The Runaway Heiress (31 page)

'Your inheritance stands, as you are aware. But it
is dependent on one eventuality. If you die or fail to have children before
the age of twenty-five, then the money will revert
to
the
care of your father—and hence, in this case, to Viscount Torrington, your legal
guardian on your father's death.'

Frances stared at him, eyebrows raised as her mind
quickly assimilated the facts. 'So it would be to my uncle's advantage if
either
of us were dead.'

'Yes. If I am dead, you are free. If you
die...well...
But
I have to be fair, Frances. I
think your uncle would not
op
pose the scheming,
but I don't think he was behind it at all stages.'

'Charles?'

'If he could not have you in marriage, then...I'm
sure you see. I'm sorry. Did you like him very much, Frances?'

'No... Yes! It is simply that he is my cousin, you
und stand. He was the only one who ever showed me any past kindness at
Torrington Hall. I must have been very gullible.'

'Or very lonely.'

'Perhaps.' She thought for a moment. 'So the highwaymen?
Was that to kill you or me?'

'Oh, I think you were right to begin with.
That was to remove me from the scene. But Charles's attempted kidnap, that was
not to be blackmail, Frances. He did not intend to ever release you. I think
you would have conveniently disappeared and your body found in one of the
seamier slums of London—it would be easy enough to achieve and blame it on a
common thief.'
     

'I cannot believe
that he could be guilty of something so terrible as that. Do such things really
happen?'

'I am afraid so. And
there's something else I should you.'

'So many secrets.' She sighed.

'The accident at the Priory when Beeswing fell—it was
not the bridge. The mare's wound was caused by a pistol. Selby had his
suspicions and Kington found the bullet buried in the wooden balustrade. I have
no proof that Charles was behind it, but I have no doubts.'

'Charles? Charles tried to kill me?'

He did not need to answer. She was silent as she
weighed his words.

'I see. Why did you not tell me all of this?

'You had spent your life in fear of your family. I
know that the scars on your back are a testament to it. As my wife, at least
you seemed happier, less haunted. How could I inflict such fear on you again?'

Frances could find no words. The facts were so
clear, the implications so obvious. And he had tried to shield her—out of
kindness, out of compassion. She should be grateful, but her heart cried out
for more from him than he could give. She stared unseeingly at the brandy still
clasped in her hands, determined to stay calm, to respond to him with
composure. He deserved that much from her at least.

'Does the threat still exist?' she asked. 'Will
Charles still scheme and plan until he has achieved his ends?'

'No. I believe not. Charles was distressingly
outspoken after the duel,' Aldeborough explained with wry humour. 'He
condemned himself with his own words, and unwisely, with a little prompting
from me, before witnesses. I think it unlikely that we will see Charles in
London again—he will have become
persona non grata
, if I know the grapevine round the clubs. With Masters as his second,
nothing will be sacred! If there is any suggestion of harm to either of us in
the future, he will be declared guilty out of hand! You can put your mind at
rest.'

'Did you wound him? I could almost wish you had.'

'No. I deliberately fired to miss. But he damned
well hit me—I didn't think he had the skill. Now, don't fuss!' He put out his
hand as Frances sprang to her feet, spilling brandy heedlessly on to the
flounces of her gown, a look of horror on her face.

'But Matthew said you were unharmed. I didn't know.
Let me look.'

'There is no need. A flesh wound—nothing to be concerned
about. Matthew's driving over the ruts of the Great North Road caused me far
more damage.' He took hold of her hands and removed the brandy glass, putting
it out of harm's way. He looked down into her eyes, dark with swirling
emotions, holding them captive. 'Before I left Cavendish Square, Aunt May gave
me some advice, which for once agree with. She spoke the truth.'

He began to slide his hands up her arms, to pull
her close, unable to resist her soft lips, the sadness and hurt in her eyes.
His anger had completely dissipated. All he wished to do was comfort and
soothe, to hold her close. But she pulled back, resisting the clasp of his
fingers.

'Please don't.'

'My God, Frances. I didn't think that you found me
distasteful!'

'Distasteful?' She laughed bitterly. 'I love you. I
love you and I envy Penelope from the bottom of my heart.' She stopped, aghast
at what she had said. 'Forgive me. It was not my intention to burden you with
that. If you could forget I ever said it—'

'Penelope!'

'Yes. So, you see, it is easier for me if you don't
to me just yet. Until I can accept things with more equanimity.'

'Well, it's not easier for me, so you will have to
forgive my selfishness.' He tightened his grasp and pulled her more fully into
his arms. 'Just rest there a moment. Don't fight me. You cannot imagine how
long I have waited to hear you say that you love me.' Frances found she had no
choice but obey. She stood within his embrace, letting him hold her, his cheek
resting against her hair. Oh, how she wanted to stay like this forever. She did
not have the strength to pull away. Silence fell around them, enfolding them,
shutting out the world. But she knew that it was impossible.

Eventually he
released his embrace, but only to take hold of her hands and hold them firmly
against his chest.

'Do you feel that,
Frances Rosalind? My heart beating for you. It took me a long time, far too
long, to realise it.'
He smiled ruefully. 'I love you. I do not love
Penelope. I do not wish to marry her. I refuse to divorce you, I refuse to allow
you to escape from me to the Priory, or any other of the mad schemes you might
be contemplating. Chance gave you to me and you are mine, body and soul, and I
will not let you go. I told you that I would never permit you to escape once
before, but that was merely pride and arrogance. Now it is different. I love
you. You have turned my life upside down and I would not have it any other way.
Now, what do you have to say?'

She found herself unable to say anything. With a
groan he bent his head and captured her mouth with his own. His lips were
gentle, persuasive but with a hint of possession and she melted into his
embrace, her doubts overcome by those few words.
I love you.
And by the promises made by the caress of
his lips and his hands.

At some point, still touching, they moved to the
cushioned settle by the fire where she remained within the protection of his
encircling arms. He found he was reluctant to let her go.

'Why did you not tell me this before?' Her head
rested comfortably on his shoulder, her hands still clasped in his.

'I did.'

'Never. I would hardly forget it.'

'You fell asleep in my arms,' he said. 'I knew you
would not remember.'

'But why did you need to go straight from the duel
to Penelope? If you don't love her, why did you need to go there? And you must
know that she loves you.'

'No. She wants marriage. Status. Wealth. She had
always expected to be Marchioness of Aldeborough. With Richard gone, she saw me
as the next step to fulfilling her ambition. And I was too preoccupied to make
it clear to her that it never was a possibility. I went to see her because of
something Charles said when I had...after the duel. He was not alone in his
plans, it seems.'

'Never Penelope!'

'Think about it, Frances. Who would see an
advantage in your death other than Charles? I would be free to marry again.
Hers was not the initiative, although she certainly encouraged Charles. But it
was not in her plan to have me killed or shot in a duel. That is why she was so
distressed when she came to Cavendish Square to try to prevent us meeting.'

Her face paled. 'To be hated so much.'

'No. You simply stood in the way of her ambition.
She wanted Richard—she wanted me. I don't think she hates you any more than she
loves me.'

'And I thought you loved her. I know you sometimes
want me and you have always shown me kindness but you have never pretended that
you loved me. Penelope always seemed so suitable.'

'She is not the wife I would choose. Yes, she is
beautiful and sophisticated. Her education is excellent.' He grinned. 'But what
would I talk to her about? How I will improve the estate? Horse breeding? We
would bore each other to death in a day. Can you see her talking to Kington
about roof repairs? In fact, I doubt that she would even consent to live at
the Priory.

'But that is not the main thing. I promised that I
would give you the protection of my name because it was necessary after I had
become the means of your escape from Torrington Hall.' The light from the
candles cast shadows on his face, which made him suddenly look unbearably
weary. 'But instead of protection I brought you danger and the threat of death
and a degree of unhappiness that caused you to flee from me. I was thoughtless
and inconsiderate. I did not intend my marriage to change my life in any
way—you would give me an heir and that is all I would expect or ask from you.'
His face was stern and he forgot to drawl. 'I hope you can forgive me. I also
promised that I would allow you the freedom to live your own life. Will that be
enough for you? You
say that you love me, but are you sure? I seem
to have little to recommend me.' He ran his fingers through his hair, in his
habitual gesture when under stress, wincing at his inadvertent use of his right
arm, and waited impatiently for her reply.

He was amazed to see her lips begin to curve into a
smile of pure pleasure and delight and raised his eyebrows in query

'You are far too
honourable, my lord. I am used to a more demanding, possessive husband! I think
Aunt May would say that the duel has addled your wits as well as putting a bullet
through your arm!'

'What are you saying?'

'I know why you offered to marry me, you did not
trick me. I know that it was a marriage of utmost convenience for both of us.
But you have shown me care and compassion when my mind refused to accept that
any man was capable of that.'

She took a step forward and stood before him,
reaching up to kiss him on his stern, unsmiling mouth.

'I love you, Hugh. I need you. I don't want
freedom. I don't want to go my own way. I am yours and want nothing more than
that. Touch me,' she pleaded. 'Make me believe that the dangers are over and
that we can be together.'

His hands moved to her shoulders, still holding her
away from him so that he could search her face.

'I want you as my wife, Frances, in every way a man
can want a woman. Will you let me show you how much I love you? I very much
want to make love to you.'

They still stood, separated by space and the tide
of events that had finally swept them to this moment, this time for decisions.
Their eyes spoke of all the doubts, uncertainties and pain of the past. Then
Frances, on a little laugh, forced the issue by taking the final step to lift
her arms around his neck and press her body against his. With a groan he wrapped
his arms around her, holding her as if he would never release her, covering her
mouth with his, first gently and then angling his head to deepen his kiss,
making his thorough possession of her a reality. Her response was immediate and
more than he could hope for, as he felt her slight frame shudder within his
embrace. Her lips parted under his assault, enticing his tongue as it traced
the outline of her lips, inviting it to plunder the soft depths.

At last he raised his head, but the two remained
lost in the depths of each other's eyes, dark with intense desire, and the beat
of their hearts, one against the other.

Chapter Sixteen

The sun was
beginning to dip towards the horizon, casting a soft light over the
stone-flagged terrace at the Priory when Frances was sitting. The golden stone
of the old house glowed and gave off the subtle warmth that it had absorbed
during the day. But it was still only early in May and she would soon have to
retreat to the comfort of the library where she knew she would find a welcoming
fire.

They had chosen to
continue Frances's flight to the Priory, leaving Matthew to return to London,
and had arrived previous day, tired but with an indefinable sense of relief,
the journey Aldeborough had enfolded her in his love, assiduously attentive to
her every need, reassuring her with touch of a hand or the possessive arrogance
in his eyes they rested on her, but there was still a tension between th that
troubled Frances. She could guess at the problem, knew that he must work
through it in his own way. So remained silent and as well as her love she gave
him space he needed.

But she was not
without hope because, on awakening morning, she had found, awaiting her on her
dressing table a gift. A delicate miniature of a golden rose, painted on ivory,
petals gleaming softly, new leaves sweetly curled. Created by the hand of an
expert, without doubt. Beside it was a bud—a miracle that he had found one so
early in the year,newly picked with the dew still damp, its cream petals just
beginning to unfurl. And beneath the floral offerings was a folded sheet of
paper.

Frances flushed with pleasure at the memory. The
miniature now stood in pride of place beside her bed, a permanent reminder of
their homecoming to the Priory. The rose was pinned at her bosom where its
petals glowed in the warmth of the sun. And the folded sheet... Well, she had
carried it all day against her heart. She opened it, smoothed the creases with
gentle fingers and felt her heart bound with absolute joy.

For
he had written her a poem. A love poem, no less. Her eyes travelled over the
words, deeply etched on the cream paper in Aldeborough’s firm script, and now
equally etched in Frances's own heart.

Take thou this rose, O Rose,

Since Love's own flower it is,

And by that fragile rose

Thy Lover captive is.

Look on this rose, O Rose,

And looking, smile on me,

For with thy laughter's ring

Thy slave I'll
gladly be.

Smell thou this
rose, O Rose

And know thyself as
sweet,

Your perfume holds
me vassal,

Adoring at thy feet.

O Rose, this painted
rose

Draws not the
complete whole.

For he who paints
the flower

Paints not its
fragrant soul.

The whole, as she read again the final line, was
dedicated
To Frances Rosalind: My Own
Incomparable Rose.

She pressed her lips to the paper as she refolded
it and lucked it away. How could he have known? How could he have chosen such
tender words that would soothe her heart and yet cause it to ache with love?

She sighed a little and turned her mind back to the
prospect of restocking one of the flower beds with spring bulbs for the
following year, until her attention became concentrated on a grey kitten,
attempting unsuccessfully to deter it from pouncing on the fringe of the
Kashmir shawl draped around her shoulders. She laughed and picked up the ball
of fur and claw as it changed its attack to the end of her blue satin sash. But
she looked up immediately as she heard footsteps on the gravel path from the
sunken garden.

Aldeborough, casual in shirt sleeves, followed by two
energetic gun dogs, strode up the steps at the end of the terrace. The low sun
behind him cast his features in shadow and outlined his body with a rim of
gold. She watched him as he stopped to lean over the balustrade to exchange
some final word with Kington, who laughed and raised a hand in acknowledgement
of some comment. The Marquis looked windswept and dishevelled from an afternoon
spent in the stables; his handsome face and graceful long-limbed body, which
she now knew so well, still had the power to make her catch her breath. Her
heart jolted a little as he turned his head to look at her, before it resumed
its steady beat. He approached and stood before her, his expression enigmatic,
his thoughts quite unreadable. Nor did his first words give her any indication.
But she noted the frown between his brows and a flash of some intense longing
in his eyes before he banished it and smiled down at her and her companion.

'Hugh. Come and sit with me,' she invited.

'What's this?' He sat beside her on the stone bench
and lifted the kitten from her lap. It broke into a miniature purr as his
fingers found the sensitive spot between its ears.

'A present. I went to the stables to see Beeswing
and Selby presented me with this, I think to get rid of it from under his feet.
It has very lively tendencies!'

'I can see that your sash has suffered. What
will you do with it?' He fended off one of the inquisitive dogs with a booted
foot.

'Keep it, of course. It might be a good mouser and
I think the kitchens could do with one.'

'Only if the mice are very small.' He placed the
kitten on the seat between them where it instantly curled up and fell asleep in
the manner of small animals.

In spite of the humour, his dark brows drew together
again in frowning contemplation and his mouth was stern. She made a decision,
already half-formed, and took a deep breath.

'Hugh—tell me what troubles you.'

'Why, nothing. What could there be?' But his answer
was a shade too casual and he did not look at her.

'He is still here, is that not true? He still
stands between us.'

Now Aldeborough turned his head to meet her eyes
for a long moment. She saw there uncertainty and an element of difficult grief.
It pleased her that he did not pretend to misunderstand her.

Abruptly he stood up. 'Come and walk with me.'

He drew her to his side, her hand tucked through
his arm as if to reassure himself of her presence, and led her along the
terrace, through the old arches and pillars of the ruined priory to the iron
gate that allowed them private access to the churchyard, to the church where
she had been married when she knew so little of this man at her side. Long
shadows were already being cast across the soft grass and a chill breeze began
to stir her hair and rustle the new leaves on the beech trees. Frances
shivered, whether with cold or tension she was unsure, and pulled her shawl
more firmly round her shoulders. They walked in silence, since she knew
exactly where he was leading her, only stopping when they reached the cluster
of gravestones marking the earthly remains of past Laffords.

For the most part grey and weather worn, covered
with moss and lichen, the words of love and loss indecipherable, they occupied
the area of the old monastic graveyard enclosed by ancient walls, shaded by
mature oaks and yew. Aldeborough's father and grandparents, generations of them
back into the dimness of history when the house was first conceived. But
Aldeborough drew her to a halt beside a new gravestone, startlingly unworn, the
name and appropriate wording fresh and deeply incised.

Richard.

Richard, the brave, the carefree and heedless. The
laughing, adventurous companion of childhood. And, unless she could achieve a
miracle, Richard the divider, the destroyer.

Frances deliberately moved from her husband's side
to stand opposite, the well-tended green mound of Richard's grave between them,
a symbol of division.

'You have to end it, Hugh. You must lay his ghost
or it will eat away at you—and us.'

'I know. I accept that.' It was as if he had been
waiting, for this moment, to unburden his bitter legacy to someone who would
accept and not judge too harshly. He rested his hand on the stone. 'I accepted
the guilt of his death because it seemed wrong, such a terrible waste, that
someone so full of life as Richard should die so wantonly. How could he
possibly die because of a chance accident? There had to be some blame—and there
was no one other to shoulder it. And because the responsibilities came with the
guilt, I made the inheritance of the title and the estate into a burden it
should never have been. I resented having to give up my own life; one I loved,
one I had chosen against opposition from my father, to take on a lifestyle that
should never have bees mine.' He hesitated before continuing in a flat tone, 'I
was embittered and angry—and I allowed my anger to do more harm than you know.'

'Drinking and gaming? Letitia Winters?'

He grimaced, acknowledging the truth. 'Among other
things.'

'Then tell me,' she stated calmly, 'so that there
will be no more secrets between us.'

His body was tense. She saw anger there still and
bitter self-mockery and wanted nothing more than to move toward him to take him
into her arms to reassure him of her love, but he needed the catharsis of
facing Richard and the repercussions of his brother's death. His voice was low
but steady and his eyes never left hers, both a plea for understanding and a
challenge.

'The drinking and the gaming you are well aware
of—who should know better? And Letitia.' He sighed. 'She gave me comfort at a
time when I allowed myself to become deluged in self-pity and hatred. I was not
a heroic figure. I took you to the Priory that night because I was too drunk to
consider your plight. I should not have allowed your honour to be compromised
as I did. I married you for my own advantage—because I felt some pride in my
family name and had no wish to drag it through public scandal. I neglected you,
I left you without protection, knowing that you might be in danger, giving
Charles the opportunity to abduct you—if he had murdered you your blood would
have been on my hands as much as Richard's because I knew you were vulnerable.
But I did not take enough care with you. I went to Newmarket, God help me, and
left you alone in London. And I should have ended the situation between me and
Penelope from the beginning, instead of ignoring it in the belief that it was
not important. It was selfish in the extreme and it encouraged Penelope to
believe that her position as my wife was desirable and attainable, regardless
of the means. Whatever you might say, whatever arguments I might make for my
actions or lack of them, I put your life in danger. I deserve your condemnation,
Frances. Certainly not your love.'

She bowed her head, hands clasped tightly, to study
the intricate carvings before her and the words that committed Richard to God's
saving grace.

'Very well. I accept what you say. But I believe
that I must redress the balance. You say that you neglected me. I do not see it
like that. You gave me a family, status, wealth, luxury—you might take that
for granted, but I cannot for I had none of it. You did not have to marry me.
What was I? A nobody, hardly worthy of your consideration. You could have sent
me back to my uncle with an explanation of my foolishness and a word of
apology and all would have been smoothed over. I had no reputation to lose and
yet you chose to reinstate me in the eyes of the world. How should I not love
you? You showed me compassion and gave me backs my self-respect. I will never
forget the night you touched my scars with such tenderness and pressed your
lips to them as if they were symbols of beauty, not of degradation. You removed
the ugliness and the shame that I carried with me when I could not bear that
anyone should know. I think that was the moment I fell in love with you.'

'I remember. I remember the fear in your eyes. It
will live with me forever.'

'Yes. You say that you could have protected me from
Charles. You knew that he was driven by greed and despair—Penelope too. You
cannot take the blame for that. How could you possibly have foreseen the
outcome of your marriage to me? There are too many complicated strands woven
together to be separated and I do not see that you are answerable
for
my cousin's sins.'

'You are too generous, Frances.' His lips
were still compressed into a firm line.

'I am realistic. Hugh, I love you but I can
not—will not live my life with Richard standing between us. Do you really think
he would have wanted that?'

'No.' His eyes fell to the stone beneath his hand.
'I am certain that he would have been the first to damn me for a fool.'

'Well, then.' She let the silence stretch between them
again. She knew he had to come to his own salvation.

'I know what the remedy is.' He turned from her to look
out over the rolling parkland and woods to where the village was half-hidden by
a fold in the hillside. 'It is here, the estate. The money is available. It
simply needs time and interest and investment. My father and Richard... well,
they did not see it as a way of life, rather a method of financing the town
house in London and a hunting lodge in Leicestershire.
I would try
to make improvements here. I would breed horses. You have seen for yourself how
much needs to be done and how much can be achieved. I have come to realise that
this is a project that needs my time and can bring me satisfaction—perhaps it
is in my blood after all. And now I have the added responsibility of a wife to
consider.' He turned back to look at her, demanding her honesty. 'Would you be
willing to accept life here rather than in London?'