The Runaway Heiress

The Runaway Heiress

Anne O’Brien

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To George:

who encourages me with humour,

wit and understanding

‘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!’