The Runaway Heiress

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?