rivers enquired. ‘You might find it a useful distraction.’ His smile held a depth of understanding.

‘Yes, please.’ She smiled shyly. ‘You are very kind.’

Frances found Viscountess Torrington seated before the fire in the drawing room. Encouraged by Rivers’s tacit support, she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and advanced into the room. Its furnishings paid more attention to fashion than the library, with matching chairs and a sofa in straw-and-cream striped silk brocade, but it had the chilly atmosphere of a room not much used. It seemed to Frances an appropriate place for this unlooked-for confrontation with her formidable aunt.

‘Aunt Cordelia.’ She forced her lips into a smile. ‘I did not expect to see you here.’

Her ladyship, she noticed immediately, had dressed carefully for this visit, no doubt intent on making an impression on Aldeborough. Her stout frame was draped in a green velvet three-quarter-length coat with silk braid trimming. A matching turban with its single ostrich plume, black kid halfboots and kid gloves completed an outfit more suitable for London society than country visiting. Her curled and tinted hair, glinting red in the sunlight, would have taken her unfortunate and long-suffering maid not a little time and effort to achieve the desired result, but nothing could disguise the lines of discontent and frustrated ambition round her cold blue eyes and narrow lips. If she was disappointed not to meet Aldeborough, she gave no sign as Frances entered the room.

‘I dare say, but something has to be done to sort out this unfortunate situation. And I did not think it wise to leave so delicate a matter to Torrington. The outcome, if it became widely known, could be disastrous for all of us—’ She broke off abruptly. Her words might be conciliatory towards Frances, but her voice was harsh and peremptory, her gaze on her niece full of contempt.

‘What is it you intend to do, Aunt?’ Frances cautiously sat on the edge of a chair facing her.

‘I have come to take you home. We can hush up the matter and continue as if nothing happened. Whatever might have happened here last night.’

‘Nothing happened,’ Frances answered calmly enough, but remembered Aldeborough’s warning.

‘I am afraid the world will not believe that. Aldeborough’s reputation is too well known. There must be some plain speaking between us here, Frances. He might be rich, handsome and a prize in the matrimonial stakes—I cannot deny it—but it is also well known that no woman is safe from him, no matter what her class. And as for his brother’s untimely death—the least said about that the better. But that is not our concern. Your reputation will be in shreds if we do not take immediate action, and that can only reflect badly on the whole family. What possessed you to run away and to throw yourself into Aldeborough’s path? Of all men you could not have made a worse choice, you little fool. It is imperative that you come home with me now.’

‘I am amazed at such concern, Aunt. I have to admit that I am unused to my feelings being shown such consideration.’

Her aunt ignored her sarcasm, fixing her with a stony stare as if she might will her into obedience. ‘You will return with me to Torrington Hall. Charles has agreed to marry you at once as was planned. Nothing need change our arrangements.’

‘Poor Charles! Should I be grateful for this, Aunt?’

‘Of course. No one else will marry you after this escapade, that is certain. It will be impossible to keep it secret. All those so-called friends of your uncle, gossiping as soon as they are in their cups. It is too salacious a story to keep to themselves.’

‘But I don’t choose to marry. When I come into my inheritance I will be able to—’

‘Your inheritance, indeed!’ Lady Torrington broke in sharply. ‘Don’t deceive yourself, my dear. It is only a small annuity. Your mother’s family cast her off when she married your father. There is not much money there, I am afraid. You have no choice but to come home with me.’

Frances held tight to her decision despite her body’s reaction to her aunt’s words. She wiped her damp palms surreptitiously on her skirts. She had, after all, never disobeyed her aunt so blatantly before.

‘I am sorry to disappoint you, but no.’ Frances was adamant.

‘You foolish, stubborn girl.’ Lady Torrington surged to her feet, to intimidate Frances as she remained seated. ‘You have always been difficult and ungrateful. Are you really expecting that Aldeborough will marry you? A nobody when he can have the pick of the ton? Don’t fool yourself. You will not trap him into marriage. You don’t know the ways of the world. He will abandon you with a ruined name and no one to support you.’

‘You appear, madam, to have remarkably detailed knowledge of my intentions.’

Neither lady had heard the door open. There stood Aldeborough, coldly arrogant, quickly assessing the situation, aware of the momentary shadow of relief that swept across Frances’s face as she turned her head towards him. He executed a graceful bow and strolled over to stand beside Frances. As she rose nervously to her feet he took her hand, tucking it under his arm, and pressed it firmly when she made a move to pull away.

‘Perhaps I should inform you that I have asked your niece to do me the honour of becoming my wife.’ A smile touched his mouth momentarily, but his eyes remained cold and watchful.

Lady Torrington’s eyes narrowed, lips thinned. ‘You must know that she is not yet of age. You do not have Torrington’s permission.’

‘With respect, I do not give that for his permission.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘After her treatment at Torrington’s hands, Miss Hanwell has expressed a preference that she should not return to Torrington Hall. It is my intention to fulfil that wish.’

‘I do not know what you intend to imply about her upbringing or what she has seen fit to tell you. I would not put too much weight on her honesty, my lord.’ The Viscountess’s eyes snapped with temper as she glanced at her niece. ‘Frances must return home to her family. You will hear from my husband, sir.’ She pulled on her gloves, clearly ruffled, but refusing to give way.

‘Indeed, my lady. I am at his service. Perhaps you will stay for tea?’

‘No, I thank you. I hope you know what you are doing, Frances. You would be wise to heed my warnings. I would be sorry if the story of your abduction of my niece was to become common knowledge, my lord.’

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.

‘I had not realised, Miss Hanwell, that marriage to me could be such a desperate option. Clearly I was wrong.’

Frances could think of no reply, intimidated by the ice in his voice.

He dropped her ill-used bandbox on to the floor and approached her, raising his hands to relieve her of her cloak. Her reaction was startling and immediate. She flinched from him, raising her arm to shield her face, retreating, stumbling against a small table so that a faceted glass vase fell to the floor with a crash, the debris spraying over the floor around her feet. She turned her head from him and buried her face in her hands, unable to stifle a cry of fear as the dark memories threatened to engulf her.

‘What is it? What did I do?’ Aldeborough’s brows snapped together. Frances shook her head, unable to answer as she fought to quell the rising hysteria and calm her shattered breathing.

‘Forgive me. I had no intention of frightening you.’ He grasped her shoulders in a firm hold to steady her, aware that she was trembling uncontrollably, when an unpleasant thought struck him.

‘You thought I was going to hit you, didn’t you? What have I ever done to suggest that I would use violence against you?’ There was anger as well as shock in his voice. ‘Tell me.’ He gave her shoulders a little squeeze in an effort to dislodge the blank fear in her eyes. It worked, for she swallowed convulsively and was able to focus on his concerned face.

‘It’s just that once I tried to run away,’ she managed to explain. ‘It was a silly childish dream that I might escape. But I was caught, you see … and …’

‘And?’

‘My uncle punished me—whipped me—for disobedience. He said I was ungrateful and I must be taught to appreciate what I had been given. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …’ Her voice trailed away into silence, her expression one of utmost desolation.

Aldeborough gently removed her cloak from her now-unresisting body. He steered her away from the shards of glass, scattered like crystal tears on the polished wood, and pushed her into a chair before the dying embers of the fire. He poured a little brandy into a glass and handed it to her.

‘Here. Drink this. Don’t argue, it will make you feel better—it’s good for shock amongst other things. Although, from experience, I do not advise it as an aid to helping you forget.’ The touch of sardonic humour at his own expense allowed Frances to relax a little and do as she was told. ‘Now, tell me—what did you expect the Rector to be able to do for you that I couldn’t?’

She sipped the brandy again, which made her eyes water, but at least it stilled the shivering. ‘I thought that he would lend me some money to enable me to reach London where I could make contact with my relations,’ she explained.

‘But you told me you didn’t have any.’

‘It is my mother’s family.’ She was once more able to command her voice and her breathing. ‘They disowned her, you understand, when she married my father. They thought he was a fortune hunter and too irresponsible, so they cut all contact.’

‘Your father, I presume, was Torrington’s younger brother. I never knew him.’

‘Yes. Adam Hanwell. I remember nothing of him—he died when I was very young.’

‘And your mother?’

‘She was Cecilia Mortimer. She died just after I was born. That’s why I was brought up at Torrington Hall and Viscount Torrington is my guardian.’

‘As I understand it, the Mortimers are related to the Wigmore family.’

‘Yes. My grandfather was the Earl of Wigmore. I hoped the present Earl would not abandon me entirely if he knew I was in trouble. I believe he is my cousin. Do you think he would?’

‘I have no idea. And I cannot claim to be impressed by your plan.’ Aldeborough ran his hand through his hair in exasperation. ‘If they refuse to recognise you, you will be left standing outside their town house in Portland Square, with no money and no acquaintance in London. Or what if they are out of town and the house is shut up? Do you intend to bivouac on their doorstep until they return? It is a crazy scheme and you will do well to forget it.’

‘It’s no more crazy than you forcing me into a marriage I do not want!’ Frances was stung into sharp reply. ‘You have no right to be so superior!’

‘I have every right. There is no point in making the situation worse than it is already.’

Frances sighed. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time.’ She raised her hands in hopeless entreaty and then let them fall back into her lap. ‘Do you think I could be an actress?’

‘Never!’ Aldeborough laughed without humour. ‘Every emotion is written clearly on your face. I cannot believe that you would actually consider such a harebrained scheme.’

‘No. But desperation can lead to unlikely eventualities.’ She tried to smile, but it was a poor attempt.

The Marquis noted the emotion that shimmered just below the surface, prompting him to take the brandy glass from her. She did not resist. ‘Let us be sensible.’ He returned to lean his arm along the mantelpiece and stirred the smouldering logs with one booted foot. ‘I think that we are agreed that you have very few realistic options. There is no guarantee of a favourable welcome from Wigmore. You have spent far too long unchaperoned in my house—don’t say anything for a moment—so you must marry me as it is the only way to put things right.’

‘But—’

‘No. Think about it! Your reputation will be secure. We can call it a runaway match, if you wish. We saw each other at some unspecified event—unlikely, I know, but never mind that—and fell in love at first sight. With the protection of my name no one will dare to suggest that anything improper occurred. You will be able to escape from your uncle and a life that clearly has made you unhappy. And, until your own inheritance is yours, you can have the pleasure of spending some of my wealth and cutting a dash in society.’

It sounded an attractive proposition. For long moments, Frances considered the clear, coldly delivered facts, smoothing out a worn patch on her skirt between her fingers. She raised her eyes to his, trying to read the motive behind the unemotional delivery.

‘But why would you do this? You don’t want a wife. Or, certainly, not me.’

He laughed harshly. ‘You are wrong. I do need to marry some time. It is, of course, my duty to my family and my name to produce an heir. So why not you?’

Frances blushed. ‘I am not suitable. I am not talented or beautiful or fashionable … Your family would think you had run mad.’

He shrugged carelessly. ‘You come from a good family and the rest can be put right. And it will stop my mother from nagging me. What do you say? Perhaps we should deal very well together. Your view of marriage seems to be even more cynical than mine! As a business arrangement it could be to the benefit of both of us.’

Frances still hesitated.

‘If for no other reason, you might consider my position. It may surprise you to know that I do have some sense of honour.’ His lips curled cynically. ‘I would not wittingly seek to be accused of abducting and ruining an innocent girl. I do have some pride, you know.’

Frances took a deep breath. ‘I had not thought of that.’

‘Then do so. You are not likely to be the only sufferer here.’

‘But you already have a reputation for—’ She came to a sudden halt, embarrassed by her insensitive accusation.

‘Ah. I see.’ His voice was low and quiet. ‘So my damnable reputation has reached even you, Miss Hanwell, shut away as you have been in Torrington Hall. Do you expect me to live up to it? One more victim from the fair sex will make no difference, I suppose. Perhaps I should seduce you and abandon you simply to give credence to the rumours spread by wagging tongues. I am clearly beyond redemption. Perhaps I should not insult you with an offer of marriage.’

Frances could not answer the bitter mockery or the banked anger in his eyes but simply sat, head bent against the wave of emotion. When he made no effort to break the silence that had fallen, she glanced up at him. The anger had faded from his face, to be replaced by something that she found difficult to interpret. If she did not know better, she might have thought it was a moment of vulnerability.

‘Well, Miss Hanwell?’

‘Very well. I think I must accept your offer, my lord. I will try to be a conformable wife.’ She could hardly believe that she was saying those words.

‘You amaze me. So far all you have done is argue and refuse to listen to good sense.’

‘But … I never meant …’

‘There is no need to say any more. Come here.’ She stood and moved towards him. He turned her to face the light from the candles at his elbow and looked at her searchingly for perhaps the first time, turning her head gently with his hand beneath her jaw. Her skin, a trifle pale from the emotions of the past hour, had the smooth translucence of youth. Her eyebrows were well marked and as dark as her uncontrolled curls. Her remarkable violet eyes expressed every emotion she felt—at the moment uncertainty and not a little shyness. But equally he had seen them flash in anger and contempt. She had a straight nose, a most decided chin and softly curving lips. She was not a beauty, he thought, but a little town bronze would probably improve her. It could turn out to be not the worst decision he had made in his life. She dropped her eyes in some confusion under his considered scrutiny.

‘Look at me,’ he demanded and when she automatically obeyed he wound his hand into her hair and his lips sought hers. It was a brief, cool caress, but when Aldeborough lifted his head there was an arrested expression on his face. Frances had steeled herself against his kiss, but was now aware that his grasp showed no intention of loosening. She drew in a breath to object, but before she could do so Aldeborough placed his hand gently across her lips and shook his head.

‘I must request your pardon if you are displeased. Are you displeased, Frances Rosalind? It seemed to me that we should seal our agreement in a more … ah … intimate manner, even if it is to be a marriage of convenience. What do you say?’

Frances was unable to say anything coherent or sensible and was overcome with a sudden anger both at Aldeborough’s presumption and her own inability to respond with a satisfactory reply that would leave him in no doubt of her opinion of men who forced themselves on defenceless women, even if they had just agreed to marry them.

‘Let me go!’ was all that she could manage and thrust at his shoulders with her hands as she remembered the humiliation of his embrace in the coach. It was to no avail. Her confusion obviously amused Aldeborough for he laughed, tightened his hold further and bent his head to kiss her once more. But this was different. Aldeborough’s mouth was demanding and urgent, melting the resistance in Frances’s blood whether she wished it or not. It was as if he was determined to extract some reaction from her beyond her previous reluctant acceptance. And she was horrified at his success. Her instinct was to resist him with all her strength, but she was far too aware of the lean hardness of his body against hers beneath the thin lawn of his shirt. His hands caressed her hair, her shoulders, sweeping down her back to her waist. Her lips opened beneath the insistent pressure of his and she found herself responding to a surge of emotion, a lick of flame that warmed her skin and spread through every limb. Her hands seemed to move of their own accord, to grasp his shoulders more tightly rather than to push against them … when suddenly she was free. As quickly as Aldeborough had taken possession of her he released her and stepped away.

Frances was left standing alone in a space, feeling strangely bereft and unsure of what to say or do next. Her mind was overwhelmed by the enormity of what she had just done. Could she really have agreed to marry this man against all her previous intentions and heart searching? She felt a chill tremor touch her spine at the prospect. Of course there would be advantages—she knew that. It would remove her finally and irrevocably from her uncle’s authority and without a stain on her reputation. Comfort and luxury would be hers for the asking with a guaranteed entrée into fashionable society. But Marchioness of Aldeborough? She pressed a hand to her lips to suppress a bubble of hysterical laughter that threatened to erupt at the unlikely prospect. And what on earth would his family think? It was all very well for him to deny any difficulty, with typical male arrogance, but she would have to face a mother-in-law who would doubtless see her as a common upstart who had wilfully trapped her son into a disastrous marriage.

A marriage of convenience, he had implied. Very well. He was driven by an impeccable impulse to protect her—as well as the desire for an heir. But she could not quite banish from her mind the leap of fire in her blood when he had kissed her, touched her. It might be a mere legal formality for him, but she was suddenly afraid of her own response. It would be better if she never allowed him to see the effect of his devastating smile on her heart or his elegant hands on her skin. She must never forget that it was duty and honour which drove him, whatever her own feelings might be.

She received no help as she stood, lost in her deliberations. Aldeborough merely stood and watched her quizzically, a faint smile on his lips.

‘I think I should tell you that my uncle will not give his permission for our marriage,’ she managed eventually in a surprisingly calm voice. ‘Will that present us with a problem?’

‘A special licence will solve the matter,’ the Marquis stated, chillingly dismissive. ‘We claim to have a bishop in the family so we may as well make use of him. It can all be arranged discreetly and quickly.’

‘Thank you.’ She swallowed at her presumption. ‘There is just one thing.’

‘What now, Miss Hanwell? You are very difficult to please, but I am sure it will not be an insurmountable problem.’

‘You are laughing at me, my lord. I wish you would not,’ Frances exclaimed crossly. ‘It is just that I will not marry you in this dress.’

‘Then I must do something about it, mustn’t I?’

Frances blinked at the casual acceptance of her demand.

‘I shall need to leave you for a few days to make arrangements,’ he continued. ‘I must ask you to promise that you will not try to run away again.’

‘Or?’ She could not resist the challenge to the implied threat.

‘Or I might have to lock you in your room until I return.’ Frances was left under no illusion that he would do exactly as he said.

‘It is not necessary.’ She sighed, with resignation to a stronger force. ‘I will marry you. I will not run away.’

‘Thank you.’ He tossed off the rest of the brandy in his glass. ‘I am relieved. Go to bed, Miss Hanwell. It has proved to be a long and tiring day, for both of us!’

Chapter Four

‘Aldeborough! At last!’ The voice was as smooth and cool as chilled cream. ‘I have expected you home any time this past week. How could you have missed the Vowchurches’ drum? I understand from Matthew that you have been at the Priory.’

Lady Beatrice, the Dowager Marchioness of Aldeborough, and despising every moment of her loss of influence in the Lafford household since the death of her husband, put aside a piece of embroidery and rose from her chair in her cream-and-gold sitting room. She waited with not even a hint of a smile for Aldeborough to approach, extending an elegant hand in greeting and allowing him to kiss her cheek. She was slim and dark and exquisitely dressed in a cream gown that perfectly complemented her surroundings. It was strikingly obvious from whom Aldeborough had inherited his features and colouring. She had the same cold grey eyes that at present were fixed on Frances, who had entered the room somewhat hesitantly in Aldeborough’s wake.

Aldeborough saluted his mother’s cheek with filial duty and grace, but the lack of affection between them was as clear as her neglect in returning the embrace.

‘And who is this?’

‘I have been at Aldeborough, ma’am, as you are well aware. There was some necessary estate business.’ He turned back to Frances who had apprehensively come to a halt just inside the doorway. ‘I wish to introduce you to Frances, Miss Hanwell.’ He took her hand to draw her further forward into the room. ‘Miss Hanwell, ma’am, is now my wife.’

The silence in the room was deafening. Frances continued to cling to Aldeborough’s hand. She had rarely felt so alone as she did at that moment under the razor-sharp scrutiny. She made a polite curtsy and awaited events with trepidation as her ladyship’s features froze into perplexed disbelief. The temperature dropped to glacial.

‘Forgive me, Hugh.’ Her ladyship ignored Frances. ‘Perhaps I misunderstood? This is your wife?’

‘Indeed, ma’am. We were married three days ago at Aldeborough.’

‘But I had no idea. Who is she?’ Her cold eyes raked Frances in an icy sweep from head to foot and apparently found nothing in the exercise to please her.

‘Her guardian is Viscount Torrington. I met her at Torrington Hall.’

‘Really?’ Her lips thinned. ‘I am afraid that I find this difficult to grasp, Aldeborough. How could you have conducted your marriage in such a clandestine fashion? You might have considered my position. Think of the scandal … the gossip. How will I face Lady Grosmont at her soirée this evening?’ Her face paled with anger as she considered the repercussions. ‘Surely as your mother I could expect a little consideration?’

‘There will be no scandal, ma’am.’ Aldeborough remained coldly aloof and unemotional. ‘If anyone should comment, you will assure them that Frances and I had a … a long-term understanding and we were married quietly in the country for family reasons. The death of a distant relative, if you find the need to give a reason to anyone sufficiently ill mannered to comment.’

‘I will assure them? I do not wish to lend my support in any way to this unfortunate liaison.’

‘I had hoped for more of a welcome for my bride,’ Aldeborough commented gently, with a hint of warning in his quiet voice that his mother chose to ignore.

‘Richard, of course, would always have considered my opinion when making such an important decision in his life. He was always so thoughtful and conscious of his position as the heir. I might have hoped that you—’

‘There is no advantage in pursuing that line of thought,’ Aldeborough interrupted harshly. Frances saw a muscle in his jaw clench and his hold of her hand tightened convulsively, making her draw in her breath.

‘And what of Penelope? What will she think?’

‘What should Miss Vowchurch think? I cannot see what my marriage has to do with her.’ He was once more in command, his fingers relaxing their grip.

‘It has everything to do with her, of course. She has been expecting an offer from you. After Richard’s death it was understood—’

‘I am afraid that it was not understood by me. I have never given Miss Vowchurch any indication that I would make her an offer of marriage.’

‘It has always been understood between our families. You must know that after Richard died you took no formal steps to end the connection.’ Lady Aldeborough was implacable, refusing to let the matter rest. ‘And now you have married this … this person. Who is she?’

Frances looked on as if she were watching a scene in a play at which she was a mere observer with no role for herself. There was clearly little love lost between Aldeborough and his mother and she herself was now provoking another issue between them. A bleak wave of despair swept over her to add to the weariness. After she had spent three days alone at Aldeborough Priory, the Marquis had returned and she had been thrown into a flurry of activity. First her marriage, followed immediately by three days of exhausting travel to reach London. And now this. How foolish she had been to hope that Lady Aldeborough might accept this sordid arrangement with equanimity. Indeed, it was even worse than she had anticipated. She wished Aldeborough had given her some warning. Obviously he had seen no need to do so, which depressed her even further.

‘A penniless nobody who has trapped you into marriage.’ Her ladyship was continuing her diatribe as if Frances was not present. ‘How could you! Is there no way this marriage could be annulled? Or dissolved?’ Lady Aldeborough’s face was white with anger.

A delicate flush stained Frances’s cheeks. With the haste and inconvenience of the journey following immediately after their marriage, there had been neither opportunity nor, it would appear, inclination for intimate relations between herself and the Marquis. For which, all things considered, she was heartily relieved. But would he betray her to his mother?

‘No, Mother. It is not possible. Your suggestion is insulting in the extreme to both Frances and myself. I think you should consider what you’re saying before you speak again.’ Aldeborough turned towards Frances, his face a polite mask. ‘Forgive me, Frances. I wish I could have spared you this, but it had to be faced.’ He led her to a chair by the window looking over the square. ‘Perhaps if you would sit here for a little while …’

As he returned to shield her from further recriminations, her mind was free to travel back over the previous days. She remembered as in a dream standing in Aldeborough Church in the grey light of early morning with a special licence and a flustered vicar and with Sir Ambrose and the vicar’s wife as witnesses. No flowers. No music. Only the heavy starkness of Norman pillars and the air so cold that her breath had vaporised as she took her vows. She remembered the cold. No sooner had the vows been exchanged and her cheek dutifully kissed by Aldeborough than she had been installed in Aldeborough’s coach and the long, tedious journey had begun. Sir Ambrose had thoughtfully presented her with a tasteful posy of yellow flowers and kissed her fingers and called her Lady Aldeborough, a situation that she still found difficult to believe, but it had helped to strengthen her courage.

And Aldeborough had been as good as his word. Her lips curled in memory of the beautiful dress that he had brought back with him to keep his promise. A dress of which dreams were made. In the height of fashion with a high waist and disconcertingly low neckline and tiny puff sleeves over long undersleeves, the jonquil taffeta was far more elegant than any gown she had ever seen. The tucked bodice was a little large, but nothing that a small alteration here and there could not remedy, and the silk ruching round the hem helped to disguise the fact that it was a little long. A simple satin straw bonnet with jonquil ribbons that set off her dark hair completed the ensemble. She had abandoned her puce disaster and travel-stained cloak without a qualm.

And not only the dress, but fine kid gloves and matching kid heelless slippers. Not to mention the delightful package of shifts and petticoats and silk stockings. She blushed faintly that he should have purchased such intimate garments for her. And who had chosen the dress for her? She had found it difficult to thank him. He had merely brushed it aside as a matter of no importance. But Frances was now more than grateful for his foresight. Under Lady Aldeborough’s critical and unfriendly scrutiny, it was suddenly very important that she should be wearing a stylish blue velvet pelisse trimmed with grey fur and a pale blue silk bonnet, the brim fetchingly ornamented with one curling ostrich plume, both in the first stare of fashion.

She had thought herself fortunate in her new wardrobe but this house, now her own, threatened to take her breath away. Her first impression as they had arrived had been fleeting, but there was no doubting its style and magnificence. In Cavendish Square, one of the very best addresses, the brick and stone façade with its pedimented doorway, decorative columns and imposing flight of steps bordered with iron railings could not fail to impress. All was elegance and good taste. Aldeborough might take it for granted, but she could not.

She sighed as her attention returned to the heated words from the Marchioness and the cool rejoinders from Aldeborough.

‘What your father would have said I hesitate to think. And Richard—’

Frances would never know what Richard would have thought or done for at this timely moment, the door burst open and a young man erupted with more energy than grace into the room.

‘Matthew! Perhaps you might enter my drawing room in a more seemly fashion. Your brother and I were engaged in a private conversation.’

‘Forgive me, Mother. I heard Hugh was back.’ Matthew looked anything but sorry and shrugged off his parent’s blighting words. ‘Is it true?’ He grinned as he embraced his brother in a friendly and vigorous greeting. ‘I have just seen Masters in town and he has told me all.’

Aldeborough inhaled sharply in exasperation. ‘So just what has Masters told you? Perhaps, brother mine, this is not the best of times to elaborate!’ The warning was unfortunately lost in Matthew’s exuberance to discover the truth of the matter.

‘That you abducted Torrington’s niece from under his nose and forced her into marriage to get your hands on her inheritance.’

Lady Aldeborough lowered herself carefully on to the chair behind her. ‘This is even worse than I thought. What have you done, Aldeborough?’ Her tone might be faint with shock, but her expression was steely.

‘So, is it true?’ Matthew insisted.

‘Of course it is true. Would you not expect me to be capable of such dishonourable behaviour? Even you, it seems, Matthew.’

Matthew frowned at the bitter cynicism imprinted on his brother’s face, echoing in his harsh tones. ‘Well, no. I don’t believe it, as it happens. Are you jesting? And if it is true—where is she?’

‘Behind you. You will note her terrified appearance and the marks of coercion and cruelty about her person. I had to treat her most unkindly to persuade her that marriage with me would be an attractive proposition.’

Matthew grinned, shrugging with some relief as Aldeborough’s expression relaxed and the tension slowly drained from his body, but he still had the grace to look more than a little embarrassed as he swung round towards the window embrasure. ‘Exactly. You deserved that. You had better come and meet her. I dare not imagine what impression you have made on her,’ Aldeborough added drily, but with a trace of humour at his brother’s discomfort.

Aldeborough came to retrieve Frances from her seat by the window, taking her by the hand and leading her back into the centre of the room. ‘This, my lady, is my graceless brother Matthew, who believes that I beat you into submission. You have my permission to snub him completely if you wish.’

‘Please don’t. I had no intention of making you uncomfortable. I am very pleased to meet you.’ His engaging smile lit his youthful features.

Frances found herself smiling back at the genuine greeting from the young man who was very close to her own age. He was slim and athletic and looked to have just grown out of the ungainly lack of co-ordination of youth. He was fairer than his brother, with blue eyes and an open, laughing countenance that Frances instantly felt drawn to. His manner suggested that he stood in awe of neither his mother nor Aldeborough, and his clothing that he was experimenting with the more extremes of fashion. His cravat was a miracle of folds and creases and his striped waistcoat caused Aldeborough to raise his eyebrows in amused disbelief.

‘And what have you been doing with yourself, apart from rigging yourself out like a dandy?’ Aldeborough queried. ‘Up to no good as usual, I expect.’

‘Definitely not. No debts and definitely no scandals. I say, Hugh. You haven’t changed your mind about buying me a commission, have you?’

‘Certainly not!’

‘But it looks as if we shall have to continue the war against Bonaparte.’

‘Very true. But we shall have to continue it without you. At least until you are a little older.’

‘But it will all be over by then. Do reconsider.’

‘I will think about it. But don’t raise your hopes.’

This was clearly a frequently held exchange of views. Nothing daunted, Matthew changed tack. ‘By the by, the new horse you bought from Strefford was delivered yesterday. It is a splendid animal. Come and see it.’

‘I think it an excellent idea for you to go off to the stables if you are going to talk horseflesh,’ interposed Lady Aldeborough, determined to regain control of the situation. She rose to her feet again and disposed her shawl in elegant folds around her shoulders. ‘It will give me the opportunity to get to know your new wife a little better. We can have a cosy chat over a dish of tea. Do you not think so, my dear?’

‘Of course.’ Frances’s heart sank. She was not fooled by Lady Aldeborough’s sudden change of demeanour. Her civility was knife-edged and threatened to be deadly. It promised to be a difficult interview.

‘Will you be quite comfortable, my lady?’ Aldeborough allowed her the opportunity to play the coward, but she would not.

‘Certainly, my lord.’

‘Very well, Matthew. Lead me to the horse. And no, you cannot ride him, before you ask. I will return very soon.’ He gave Frances a brief smile of encouragement before following his brother through the door.

Frances was left alone with her mother-in-law. She could not allow herself to show any weakness or to be intimidated. Lady Aldeborough had the air of one who had spent a lifetime in achieving her own ends. And she would not be prepared to accept defeat on this occasion.

‘Miss Hanwell. Oh, do forgive me—I still cannot believe that you have actually entered into this alliance with my son.’ Her sugary tones set Frances’s teeth on edge. ‘Do come and sit here. I will ring for some tea. Perhaps you would like to tell me a little about yourself.’ The Dowager smiled, but achieved it only through sheer effort of will. Frances responded with as much equanimity as she could muster. She had nothing to lose. She knew at once that she would never win the good will, much less the affection, of this dominant lady and she wished fervently that Aldeborough had not forsaken her to such an ordeal.

The arrival of the tea tray gave Frances a much-needed breathing space. When everything had been disposed to her liking, Lady Aldeborough handed Frances a fine bone-china tea cup.

‘Now. Let us have a feminine gossip.’

Frances cringed inwardly, predicting accurately the direction it would take.

‘Who are your family? Do I know them?’

‘My uncle is Viscount Torrington—and he is also my guardian.’

‘So, are your parents then dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘How unfortunate. I do not think I have ever seen you in London. Or at any country-house parties. Perhaps you have never been introduced into society?’

‘I have always lived in the country on my uncle’s estate.’

A pause developed as the Dowager considered the information. ‘Perhaps you have other living relatives?’ The catechism continued.

‘The present Earl of Wigmore is my mother’s nephew, my cousin.’

‘Really?’ Elegant eyebrows rose in apparent disbelief. ‘I am somewhat acquainted with the family, of course, but I was not aware of your existence.’

‘We have not kept close contact.’ Frances was determined not to give any more cause for speculation.

‘I see.’ Lady Aldeborough placed her cup down with careful precision before fixing Frances with austere censure. ‘Let us be clear about this, my dear. I am very disappointed in the turn of events. So shoddy, you understand. And as for what the world will make of the rumours of an abduction—’

‘There was no abduction. I did nothing against my will.’

‘Whatever the truth of it, it is quite shocking. As Marquis of Aldeborough, my son should have enjoyed a wedding at which all the members of the ton were present. An event of the Season, no less. Instead of which …’ Her mother-in-law shrugged with elegant disdain.

There was no suitable response for Frances to make. She waited in silence for the next onslaught, raising her teacup to her lips.

‘It makes me wish once again that Richard was still alive.’

‘Richard?’

‘My son. My first-born son.’ The Dowager indicated with a melancholy sigh and a wave of her hand an impressive three-quarter-length portrait in pride of place above the mantelpiece. ‘It is very like. It was completed a mere few months before his death.’

‘I … I’m sorry. I did not know.’

‘How should you? He was everything a mother could wish for. Duty and loyalty to the family came first with him. Not at all like Hugh. He should never have died.’

Frances studied the portrait with interest as her companion applied a fine lace handkerchief to her lashes. The young man before her was very like her husband. Indeed, the Laffords all had the same straight nose and dark brows and forthright gaze. Richard was dark too, like his brother, but the portrait highlighted a subtle difference between the two. The hint of mischief in Richard’s hooded eyes and roguish smile were unmistakable. He sat at his ease in a rural setting with the Priory clearly depicted in the background, a shotgun tucked through his arm and a gun dog at his side. The artist was good, successfully catching the vivid personality and love of life—Frances had the impression that he could have stepped out of the frame at any moment. Even though she had never known him, it was difficult to believe that he was dead. What a terrible tragedy! No wonder his mother mourned him with such passionate intensity.

‘Was … was it an accident?’ Frances asked to break the painful silence.

‘Some might try to imply that it was—to hide the truth from the world—but his death was to Hugh’s advantage, a fact which must be obvious to all. It breaks my heart to think of it.’

Frances privately doubted that she had a heart to break.

Lady Aldeborough continued, long pent-up bitterness pouring out. ‘And Penelope, his fiancée. So beautiful and elegant. So well connected—so suitable. She would have made an excellent Marchioness. As if she had been born to it.’

‘I can see that she must have been greatly distressed.’

‘Penelope has remarkable self-control. And of course she still hoped to become my daughter-in-law in the fullness of time. But now it has all changed. I do not know how I shall have the courage to break the news to her. But, of course, Hugh would never think of that. He has always been selfish and frippery. His taking a commission in the Army to fight in the Peninsula was the death of his father.’

As Lady Aldeborough appeared to be intent on holding her son to blame for everything, Frances felt moved to defend her absent husband.

‘I have not found him to be selfish.’

‘To be the object of an abduction or an elopement—or whatever the truth might be, for I do not think the episode has been explained at all clearly to my satisfaction—I can think of nothing more degrading.’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘That smacks of selfishness to me.’

‘That was not his fault, in all fairness. My husband’ —Lady Aldeborough winced at Frances’s deliberate choice of words— ‘has treated me with all care and consideration. He saw to my every comfort on our journey here. I accept that our marriage is not what you had hoped for, but Aldeborough has shown me every civility and courtesy. I cannot condone your criticism of him.’

‘Be that as it may, there is much of my son that you do not know. But you have married him and will soon learn. I hope you do not live to regret it. Now, tell me. Have you a dowry? Have you brought any money into the union? At least that would be something good.’

Frances took a deep breath to try to explain her inheritance in the most favourable light when the door opened on the return of Aldeborough and Matthew. She grasped the opportunity to allow the question to remain unanswered and turned towards her husband with some relief.

They were obviously in the middle of some joke and Frances was arrested by the expression on Aldeborough’s face. She had never seen him so approachable. His eyes alight with laughter and his quick grin at some comment were heartstoppingly and devastatingly attractive. She had much more to learn about her husband than she had realised. And the unknown Richard.

The smile stayed in Aldeborough’s eyes as he approached across the room. ‘I see you have survived,’ he commented ironically, showing recognition of her predicament. ‘I knew you would.’

‘Of course.’ Frances raised her chin and looked directly into his eyes. ‘Your mother and I have enjoyed a … an exchange of views. I already feel that we understand each other very well.’

Aldeborough’s raised eyebrows did not go unmarked.

He came to her that night.

Immediately upon a quiet knock, he entered the Blue Damask bedroom, where Frances had been temporarily accommodated until the suite next to the master bedroom could be cleaned and decorated to her taste. The door clicked shut behind him. He halted momentarily, his whole body tense, his senses on the alert, and then with a rueful shrug and a slight smile he advanced across the fine Aubusson carpet.

‘Don’t do it, Molly. I trust you are not contemplating escape yet again. It is a long way to the ground and I cannot vouch for your safety. Paving stones, I believe, can be very unforgiving.’

Frances stepped back from the open window where she had been leaning to cool her heated cheeks. The blood returned to her face in a rose wash, her throat dry and her heartbeat quickening. As ever, he dominated the room with his height, broad shoulders and excellent co-ordination. And, as always, he was impeccably dressed notwithstanding the late hour. He made her feel ruffled and hopelessly unsophisticated.

‘No, but you could not blame me if I was! And I would be grateful if you did not call me Molly!’

He reached behind her to close the window and redraw the blinds, allowing her the space to regain her composure.

‘Your maid did not come to help you undress? You should have rung for her.’ He indicated the embroidered bell pull by the hearth.

‘I sent her away.’ Frances hesitated. ‘I did not want her tonight. I have never had a maid, you see.’

She caught her reflection in the gilt-edged mirror of the dressing table. She looked exhausted. Beneath her eyes were smudges of violet, her pale skin almost transparent. And Aldeborough’s unexpected presence made her edgy and nervous. She rubbed her hands over her face as if they could erase her anxiety. They failed miserably.

‘I told you that it was a mistake for you to marry me.’ Her voice expressed her weariness in spite of all her efforts to control it. ‘Your mother hates me. And she will find great pleasure in telling all your family and friends that I am a fortune hunter with no countenance, style or talents to attract.’

He crossed the room deliberately to take her by the shoulders and turn her face towards the light from a branch of candles. He then startled her by lifting his hand to gently smooth the lines of tension between her eyebrows with his thumb. He frowned down at her as if his thoughts were anything but pleasant.

‘I am sorry. It has been a very trying day for you. Perhaps in retrospect I should have seen my mother alone first, but I don’t think it would have made much difference. I was proud of you. You were able to conduct yourself with assurance and composure in difficult circumstances. It cannot have been easy for you.’

Frances blinked at the unexpected compliment. ‘If you are kind and sympathetic I shall cry.’

His stern features were lightened by an unexpectedly sweet smile. ‘Thank you for the warning. I would not wish that on you. If it is any consolation to you, my mother doesn’t like me much either.’

‘No, it is no consolation,’ she responded waspishly. ‘I did not expect to be welcomed, but I did not think I would be patronised and condemned with every deficiency in my background and education laid bare in public over the dinner table. And if I have to listen once more to a catalogue of the skills and talents of Miss Penelope Vowchurch I shall not be responsible for my actions.’ She proceeded to give a remarkably accurate parody of Lady Aldeborough. ‘Can you sing, Frances? No? Of course, Penelope is very gifted musically. It is a pleasure to hear her sing—and play the pianoforte! Perhaps you paint instead? No? Penelope, of course … Does she have any failings?’

A shuttered look had crossed Aldeborough’s face, but he was forced into a reluctant laugh. ‘Don’t let my mother disturb you. I don’t believe that she means half of what she says.’

‘I am delighted to hear it—but I don’t believe you. You could have warned me.’

‘Don’t rip up at me.’ His fingers tightened their grip.

She suddenly realised that he looked as tired as she felt, with fine lines of strain etched around his mouth, and his words were a plea rather than a command. For a second she felt a wave of sympathy for him—but quickly buried it. The situation, after all, was of his making.

‘Why not?’ She pulled away from his grasp, too aware of the strength of his fingers branding her flesh, but then regretted her brusque action. ‘I … Forgive me, I am just a little overwrought. I shall be better tomorrow. I am really very grateful for all you have done,’ she explained stiffly.

‘I don’t want your gratitude.’ His voice was harsh.

She turned her back on him and stalked towards the mirror where she began to unfasten the satin ribbons with which she had inexpertly confined her hair. She was aware of his eyes on her every movement. A silence stretched between them until her nerves forced her to break it.

‘It is difficult not to express my gratitude when you have given me everything that I have never had before.’

‘I have given you nothing yet.’

‘My clothes. All of this.’ She indicated the tasteful silver and blue furnishings, the bed with its opulent hangings, the comforting fire still burning in the grate. ‘Wealth. A title. Respectability. What more could I want?’ Bitterness rose in her that he should take it all for granted.

‘Next you will tell me that you would rather be back at Torrington Hall with Charles as your prospective husband.’ Aldeborough’s heavy irony was not lost on her.

‘No.’ She sighed, lowering her hands to her lap. ‘In all honesty I cannot.’

‘I like your honesty,’ he commented gently. ‘I would like you to have this. It is a personal gift.’ From his pocket he withdrew a flat black velvet box. He handed it to her. It was much worn at the corners, and the clasp had broken loose. In the centre was a faded coat of arms stamped in gold. ‘A bride gift, if you like. My mother still has all the family heirlooms and jewellery. I will arrange for you to have the ones that suit. There are some very pretty earrings, I believe, and a pearl set that you would like. But this belonged to my grandmother. She left it to me to give to my wife. It is a trifle old fashioned and not very valuable, but it has considerable charm and I hope you will wear it until I can give you something better.’

Frances opened the box to reveal a faded silk lining. On it rested an oval silver locket on a fine silver chain. The workmanship was old and intricate with a delicacy of touch. Its surface was engraved with scrolls and flowers, the centres of which were set with small sapphires. She opened the locket. Inside she found the empty mountings for a miniature with the words engraved on the opposite side My Beloved is Mine.

‘It is beautiful,’ she said softly, tracing the delicate scroll work with a finger, unable to meet his eyes. ‘I have never been given jewellery before.’

He took the locket from her and moved to clasp it round her throat. ‘The roses seemed appropriate, Fair Rosalind.’

The brief touch of his fingers on her neck as he fastened the clasp sent a shiver through her tense body. Her eyes, wide and dark, met his fleetingly in the mirror. He nodded.

‘It suits you very well. There is a sapphire necklace the exact colour of your eyes.’ He hesitated, lost in their depths for the length of a heartbeat. ‘But I fear that my mother will refuse to part with it this side of the grave.’

The locket lay on her breast, the tiny sapphires catching the light like pinpointed stars with her heightened breathing.

She would have moved away from him, but he took hold of her wrist in a firm grasp, using his free hand to tilt her chin upwards. With one finger he traced the outline of her lips, his featherlight touch delicate and reflective. Her breath caught in her throat as she read the intention in his eyes. His arm slid around her waist, drawing her closer, and he bent his head to press his mouth to the pulse fluttering at the base of her neck, just above where the locket gleamed in the candlelight. Her immediate instinct was to raise her hands and push against his shoulders. Sudden fear engulfed her, surprising her in its intensity.

He raised his head. His eyes were devastatingly clear and possessive. ‘Don’t fight me, Frances.’

‘I am not fighting,’ she managed to gasp as he renewed his assault on her throat. ‘I did not expect—’

‘Of course. A business arrangement—that was what we agreed.’ There was no mistaking the sneer in his voice. ‘And it will be. You have my wealth and my name. And as long as you are discreet, I will not interfere with your … amusements. Neither will I impose myself on you overmuch.’ Her heart sank at this cold assessment of their future. ‘But I need an heir. And there must be no room for an annulment if your uncle decides to be uncooperative and you wish to escape from the clutches of Cousin Charles.’

‘Yes, my lord. I know my duty.’ Her reply was as cold as his, masking the misery in her heart.

‘That sounds very cold comfort. I believe it is possible to derive some pleasure from a wifely duty.’ A faint smile accompanied the mockery in the lines around his thinned lips. ‘Am I so unpalatable to you as a husband?’

‘No, my lord.’

He bent his head again to claim her lips with his own, at the same time releasing her hair from its ribbons in a perfumed cascade on to her shoulders. He wound his hand into the silken length of it to hold her in submission as he increased the pressure on her mouth. Against her will her lips opened tentatively under his. Shock swept through her as, withdrawing a little, his tongue traced the outline of her lips before invading again. He released her, but only so that his hands could deal with the fastenings of her gown.

‘It seems that I must be servant as well as lover tonight,’ he murmured against her throat.

He left a trail of feathery kisses from her jaw along the curve of her throat to her shoulder as his fingers expertly worked their way through the tiny buttons and laces. Frances was only aware of the heat spreading throughout her body from her toes to her hairline as the white sprigged muslin slipped into a pool at her feet. Her breathing was shallow and she gasped as his hard mouth returned to possess her lips once more. All she could hope for was that he would be understanding of her ignorance and lack of experience.

Aldeborough was acutely aware of her anxiety in the tension in every part of her body, in the rapid beat of her pulse beneath his lips. ‘Do you trust me?’

She stood rigidly in his embrace.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied honestly, her eyes wide with apprehension.

His answering touch was gentle, holding her captive, pressing her soft curves to the length of his body. He moved his hands to caress the sides of her ribs through her fine chemise and allowed his palms to brush the soft swell of her breasts. Then, as she heard his own breathing change, he let his hands fall and stepped back—but only to kneel at her feet with elegant grace to remove her garters. His fingers stroked the satin skin of her thigh, calf, ankle, as he smoothed her stockings down to her delicately arched feet.

At last he rose, pausing to snuff the branch of candles to allow her the anonymity of darkness.

He stood and looked at her in the flickering shadows cast by the one remaining candle. Her eyes were dark and fathomless like bottomless pools. Her skin ivory, flushed with rose, but icy, her whole body held in check as if her one desire was to flee from his touch.

‘I am afraid,’ she whispered.

‘But there is no need.’

He stooped to lift her into his arms effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing, and then laid her on the high bed. He was touched by compassion. He would do his best for her, to make it an acceptable experience. He stayed only to divest himself of his clothing before stretching his body beside her and began to kiss her. Gently at first, them more urgently, her mouth, hair, face, then along her throat to her shoulders, his lips burning on her cool skin. She had never imagined that her cool self-possessed husband could generate such fire. She shivered as he pushed aside her chemise and allowed his hands to drift down her slender body, brushing her nipples and stroking her flat stomach. Frances felt a response awaken deep within her when she become acutely aware of his arousal, strong and hard against her thigh. He continued his exploration of her body, discovering tantalising curves and hollows that fit so naturally against his palms, teasing her nipples with his tongue until they became erect. She gasped at the electric effect, the heat in her blood, and hid her face against his shoulder, conscious of his own disciplined breathing as if holding his actions on a tight rein.

Then he changed his position so that he could part her thighs with his knee and stroke the impossibly soft flesh. For a long moment she held her breath, her whole body trembling at the touch of his fingers in such an intimate caress. Her brain refused to allow her to respond to the incredible sensation of his naked body pressed against hers, cool skin against cool skin. He lifted himself above her, taking as much of his weight as he could on his elbows.

‘Trust me,’ he repeated breathlessly. ‘I will try to hurt you as little as I can. Now!’

With a firm thrust he penetrated her. She cried out against the unexpected invasion that filled her, stretched her, causing her to struggle for the first time against the intrusion.

‘Lie still,’ he ordered, but his voice was infinitely gentle. And he remained motionless himself except to brush his lips over her hair and eyes and then finally her mouth, parting her lips with his tongue as he had invaded her body. She allowed her taut muscles to relax again and as soon as he sensed it he began to move within her. Slowly at first. She tensed her muscles again momentarily against his total possession of her body, but his smooth controlled movements did not lessen. His thrusts became deeper and more urgent so that she clung to him, fingernails buried in his shoulders as there seemed to be no other alternative. Then, as desire finally overset his iron control, he shuddered into his climax, pinning her to the bed with the weight of his body. Frances lay in emotional and physical emptiness, sensation ebbing, leaving her devastated, drained of coherent thought. Why had she found it impossible to respond with any warmth—even the merest hint of pleasure? She knew in her heart that he had taken her with care and compassionate tenderness—so why did she feel that she had in some way failed him? And yet she had sensed something there for her in his touch far beyond her reach.

Aldeborough slowly withdrew to lie beside her, leaving one arm thrown possessively across her body. He had found her most appealing, slim and firm with small high breasts. Her skin was like water over silk. He smoothed his hand along the satin length of her back to her waist and over the curve of her hip. He had found no difficulty in becoming aroused and consummating their marriage. But in spite of physical satisfaction he was disturbed by a ripple of unease. True, she had not repulsed him, but he had been unable to break through her intense reserve. For the most part she had remained rigid and unresponsive.

He had not expected this, in spite of her ignorance. Aldeborough knew that she had a courageous, vital spirit beneath her quiet demeanour, and except for that one occasion in the library at the Priory, she had never flinched from him. Nor had she ever attacked him with tears or recriminations. He had thought that she would take some pleasure from their coupling, or at least accept it with equanimity. But not this withdrawal, rejection even. He was surprised by an unexpected twinge of failure for all his experience. He had not done his best for her. He could have taken more time to awaken her emotions and senses, but he had believed that it would merely have prolonged the agony of anticipation for her.

Aldeborough sighed and, drawing away from her, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, hunting in the dark to retrieve his discarded clothing. He was halted by the hesitant touch on his arm. He turned back to her where she lay, lost in shadows except for the gleam of the moonlight on her chemise.

‘My lord …’ her voice was barely a whisper ‘… did I displease you? I am sorry if you found me … unattractive. But I didn’t know—’

‘Frances.’ It struck him like a physical blow that she believed he had abandoned her in disgust. And how hard it must have been for her to turn to him. ‘You must never think that. I simply thought that you might like some privacy. That you might wish to sleep alone.’

‘Of course. Forgive me.’ The words tumbled out in an agony of embarrassment. ‘I did not mean to imply … I did not intend to impose on you.’ She turned away so that all he could see were her rigid shoulders.

He sighed. He should have been more careful with her. With all his experience he had frightened her and there was now little he could do to remedy it. His conscience pricked him with a full-blown blast of guilt. He rolled back on to the bed. ‘Come here,’ he said gently.

‘Please don’t be angry with me.’

Which was a strange thing for her to say. ‘Why should I?’

He pulled the chemise modestly down around her ankles and rearranged the lace neckline so that it lay becomingly around her shoulders. He pushed her hair away from her face, running his fingers through the tangles until she cried out in protest. Her eyes were closed, but he was relieved that there were no tears. He drew her gently into his arms so that her head rested on his shoulder and tucked the sheet comfortingly around them both—as if she was a child in need of reassurance. She made no resistance.

‘Are you comfortable?’

He felt the tiniest nod of her head against his chest.

‘You must never think that you disgust me, Frances. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘You are allowed to call me Hugh.’ She could hear the smile in his voice, but she had suffered enough intimacies for one night and simply turned her face into his shoulder.

Silence fell between them.

He felt no inclination to break it.

‘Go to sleep, Frances Rosalind,’ he murmured. Virgins were the very devil, he mused. Not that he had much knowledge of them. Letitia Winter’s practised embraces were far more predictable and never disappointing. For a moment he enjoyed the image of Letitia’s ample breasts and shapely hips, and remembered the touch of her clever fingers as she roused him to heights of mutual pleasure. And then he closed his mind to it. He stroked his wife’s hair until she relaxed against him and her breathing deepened. She was warm and soft and pliable in his arms. He felt a surprising feeling of contentment steal through his limbs. Eventually he followed her into sleep.

She awoke as the first light of dawn crept into the room to find him gone. Her body felt sore as she turned over in bed and sat up, her muscles complaining. The imprint of his body and head were still clear beside her, but she had no memory of his leaving. Her gown and petticoats had been neatly folded on to a chair with her stockings on top and her shoes beneath, but his clothes were gone. She was not sorry. Shyness overcame her as she remembered the demands of his body on her own. And shame that she had been so frozen into unresponsive rigidity. But she also remembered his kindness and the gentle tenderness that she had not expected. She raised her hand to her mouth. She fancied that she could still taste his kisses and sense the imprint of his lips on her throat as if they had left actual marks on her fair skin. She swung her legs out of bed, hoping that she might regain her composure with her clothing before she had to confront him again.

Chapter Five

Frances need not have worried.

When she was ushered into the breakfast parlour by Watkins, the elderly butler, there was no Aldeborough for her to face, nor, to her intense relief, had Lady Aldeborough put in an appearance. Instead she was greeted by a friendly smile from Matthew and a direct and assessing gaze from a young lady whom she had not yet met but whom she immediately recognised. The lady had clearly just arrived, dressed in the sprigged muslin and blue sash of the débutante and dangling a straw bonnet by its ribbons in a cavalier fashion. She was sufficiently like Matthew to brand her as his sister, but her hair was much fairer with auburn tints. She was blessed with a youthful prettiness, a lively expression and a decided sparkle in her eyes. Frances found it an interesting experience to be under the shrewd scrutiny of a lady younger than herself. So this was Aldeborough’s sister, who did not appreciate the benefits of education but was undoubtedly enjoying her first Season.

‘Frances!’ Matthew, with the familiarity of their previous acquaintance, sprang to his feet, abandoning a plate of eggs and creamed kidneys. His smile of welcome engulfed her and immediately helped her to control the nerves fluttering in her stomach. ‘This is Juliet, my little sister. Last night she was chaperoned to a masquerade by Aunt Elizabeth, so you did not have the opportunity to meet.’

Frances met the considering gaze levelly.

‘I heard the news on the family grapevine so I had to come home early to see you for myself.’ Juliet was clearly a forthright young lady. ‘Is it true? Did Hugh really elope with you and marry you out of hand without your guardian’s permission?’

Frances flushed, silently cursing her fair skin that made her discomfiture very evident.

‘Juliet! I must apologise for my mannerless sister, Frances. She is not known for her sensitivity. Come and sit and have coffee.’ He pushed aside some of the debris of cups and plates on the breakfast table to make a space for her. ‘Don’t worry. Mama does not leave her room until after eleven o’clock.’ Frances was mortified to feel her flush deepen further.

‘I did not mean to embarrass you,’ Juliet apologised with a gleam in her eye. She pulled up a chair to sit beside Frances and cast the ill-used bonnet on to the table. ‘It all seems so romantic to me.’

‘It was not at all romantic, I do assure you.’

‘My sister reads improper romantic novels when Mama is not looking,’ Matthew explained.

‘Do be quiet, Matthew! To be carried off by a romantic hero into the night—it is far more exciting than anything I have read recently. Although I have to say that I cannot see Hugh in the role of hero, but that is probably because he is my brother. He is very handsome, I suppose. And he rides a horse well. But I think I prefer fairer heroes with golden locks and blue eyes.’

Frances laughed at this ingenuous view of her rescuer and found it easy to respond in kind. ‘Then I must try to live up to your expectations of a romantic heroine. Perhaps I should have a cup of coffee before I faint!’

When Frances was seated with coffee and bread and butter, Matthew explained the plan of action for her first morning in London.

‘I have been given instructions from Aldeborough. He sends his apologies and says that he has a business appointment this morning from which he cannot renege, but he will be honoured to drive you round Hyde Park this afternoon at two o’clock. This morning I am to escort you on a shopping expedition.’ Frances hid a smile as she recognised the grace with which Matthew had accepted his instructions. She was sure that he would prefer to spend his time elsewhere, but he accepted the delegation with good humour.

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