The Runaway Heiress (2 page)

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
a 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!'

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.