The Runaway Heiress (3 page)

'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 cannot 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 unchaperoned 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 die 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. T could be a governess, I suppose,' she managed with hardly a catch in
her voice.