by Anne O'Brien
‘But you told me you didn’t have any.’
‘It is my mother’s family.’ She was once more able to command her voice and her breathing. ‘They disowned her, you understand, when she married my father. They thought he was a fortune hunter and too irresponsible, so they cut all contact.’
‘Your father, I presume, was Torrington’s younger brother. I never knew him.’
‘Yes. Adam Hanwell. I remember nothing of him—he died when I was very young.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She was Cecilia Mortimer. She died just after I was born. That’s why I was brought up at Torrington Hall and Viscount Torrington is my guardian.’
‘As I understand it, the Mortimers are related to the Wigmore family.’
‘Yes. My grandfather was the Earl of Wigmore. I hoped the present Earl would not abandon me entirely if he knew I was in trouble. I believe he is my cousin. Do you think he would?’
‘I have no idea. And I cannot claim to be impressed by your plan.’ Aldeborough ran his hand through his hair in exasperation. ‘If they refuse to recognise you, you will be left standing outside their town house in Portland Square, with no money and no acquaintance in London. Or what if they are out of town and the house is shut up? Do you intend to bivouac on their doorstep until they return? It is a crazy scheme and you will do well to forget it.’
‘It’s no more crazy than you forcing me into a marriage I do not want!’ Frances was stung into sharp reply. ‘You have no right to be so superior!’
‘I have every right. There is no point in making the situation worse than it is already.’
Frances sighed. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time.’ She raised her hands in hopeless entreaty and then let them fall back into her lap. ‘Do you think I could be an actress?’
‘Never!’ Aldeborough laughed without humour. ‘Every emotion is written clearly on your face. I cannot believe that you would actually consider such a harebrained scheme.’
‘No. But desperation can lead to unlikely eventualities.’ She tried to smile, but it was a poor attempt.
The Marquis noted the emotion that shimmered just below the surface, prompting him to take the brandy glass from her. She did not resist. ‘Let us be sensible.’ He returned to lean his arm along the mantelpiece and stirred the smouldering logs with one booted foot. ‘I think that we are agreed that you have very few realistic options. There is no guarantee of a favourable welcome from Wigmore. You have spent far too long unchaperoned in my house—don’t say anything for a moment—so you must marry me as it is the only way to put things right.’
‘But—’
‘No. Think about it! Your reputation will be secure. We can call it a runaway match, if you wish. We saw each other at some unspecified event—unlikely, I know, but never mind that—and fell in love at first sight. With the protection of my name no one will dare to suggest that anything improper occurred. You will be able to escape from your uncle and a life that clearly has made you unhappy. And, until your own inheritance is yours, you can have the pleasure of spending some of my wealth and cutting a dash in society.’
It sounded an attractive proposition. For long moments, Frances considered the clear, coldly delivered facts, smoothing out a worn patch on her skirt between her fingers. She raised her eyes to his, trying to read the motive behind the unemotional delivery.
‘But why would you do this? You don’t want a wife. Or, certainly, not me.’
He laughed harshly. ‘You are wrong. I do need to marry some time. It is, of course, my duty to my family and my name to produce an heir. So why not you?’
Frances blushed. ‘I am not suitable. I am not talented or beautiful or fashionable … Your family would think you had run mad.’
He shrugged carelessly. ‘You come from a good family and the rest can be put right. And it will stop my mother from nagging me. What do you say? Perhaps we should deal very well together. Your view of marriage seems to be even more cynical than mine! As a business arrangement it could be to the benefit of both of us.’
Frances still hesitated.
‘If for no other reason, you might consider my position. It may surprise you to know that I do have some sense of honour.’ His lips curled cynically. ‘I would not wittingly seek to be accused of abducting and ruining an innocent girl. I do have some pride, you know.’
Frances took a deep breath. ‘I had not thought of that.’
‘Then do so. You are not likely to be the only sufferer here.’
‘But you already have a reputation for—’ She came to a sudden halt, embarrassed by her insensitive accusation.
‘Ah. I see.’ His voice was low and quiet. ‘So my damnable reputation has reached even you, Miss Hanwell, shut away as you have been in Torrington Hall. Do you expect me to live up to it? One more victim from the fair sex will make no difference, I suppose. Perhaps I should seduce you and abandon you simply to give credence to the rumours spread by wagging tongues. I am clearly beyond redemption. Perhaps I should not insult you with an offer of marriage.’
Frances could not answer the bitter mockery or the banked anger in his eyes but simply sat, head bent against the wave of emotion. When he made no effort to break the silence that had fallen, she glanced up at him. The anger had faded from his face, to be replaced by something that she found difficult to interpret. If she did not know better, she might have thought it was a moment of vulnerability.
‘Well, Miss Hanwell?’
‘Very well. I think I must accept your offer, my lord. I will try to be a conformable wife.’ She could hardly believe that she was saying those words.
‘You amaze me. So far all you have done is argue and refuse to listen to good sense.’
‘But … I never meant …’
‘There is no need to say any more. Come here.’ She stood and moved towards him. He turned her to face the light from the candles at his elbow and looked at her searchingly for perhaps the first time, turning her head gently with his hand beneath her jaw. Her skin, a trifle pale from the emotions of the past hour, had the smooth translucence of youth. Her eyebrows were well marked and as dark as her uncontrolled curls. Her remarkable violet eyes expressed every emotion she felt—at the moment uncertainty and not a little shyness. But equally he had seen them flash in anger and contempt. She had a straight nose, a most decided chin and softly curving lips. She was not a beauty, he thought, but a little town bronze would probably improve her. It could turn out to be not the worst decision he had made in his life. She dropped her eyes in some confusion under his considered scrutiny.
‘Look at me,’ he demanded and when she automatically obeyed he wound his hand into her hair and his lips sought hers. It was a brief, cool caress, but when Aldeborough lifted his head there was an arrested expression on his face. Frances had steeled herself against his kiss, but was now aware that his grasp showed no intention of loosening. She drew in a breath to object, but before she could do so Aldeborough placed his hand gently across her lips and shook his head.
‘I must request your pardon if you are displeased. Are you displeased, Frances Rosalind? It seemed to me that we should seal our agreement in a more … ah … intimate manner, even if it is to be a marriage of convenience. What do you say?’
Frances was unable to say anything coherent or sensible and was overcome with a sudden anger both at Aldeborough’s presumption and her own inability to respond with a satisfactory reply that would leave him in no doubt of her opinion of men who forced themselves on defenceless women, even if they had just agreed to marry them.
‘Let me go!’ was all that she could manage and thrust at his shoulders with her hands as she remembered the humiliation of his embrace in the coach. It was to no avail. Her confusion obviously amused Aldeborough for he laughed, tightened his hold further and bent his head to kiss her once more. But this was different. Aldeborough’s mouth was demanding and urgent, melting the resistance in Frances’s blood whether she wished it or not. It was as if he was d
etermined to extract some reaction from her beyond her previous reluctant acceptance. And she was horrified at his success. Her instinct was to resist him with all her strength, but she was far too aware of the lean hardness of his body against hers beneath the thin lawn of his shirt. His hands caressed her hair, her shoulders, sweeping down her back to her waist. Her lips opened beneath the insistent pressure of his and she found herself responding to a surge of emotion, a lick of flame that warmed her skin and spread through every limb. Her hands seemed to move of their own accord, to grasp his shoulders more tightly rather than to push against them … when suddenly she was free. As quickly as Aldeborough had taken possession of her he released her and stepped away.
Frances was left standing alone in a space, feeling strangely bereft and unsure of what to say or do next. Her mind was overwhelmed by the enormity of what she had just done. Could she really have agreed to marry this man against all her previous intentions and heart searching? She felt a chill tremor touch her spine at the prospect. Of course there would be advantages—she knew that. It would remove her finally and irrevocably from her uncle’s authority and without a stain on her reputation. Comfort and luxury would be hers for the asking with a guaranteed entrée into fashionable society. But Marchioness of Aldeborough? She pressed a hand to her lips to suppress a bubble of hysterical laughter that threatened to erupt at the unlikely prospect. And what on earth would his family think? It was all very well for him to deny any difficulty, with typical male arrogance, but she would have to face a mother-in-law who would doubtless see her as a common upstart who had wilfully trapped her son into a disastrous marriage.
A marriage of convenience, he had implied. Very well. He was driven by an impeccable impulse to protect her—as well as the desire for an heir. But she could not quite banish from her mind the leap of fire in her blood when he had kissed her, touched her. It might be a mere legal formality for him, but she was suddenly afraid of her own response. It would be better if she never allowed him to see the effect of his devastating smile on her heart or his elegant hands on her skin. She must never forget that it was duty and honour which drove him, whatever her own feelings might be.
She received no help as she stood, lost in her deliberations. Aldeborough merely stood and watched her quizzically, a faint smile on his lips.
‘I think I should tell you that my uncle will not give his permission for our marriage,’ she managed eventually in a surprisingly calm voice. ‘Will that present us with a problem?’
‘A special licence will solve the matter,’ the Marquis stated, chillingly dismissive. ‘We claim to have a bishop in the family so we may as well make use of him. It can all be arranged discreetly and quickly.’
‘Thank you.’ She swallowed at her presumption. ‘There is just one thing.’
‘What now, Miss Hanwell? You are very difficult to please, but I am sure it will not be an insurmountable problem.’
‘You are laughing at me, my lord. I wish you would not,’ Frances exclaimed crossly. ‘It is just that I will not marry you in this dress.’
‘Then I must do something about it, mustn’t I?’
Frances blinked at the casual acceptance of her demand.
‘I shall need to leave you for a few days to make arrangements,’ he continued. ‘I must ask you to promise that you will not try to run away again.’
‘Or?’ She could not resist the challenge to the implied threat.
‘Or I might have to lock you in your room until I return.’ Frances was left under no illusion that he would do exactly as he said.
‘It is not necessary.’ She sighed, with resignation to a stronger force. ‘I will marry you. I will not run away.’
‘Thank you.’ He tossed off the rest of the brandy in his glass. ‘I am relieved. Go to bed, Miss Hanwell. It has proved to be a long and tiring day, for both of us!’
Chapter Four
‘Aldeborough! At last!’ The voice was as smooth and cool as chilled cream. ‘I have expected you home any time this past week. How could you have missed the Vowchurches’ drum? I understand from Matthew that you have been at the Priory.’
Lady Beatrice, the Dowager Marchioness of Aldeborough, and despising every moment of her loss of influence in the Lafford household since the death of her husband, put aside a piece of embroidery and rose from her chair in her cream-and-gold sitting room. She waited with not even a hint of a smile for Aldeborough to approach, extending an elegant hand in greeting and allowing him to kiss her cheek. She was slim and dark and exquisitely dressed in a cream gown that perfectly complemented her surroundings. It was strikingly obvious from whom Aldeborough had inherited his features and colouring. She had the same cold grey eyes that at present were fixed on Frances, who had entered the room somewhat hesitantly in Aldeborough’s wake.
Aldeborough saluted his mother’s cheek with filial duty and grace, but the lack of affection between them was as clear as her neglect in returning the embrace.
‘And who is this?’
‘I have been at Aldeborough, ma’am, as you are well aware. There was some necessary estate business.’ He turned back to Frances who had apprehensively come to a halt just inside the doorway. ‘I wish to introduce you to Frances, Miss Hanwell.’ He took her hand to draw her further forward into the room. ‘Miss Hanwell, ma’am, is now my wife.’
The silence in the room was deafening. Frances continued to cling to Aldeborough’s hand. She had rarely felt so alone as she did at that moment under the razor-sharp scrutiny. She made a polite curtsy and awaited events with trepidation as her ladyship’s features froze into perplexed disbelief. The temperature dropped to glacial.
‘Forgive me, Hugh.’ Her ladyship ignored Frances. ‘Perhaps I misunderstood? This is your wife?’
‘Indeed, ma’am. We were married three days ago at Aldeborough.’
‘But I had no idea. Who is she?’ Her cold eyes raked Frances in an icy sweep from head to foot and apparently found nothing in the exercise to please her.
‘Her guardian is Viscount Torrington. I met her at Torrington Hall.’
‘Really?’ Her lips thinned. ‘I am afraid that I find this difficult to grasp, Aldeborough. How could you have conducted your marriage in such a clandestine fashion? You might have considered my position. Think of the scandal … the gossip. How will I face Lady Grosmont at her soirée this evening?’ Her face paled with anger as she considered the repercussions. ‘Surely as your mother I could expect a little consideration?’
‘There will be no scandal, ma’am.’ Aldeborough remained coldly aloof and unemotional. ‘If anyone should comment, you will assure them that Frances and I had a … a long-term understanding and we were married quietly in the country for family reasons. The death of a distant relative, if you find the need to give a reason to anyone sufficiently ill mannered to comment.’
‘I will assure them? I do not wish to lend my support in any way to this unfortunate liaison.’
‘I had hoped for more of a welcome for my bride,’ Aldeborough commented gently, with a hint of warning in his quiet voice that his mother chose to ignore.
‘Richard, of course, would always have considered my opinion when making such an important decision in his life. He was always so thoughtful and conscious of his position as the heir. I might have hoped that you—’
‘There is no advantage in pursuing that line of thought,’ Aldeborough interrupted harshly. Frances saw a muscle in his jaw clench and his hold of her hand tightened convulsively, making her draw in her breath.
‘And what of Penelope? What will she think?’
‘What should Miss Vowchurch think? I cannot see what my marriage has to do with her.’ He was once more in command, his fingers relaxing their grip.
‘It has everything to do with her, of course. She has been expecting an offer from you. After Richard’s death it was understood—’
‘I am afraid that it was not understood by me. I have never given Miss Vowchurch any indication that I would make
her an offer of marriage.’
‘It has always been understood between our families. You must know that after Richard died you took no formal steps to end the connection.’ Lady Aldeborough was implacable, refusing to let the matter rest. ‘And now you have married this … this person. Who is she?’
Frances looked on as if she were watching a scene in a play at which she was a mere observer with no role for herself. There was clearly little love lost between Aldeborough and his mother and she herself was now provoking another issue between them. A bleak wave of despair swept over her to add to the weariness. After she had spent three days alone at Aldeborough Priory, the Marquis had returned and she had been thrown into a flurry of activity. First her marriage, followed immediately by three days of exhausting travel to reach London. And now this. How foolish she had been to hope that Lady Aldeborough might accept this sordid arrangement with equanimity. Indeed, it was even worse than she had anticipated. She wished Aldeborough had given her some warning. Obviously he had seen no need to do so, which depressed her even further.
‘A penniless nobody who has trapped you into marriage.’ Her ladyship was continuing her diatribe as if Frances was not present. ‘How could you! Is there no way this marriage could be annulled? Or dissolved?’ Lady Aldeborough’s face was white with anger.
A delicate flush stained Frances’s cheeks. With the haste and inconvenience of the journey following immediately after their marriage, there had been neither opportunity nor, it would appear, inclination for intimate relations between herself and the Marquis. For which, all things considered, she was heartily relieved. But would he betray her to his mother?
‘No, Mother. It is not possible. Your suggestion is insulting in the extreme to both Frances and myself. I think you should consider what you’re saying before you speak again.’ Aldeborough turned towards Frances, his face a polite mask. ‘Forgive me, Frances. I wish I could have spared you this, but it had to be faced.’ He led her to a chair by the window looking over the square. ‘Perhaps if you would sit here for a little while …’
