The Runaway Heiress

by Anne O'Brien

  Aldeborough, unaware of his wife’s troubled mind, was formal and elegant in black satin knee breeches and swallow-tailed coat as demanded by Brummel’s stringent rules and was surprisingly amenable when chivvied by Juliet at his willingness to squire them rather than spend an evening with his cronies. It suited him to keep Frances under his eye. He could not envisage any harm coming to her here in London, surrounded by his family, but he was not prepared to take the risk. Besides, he had some delicate unfinished business to complete, and he believed that Almack’s would provide him with the opportunity.

  It gave Frances the chance to renew acquaintances. It was all most satisfying. The Countess of Wigmore invited her to take tea one afternoon in the coming week. Lady Vowchurch and Penelope smiled condescendingly and Miss Vowchurch, after stating how much they had been missed, expressed her relief that Frances and Aldeborough had escaped the frightening attack by common footpads. And was it true that Frances had been thrown from her horse when at the Priory? How terrifying for her! It all went to show that life was far safer in town, as her mother always insisted.

  Frances accepted the expressions of concern with grace, brushing off any suggestion that she had been in great danger and making light of the whole affair. But she had to admit that she was quite touched by such solicitude and consideration for her safety.

  She was surprised to see Charles in evidence. He had expressed no intention of being in town and she had not thought that Almack’s would have held any attraction for him. He acknowledged her presence with a curt bow, unsmiling face and as brief a greeting as family connection could allow without comment. Gone was the easy smile, the professed concern, to be replaced by a hard-edged stare and stony face. He clearly considered her accusations as an insult, she thought, but her suspicions remained as strong as ever. Charles did not ask her to dance, for which she felt considerable relief. She saw nothing of his tall figure after the first hour and presumed that he had taken himself off to more congenial haunts.

  Aldeborough danced with Penelope, smiling down into her lovely face. Frances averted her eyes and concentrated on some trivial conversation with her own partner in the country dance.

  During the evening, after a particularly energetic quadrille and a less than skilful partner, it became necessary for Juliet to repair some damage to one of her flounces. Frances agreed to accompany her, to catch her breath and to help in the pinning of the torn material in one of the small anterooms that provided some degree of privacy. On their return to join a country dance set, which was just forming, Frances heard a voice that she had no difficulty in recognising and had her instantly rooted to the spot.

  ‘How can I possibly thank you, Letitia. It was an imposition that you could easily have refused. I would not have blamed you in the circumstances.’

  The answering feminine laugh was low and seductive. ‘I am sure I will think of something in recompense. It is not often that I receive such requests, as you might imagine.’

  Frances turned to the open doorway of a similar antechamber to the one she and Juliet had just made use of. She felt the blood drain from her face and her fingers clutched her fan to the imminent danger of the ivory carving. There, as she knew she would, she saw Letitia Winters, seated on a silk brocade sofa, the Marquis seated beside her, the palm of her hand pressed to his lips. As she continued to stand, silently, rigidly, Juliet equally motionless at her side, Aldeborough raised his head and took a small package from his pocket which he pressed into Letitia’s hand where his kiss had been.

  ‘I certainly owe you this,’ she heard him say in a low voice, a familiar heartstopping smile lighting his face.

  ‘I am always pleased to be of service, my lord.’ Letitia, laughing up at him, tucked the package into her reticule and tapped his cheek playfully with her fan.

  Frances discovered that she could not breathe and then realised that it was because she was holding her breath. She made a small involuntary movement that caught the attention of the intimate couple and they looked up towards the open door. Frances read guilt into their frozen silence. It was her worst nightmare. No sooner were they back in town, regardless of what had occurred between them at the Priory, than Aldeborough had to make contact with That Woman at his first opportunity. No wonder he had been so willing to attend them that night. She would have stepped forward, with what purpose in mind she was not sure, but she became aware of Juliet’s hand descending with a firm hold on her arm.

  ‘Let us return to the ballroom, dear Frances,’ Juliet murmured in a calm voice. ‘We are promised for this dance and will be missed.’

  Frances turned her head to see a mixture of shock and sympathy in her friend’s eyes and felt the tightening of her fingers around her wrist as she made to resist. ‘Indeed, it would be better if we left now.’

  Compulsively, even knowing that it would increase the pain in her heart, Frances turned back to the scene before her. Aldeborough had released Letitia’s hand and risen to his feet. He took two steps towards her, a frown between his brows, his eyes unfathomable. She could not look away. The tension arcing between them, holding them in thrall, was so intense that Frances could almost taste it, bitter and sharp. Juliet and Letitia were silent and motionless. She and Aldeborough might have been alone in the room.

  Again and again in her mind was replayed the scene of him, his head bent over Letitia’s hand, his lips pressed to her palm in an intimate caress, his eyes smiling down into hers. The hurt stabbed at her heart with the terrible accuracy of a rapier. Had all his tenderness at the Priory, all his care, been a lie? Had he been thinking of Letitia Winters all the time, even when he caressed her and caused her body to tremble in uncontrolled response against him, when his mouth and hands had roused such glorious sensations that she had forgotten all else and surrendered to him? She could not bear it. She had begun to trust him and he had broken that trust—and with it her heart. Why had she ever thought that he was a man on whom she could lean, a man who would accept all the love and adoration she was capable of, and perhaps even return it? Charles had been so right. How foolish she had been. A wave of humiliation crept over her and she felt the telltale colour stain her cheeks.

  All Aldeborough could see was the depth of hurt and misery in her eyes, on her face, before she hid it with a down-sweep of her lashes and a tightening of her lips. What impossible timing! He knew what Frances must think, but here was no time or place to explain. Yet all he wished to do was to take her into his arms, hold her close and soothe away the sorrow, the terrible emptiness. The problem was, he realised, they had too much power to hurt one another. He had not realised it, but would have to consider it carefully in his dealings with her.

  He moved towards her, hand outstretched. ‘Frances?’

  She deliberately turned on her heel without a word. What more did he expect? She walked back towards the dancing, spine rigid, head held high, pride pinning a smile to her lips to hide her grief-torn heart.

  Frances passed a wakeful night, only falling into a restless sleep as the sky brightened before dawn. She awoke with a headache, low spirits and a strong desire to hide under the bedclothes. She resisted such a cowardly retreat and sat before her mirror at her dressing table, too aware of her pale complexion and the violet shadows beneath her eyes. How dare Aldeborough consort so openly with Letitia Winters, when all the haute ton at Almack’s would be watching and speculating, eager for gossip to enliven their shallow existence? Dancing with her in public was one thing, but an intimate conversation in a private room, which involved him kissing her hand and presenting her with a gift! She flung her hairbrush crossly on to the floor and rose to pace the room. But Mrs Winters was so beautiful, so alluring. Of course Aldeborough would prefer her vibrant, golden-haired company to that of his countrified, undistinguished wife—wouldn’t he? Hadn’t he agreed with her that she had no talents to excite interest? She wasn’t even fit to be a governess, let alone Marchioness of Aldeborough! Frances sniffed in a deluge of unusual self-pity.

&
nbsp; And yet, she mused, Aldeborough had not seemed to be totally indifferent to her. She remembered the caress of his mouth on hers, the drift of his hands over her skin. She shivered and longed to be held in his arms again, to feel his lips ignite fire in her blood so that she forgot everything but his touch.

  I love him, she acknowledged. She shrugged hopelessly. She couldn’t deny it any longer. But she also had to accept that he did not love her. Sometimes he wanted her. But he did not love her. What a fool she had been to hope for more. And how could she have had so little pride. She had surrendered to his demands, had sighed beneath him, smoothing the flat planes of his back and shoulders, allowing him such intimacies that she blushed at the memory. And he had betrayed her with Letitia Winters. And not only that, he had danced with Penelope Vowchurch, and they both had appeared to enjoy it immensely! For once Penelope’s lovely face had glowed with genuine happiness as she had smiled up into Aldeborough’s eyes. Fury warred with desolation within her. She had not heard him return home last night, even though she had lain awake listening for the click of his door. It must have been very late—if at all! Tears began to slide down her cheeks. She would not let him see that his rejection reduced her to such straits. She brushed them away, but they were quickly replaced by others. She would show him that she did not care where he spent his time—or with whom he spent his nights.

  Aldeborough groaned inwardly when he came face to face with Frances in the library around midday. He had had far too little sleep. It had been a mistake to go on to White’s after Almack’s, even though the night had been relatively young. He had drunk too much brandy, lost too much money and his head ached abominably. He knew he deserved it. He had hoped, in a cowardly fashion, as he was the first to admit, that he would not meet Frances until she had had a chance to cool down. It was his own fault. But he had needed to speak to Letitia and it was remiss of him not to have done so previously. He was in her debt. How was he to know that Frances would walk in on them at just that moment in a secluded alcove when, to all intents and purposes, he was indulging in intense communication with his mistress. The fact that he was no longer her lover and had not been since his marriage would make no difference. Frances would have been well informed by gossip and could not be expected to believe otherwise. Aldeborough felt ill used but resigned.

  He could not forget the expression on Frances’s face. Horror at first, disbelief even, and then contempt and a terrible hurt. He felt wretched at having been the cause. He should have come home with her, talked to her, tried to put it right. And he had not. He had retreated from the prospect of an emotionally charged conversation with a tired and incredulous wife. Nor, he had to admit to himself, had he enjoyed the open disapproval in his sister’s face when she accompanied Frances back to the dancing. He would rather lead an attack in the siege of Badajoz. He despised himself as much as Frances probably did.

  In the library he was left in no doubt of her mood.

  ‘Good morning, my lord. I trust you slept well.’ The formality chilled his blood.

  His worst fears were realised. She had taken considerable care with her morning toilette. Her curls had been artfully arranged to fall in casual, shining ringlets on to her shoulders, tempting a man to release them into wild profusion. Her morning dress, which might have been deliberately chosen to enhance the sapphire of her eyes, was a creation in pale blue muslin. It was cut fashionably low across the bosom and, although it had demure long sleeves and a frilled neckline, its fragile fabric clung to her body and revealed her feminine curves. She might look exceptionally fragile and feminine, but the bright, brittle edge in her voice and in her smile cut him like a knife and he recognised the light of battle in those sapphire eyes. How on earth was he to explain his mistress to his wife? If Frances was more sophisticated she would merely pretend the situation did not exist. Or that it did not matter. But Aldeborough had to accept that, increasingly, anything that made Frances unhappy did matter deeply to his own state of mind. He was finding it increasingly difficult to keep her out of his thoughts.

  ‘Thank you. Yes,’ he lied. ‘And you?’

  ‘Perfectly well. I was looking for the Morning Post. I thought it would be in here. Have you seen it?’ She was cool and composed, with the aura of an iceberg. She deliberately avoided any eye contact, rather focused on a point just above his head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I will go and ask Aunt May. Wellington has probably chewed it up by now. I am sorry to have disturbed you.’ She moved purposefully round him to the door, her back straight, her chin high.

  He had to stop her. ‘Frances!’

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  He gritted his teeth at her deliberate and distant formality. ‘I plan to go to Newmarket—I have a horse running that is well fancied. Will you come with me? Colbourne is organising a house party on his estate in Suffolk. You will know many people there and you might enjoy it.’

  Her eyes met his at last. He wished they had not, then he would not have seen the contempt in them. There was a tiny pause as she contemplated her reply.

  ‘How kind of you to invite me. I think I prefer to stay in town.’ She would not even make an excuse of previous engagements. He could make of it what he wished.

  ‘I see.’ His mouth hardened into a straight line. ‘Can I say nothing to persuade you?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Her chin rose higher in direct challenge.

  He chose not to rise to it, but regarded her through narrowed eyes. ‘I shall be gone a few days, possibly until the end of the week. I could wish that you would come with me.’

  ‘Really, my lord? You must do as you see fit, of course.’ And probably spend the time with Letitia Winters, she thought. ‘I have no demands on your time. We both have our own lives to lead.’

  So it was war.

  ‘Come here, Frances Rosalind.’ Aldeborough belatedly took up the challenge: it was clear in his eyes and in his stance as he held out his hand, palm up, in command.

  Frances approached him. Outwardly her self-assurance held. Inwardly she quaked. She must not give way now! She put her hand in his and allowed him to draw her inexorably towards him. Her eyes were trapped by the unassailable force in his and she was unable to look away.

  He encircled her waist with one arm, releasing her hand to wind his fingers into her hair to hold her imprisoned. His touch was not particularly gentle. With deliberate intent he covered her mouth with his, lightly at first and then with increasing pressure as he felt her resistance. He angled his head to capture her lips completely, no tenderness here but deliberate possession. She stood stiffly in his embrace, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a response, but she failed miserably. His kiss was thorough, demanding, scalding. He forced her lips apart so that his tongue could invade, creating impossible sensations of heat and need. She could not suppress a sigh as delicious tremors flooded through her and she clung to him for support.

  He retreated and raised his head once more to challenge her. His eyes were still calculating, but with a fire in their depths that seared her. ‘If it was a declaration of war, Frances Rosalind, then you should be prepared for battle.’

  ‘I thought I was,’ she managed to gasp.

  ‘Then show me,’ he demanded before he renewed his assault. She could not deny him, indeed, she did not wish to do so. His teeth scraped her lower lip and his tongue once again plundered her mouth with an arrogant assurance that she would respond with equal fervour. And she did. For as her mind resisted, her body betrayed her. He tightened his arms around her, crushing her breasts against him, holding her thighs immobile against his. She was intensely aware of the power of his hard, muscular body against hers and trembled in longing.

  ‘Hugh!’ she whispered his name against his mouth. He merely changed his assault to her throat, her shoulders, her breast where the frail muslin revealed her soft skin, covering them with burning kisses that sent thrills of anticipation through her veins. She tightened her fingers in his hair, eyes closed,
surrendering to his demands.

  Suddenly she was free.

  She opened her eyes, disorientated. He had released her and stepped back. The expression on his handsome face was enigmatic, his mouth set in a firm line as if he might be displeased with her.

  ‘Come with me to Newmarket.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am sorry I cannot persuade you, Frances Rosalind. It seems that we must exist for a few days without each other. As you so correctly observed, we have our own lives to lead.’ He inclined his head curtly. ‘Forgive me. I appear to have disordered your hair. I am sure you can remedy it. Goodbye, my lady.’

  He left, closing the door quietly behind him. He would like to have slammed it, but refused to give himself the satisfaction.

  Frances stood where he had left her, one hand pressed to her tender lips, the other to her heart, whose rapid beating was threatening to choke her. The tears that she had refused to shed in his presence threatened to spill from her eyelashes. She wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him. And he could never be hers.

  Outside the door, Aldeborough cursed himself silently, his hands clenched into fists. All he had done was make a bad situation worse. And he was left with the memory of the softness of her lips as they opened beneath his, the perfume of her hair filling his senses and the way her body, every curve and hollow, fitted perfectly against his. What the hell had been his motive? To punish her? To satisfy his own need for her? What an abject failure that had been! All he had done was rouse his body to a raging hunger to possess her, when what he truly desired was for her to look at him with love and trust in those glorious eyes, to turn into the shelter of his arms and rest there against his heart. Anything but the terrible desolation he had left her with.