The Runaway Heiress (24 page)

Aldeborough groaned inwardly when he came face to
face with Frances in the library around midday. He had had far too little
sleep. It had been a mistake to go on to White's after Almack's, even though
the night had been relatively young. He had drunk too much brandy, lost too
much money and his head ached abominably. He knew he deserved it. He had hoped,
in a cowardly fashion, as he was the first to admit, that he would not meet
Frances until she had had a chance to cool down. It was his own fault. But he
had needed to speak to Letitia and it was remiss of him not to have done so
previously. He was in her debt. How was he to know that Frances would walk in
on them at just that moment in a secluded alcove when, to all intents and
purposes, he was indulging in intense communication with his mistress. The fact
that he was no longer her lover and had not been since his marriage would make
no difference. Frances would have been well informed by gossip and could not be
expected to believe otherwise. Aldeborough felt ill used but resigned.

He could not forget the expression on Frances's
face. Horror at first, disbelief even, and then contempt and a terrible hurt.
He felt wretched at having been the cause. He should have come home with her,
talked to her, tried to put it right. And he had not. He had retreated from the
prospect of an emotionally charged conversation with a tired and incredulous wife.
Nor, he had to admit to himself, had he enjoyed the open disapproval in his
sister's face when she accompanied Frances back to the dancing. He would
rather lead an attack in the siege of Badajoz. He despised himself as much as
Frances probably did.

In the library he was left in no doubt of her mood.

'Good morning, my lord. I trust you slept well.'
The formality chilled his blood.

His worst fears were realised. She had taken
considerable care with her morning toilette. Her curls had been artfully
arranged to fall in casual, shining ringlets on to her shoulders tempting a man
to release them into wild profusion. Her morning dress, which might have been deliberately
chosen to enhance the sapphire of her eyes, was a creation in pale blue muslin.
It was cut fashionably low across the bosom and, although it had demure long
sleeves and a frilled neckline, its fragile fabric clung to her body and
revealed her feminine
curves. She might look exceptionally fragile
and feminine, but the bright, brittle edge in her voice and in her smile cut
him like a knife and he recognised the light of battle in those sapphire eyes.
How on earth was he to explain his mistress to his wife? If Frances was more
sophisticated she would merely pretend the situation did not exist. Or that it
did not matter. But Aldeborough had to accept that, increasingly, anything that
made Frances unhappy did matter deeply to his own state of mind. He was finding
it increasingly difficult to keep her out of his thoughts.

Thank you. Yes,' he lied. 'And you?'

'Perfectly well. I was looking for the
Morning Post.
I
thought it would be
in here. Have you seen it?' She was cool and composed, with the aura of an
iceberg. She deliberately avoided any eye contact, rather focused on a point
just above his head.

'No.'

'Then I will go and ask Aunt May. Wellington has
probably chewed it up by now. I am sorry to have disturbed you.
'
She moved
purposefully round him to the door, her back straight, her chin high.

He had to stop her. 'Frances!'

'Yes, my lord?'

He gritted his teeth at her deliberate and distant
formality. 'I plan to go to Newmarket—I have a horse running that is well fancied.
Will you come with me? Colbourne is organising a house party on his estate in
Suffolk. You will meet many people there and you might enjoy it.'

Her eyes met his at last. He wished they had not,
then he would not have seen the contempt in them. There was a small pause as
she contemplated her reply.

'How kind of you to
invite me. I think I prefer to stay in town.' She would not even make an excuse
of previous engagements. He could make of it what he wished.

'I see.' His mouth
hardened into a straight line. 'Can I say nothing to persuade you?'

'I doubt it.' Her
chin rose higher in direct challenge.

He chose not to rise
to it, but regarded her through narrowed eyes. 'I shall be gone a few days,
possibly until the end of the week. I could wish that you would come with me.'

'Really, my lord?
You must do as you see fit, of course.' And probably spend the time with
Letitia Winters, she thought. 'I have no demands on your time. We both have our
own lives to lead.'

So it was war.

'Come here, Frances
Rosalind.' Aldeborough belatedly took up the challenge: it was clear in his
eyes and in his stance as he held out his hand, palm up, in command.

Frances approached
him. Outwardly her self-assurance held. Inwardly she quaked. She must not give
way now! She put her hand in his and allowed him to draw her inexorably towards
him. Her eyes were trapped by the unassailable force in his and she was unable
to look away.

He encircled her
waist with one arm, releasing her hand to wind his fingers into her hair to
hold her imprisoned. His touch was not particularly gentle. With deliberate
intent he covered her mouth with his, lightly at first and then with increasing
pressure as he felt her resistance. He angled his head to capture her lips
completely, no tenderness here but deliberate possession. She stood stiffly in
his embrace, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a response, but
she failed miserably. His kiss was thorough, demanding, scalding. He forced her
lips apart so that his tongue could invade, creating impossible sensations of
heat and need. She could not suppress a sigh as delicious tremors flooded
through her and she clung to him for support.

He retreated and
raised his head once more to challenge her. His eyes were still calculating,
but with a fire in their depths that seared her. 'If it was a declaration of
war, Frances Rosalind, then you should be prepared for battle.'

'I thought I was,' she managed to gasp.

'Then show me,' he demanded before he renewed his
assault. She could not deny him, indeed, she did not wish to do so. His teeth
scraped her lower lip and his tongue once again plundered her mouth with an
arrogant assurance that she would respond with equal fervour. And she did. For
as her mind resisted, her body betrayed her. He tightened his arms around her,
crushing her breasts against him, holding her thighs immobile against his. She
was intensely aware of the power of his hard, muscular body against hers and
trembled in longing.

'Hugh!' she whispered his name against his mouth.
He merely changed his assault to her throat, her shoulders, her breast where
the frail muslin revealed her soft skin, covering them with burning kisses that
sent thrills of anticipation through her veins. She tightened her fingers in
his hair, eyes closed, surrendering to his demands.

Suddenly she was free.

She opened her eyes, disorientated. He had released
her and stepped back. The expression on his handsome face was enigmatic, his
mouth set in a firm line as if he might be displeased with her.

'Come with me to Newmarket.'

'No.'

'I am sorry I cannot persuade you, Frances
Rosalind, it seems that we must exist for a few days without each other. As you
so correctly observed, we have our own lives to lead!
'
He inclined his
head curtly. 'Forgive me. I appear to have disordered your hair. I am sure you
can remedy it. Goodbye, my lady.'

He left, closing the door quietly behind him. He
would have liked to have slammed it, but refused to give himself the satisfaction.

Frances stood where he had left her, one hand
pressed her tender lips, the other to her heart, whose rapid beat was
threatening to choke her. The tears that she had refused to shed in his
presence threatened to spill from her eyelashes. She wanted him. Oh, how she
wanted him. And he could never be hers.

Outside the door, Aldeborough cursed himself
silently, his hands clenched into fists. All he had done was make a bad
situation worse. And he was left with the memory of the softness of her lips as
they opened beneath his, the perfume of her hair filling his senses and the way
her body, every curve and hollow, fitted perfectly against his. What the hell
had been his motive? To punish her? To satisfy his own need for her? What an
abject failure that had been! All he had done was rouse his body to a raging
hunger to possess her, when what he truly desired was for her to look at him
with love and trust in those glorious eyes, to turn into the shelter of his
arms and rest there against his heart. Anything but the terrible desolation he
had left her with.

Guilt
smote him afresh. What on earth was he thinking, to go to Newmarket and leave
Frances alone in London when he knew that her life might be at risk? Was he out
of his mind? But the last thing he wanted was to remain to be rebuffed and
sniped at by a frigid and uncooperative wife. No! To hell with it. He would go
to Newmarket—and to the devil, if that is what she believed. The only action he
could take, for his own peace of mind, was to ensure that, in his absence, his
wife did not venture out unaccompanied. That much he could do. He went in
search of Watkins to leave some crisp and efficient instructions.

On the following morning Frances was cajoled—or
bullied, as she personally considered—into accompanying Aunt May on an
apparently urgent appointment. Juliet was still abed after a week of parties,
breakfasts and routs, claiming that she was worn to the bone, and for once
could not be persuaded to join them.

The main objective of their outing was to visit the
establishment of Rundell and Bridge.
'
For,' as Aunt May explained, 'if my diamond
necklace needs cleaning and perhaps resetting, then I will go to the best. Lord
Cotherstone always swore by Rundell and Bridge for quality when buying jewels.'

'But do you need it today?' Frances would rather
have stayed at home. A nagging headache and a desolate emptiness in the region
of her heart made the expedition—any expedition—unattractive. 'When did you
last wear it?'

'Oh, not for years. In fact, probably not since
Juliet was born. But if I am to stay in London for any length of time, think of
the opportunities. Besides, a woman should never be without a diamond necklace.
And mine is distinctly dingy.' Aunt May cast Frances a keen glance. 'Come
along. An outing in the fresh air will do you good. And it will stop you.
thinking about Aldeborough and what he might be getting up to.' Juliet had
thoughtfully brought her up to date on the interesting events at Almack's, not
failing to include Aldeborough's perfidy in detail. 'It is not fashionable to
miss him, you know. You could try flirting with someone else to pass the time—a
little flirtation is always good for the spirits.'

Frances was horrified that her thoughts could
be so easily read. Pride rose to her rescue. 'There is nothing wrong with my
spirits. And I assure you, Aunt May, I have no desire to know what Aldeborough
is doing. I am certainly not missing him. What a foolish suggestion!'
                                                                                                     

'Glad to hear it. Go and fetch your bonnet.'
                         

There was nothing more to be said. As the morning
promised the possibility of showers, it was decided to order up the barouche
rather than walk. This would also allow Lady Cotherstone to take Wellington with
her. He could not cope with a long walk these days, and neither, she announced,
could she.

It surprised Frances that Aunt May was greeted as an
old and much-valued customer, ushered into an inner sanctum with many bows and
expressions of concern for her health by Mr Bridge himself. To Frances's
amusement, Lady Cotherstone flirted like a young girl, remembering the days when
her late and rarely lamented husband had bought her stones of considerable
excellence from that very shop. The business was concluded to the satisfaction
of all, the necklace handed over for refurbishment and Mr Bridge expressing the
hope that the new Marchioness of Aldeborough would perhaps patronise his
establishment in the near future. Having admired a very pretty gold bracelet,
Frances expressed positive intentions to return when, she told herself, her
heart was less sore.

She saw the lady standing beside their barouche, as
they were bowed out of the shop by Mr Bridge. She wore a fur-trimmed pelisse
against the cold in a rich peat brown that enhanced her golden curls. Her pale
straw bonnet was silk edged, decorated with matching silk flowers, its brim
framing her lovely face. Her skin was translucent in the grey morning light and
her eyes were of a particularly soft blue, but on inspection Frances saw that
she was not in her first youth. She had a maid to carry her gloves and
reticule, standing at a discreet distance. She gave the impression that she had
been awaiting them, by design rather than chance, for some little time. Frances
recognised her immediately and froze in indecision as a sudden wave of anger,
not unmixed with jealousy, swept through her.