The Runaway Heiress (5 page)

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-ft
rut
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 tumid their concerted
backs on her mother following what they perceived as a
mesalliance
, 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 con
scious 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.'