by Anne O'Brien
‘I won’t tell you. It was between the two of us. And Aunt May, of course.’
‘Lord. There’s never a dull moment. And you drove round the Park?’
‘Yes.’
‘That would set the tongues wagging! Would it upset you if I said that I would rather Mrs Winter did not become a particular acquaintance of yours?’
‘No. I can understand how uncomfortable it would be,’ she agreed drily. He could not mistake the mischievous gleam in her eye. ‘Letitia said exactly the same thing. I suppose it would be quite improper.’
‘Not prudent, certainly.’
‘And you would not want me to discuss you with your mistress.’
‘No, I would not. And she is not my mistress!’
‘No. Letitia said that as well.’
‘Damnation, Frances! We should not be having this conversation. Come here.’
He had one intention. He was already hard for her and he would assuage his need and his guilt by making love to her with all the tenderness he could aspire to. He would make it beautiful for her, wipe away the memory of Charles and the ugly fears of that dark room in St James’s Square. He drew back the heavy curtains to allow the moonlight to flood the room and gild their naked bodies. His touch feathered, lingered, enticed, no pressure of time or fulfilment. He would take all the time she needed to feel beautiful and loved. He pleasured her with lips, teeth, tongue, teasing her nipples into hard peaks of desire. When he lifted her above him, easily, effortlessly, the sight of her took his breath away. Shoulders, breasts, the curve of her hips all highlighted in soft moonlight, her hollows and secret places shadowed and mysterious. He lowered her on to him, slowly, filling her with his desire and power.
He let her set the pace and depth, glorying in her lack of self-consciousness. She was quick to learn, arching her body back with innate grace and elegance, no shyness, no need to hide herself from his deliberate gaze. Her mouth, when she leaned down to take his, was soft and seductive, the swollen lips parting to allow him to plunder her sweet mouth. In that moment she was totally alluring and he shuddered with suppressed desire, determined to rule his emotions until her satisfaction was complete. When he was unable to guarantee his control any longer, he reversed their positions, pinning her to the bed, still deep inside her. She moved fluidly to echo his every move, his every thrust. She was perfection. When he could withstand her enchantment no longer, he shuddered to his own climax, her name on his lips.
For Frances it was a moment of pure revelation. She felt that her whole body throbbed with love for him and for the gift that he gave her that night. His hands and body wove a mystery for her, layer upon layer of delicious sensation. The beauty of it moved her to tears, which spangled on her lashes and cheeks in the moonlight. She surrendered totally to his caresses, to his movements, no reticence, no withdrawal. Even when he lifted her to straddle him so that he could fill her deeply, she drew in her breath, shocked at first, and then began to move to give him pleasure as well as herself. She leaned forward to cover his face with kisses. His throat, the knotted muscles of his shoulders, the broad planes of his chest.
The shimmering light granted her the freedom to express her love for him in the unspoken language of languorous caresses, delicate touches. She clung to him, moved with him, opened her thighs and arched her hips for him. Her lips were tender from his kisses, her eyes dark as midnight and luminous as the stars, her breasts sensitive to his every touch. When he finally thrust hard and deep she absorbed the shocks, revelling in the slide of sweat-slicked skin on skin. Her own release, an explosion of the heat that had gathered in her belly to flash through her blood with all the power and brilliance of a shooting star, shook her to the core so that she cried out before she lay in his arms and trembled in the aftermath of sensation.
She fell into exhausted sleep, leaving him to look at her serene face with an emotion approaching incredulity. The wide generous mouth, the straight nose. Eyebrows dark and a little heavy. She looked very young and vulnerable and enchantingly beautiful. Against all intentions he had fallen in love. He swallowed the sudden obstruction in his throat as the realisation struck him with the physical force of a blow to the stomach. When on earth had this happened? And yet it seemed to him that he had been waiting to love her all his life. He would give her everything in his power. Protection, security, comfort.
His conscience battered him with the memory of her abduction and the bullet embedded in the Chinese Bridge. But he would do better. Without disturbing her he stroked her hair where it curled down on to her breast. And the burden of his love need not be too great for her. She need never know. Except through his actions, which would probably be clear to anyone who cared to look closely enough, or believe it possible. Which she never would. But whatever happened in the future, whatever the outcome between himself and Charles, he would remember this night for ever. It would have to be enough.
‘It is not possible for me to simply close the door and turn the key on these events, Frances.’
Aldeborough prowled across the library, resolution governing every line of his body. ‘I know he is your cousin and I know you would rather forget about the whole affair and believe that it is over and he will never trouble you again. But it is not finished. You have to accept that he is dangerous—a real threat—and the only way to stop him is to make his crimes public and so discredit him. I will not have him intimidate you again. I could not live with that fear overshadowing us.’
Frances studied her hands, her dark brows drawn together as she considered his words. ‘Very well.’ She raised her eyes to his, a troubled frown still marring her smooth forehead. ‘But what about you? Will it put you in danger?’ She rose from her seat in the window embrasure to lay her hand on his arm. ‘I couldn’t bear it, Hugh.’
‘I will be in no danger. You will have to trust me.’ He covered her hand with his own and smiled down at her with a tenderness that made her heart race and the blood rush to stain her cheeks with delicate colour.
‘What will you do?’ She strove for calm and normality in her tone.
‘My first task is to make contact with Charles. It should not be too difficult.’
‘Will he have gone back to Yorkshire, do you think?’
‘I do not think so and I am prepared to gamble on that. I think he will be waiting to see what my next move will be. He has too much to lose if he gives up now and buries himself at Torrington Hall. There is nothing there for him—except poverty and isolation from polite society. I am confident that he will stay in town.’ He clasped her hands tightly. ‘You must stay here with Juliet and Aunt May. You must not go out alone. Do you understand?’
‘But I do not see how I can be in any danger!’
‘Give me your word, Frances!’
‘I suppose I must.’ There was no arguing against the firm command.
‘I know how hard it is for you to do so. But I have to know that you are safe.’ His grim expression relaxed to be replaced by a reminiscent smile. ‘You were able to give me your word once before.’
‘Yes. But only because you threatened to lock me in my bedchamber for a week. I did not feel that you had given me any choice!’ Frances smiled at the memory. ‘But, yes, I promise. I will not go anywhere alone.’
Aldeborough bent his head to brush her mouth gently with his own. He raised his head to search her face, his eyes fiercely possessive. Then he lifted her hand and pressed his lips against her soft palm, closing her fingers over the caress.
‘God keep you.’
He strode out of the room, leaving Frances to press her palm with its searing imprint against her heart.
Aldeborough left the house dressed for an evening at his club. First he called at Torrington’s address in St James’s Square, to be informed by a disinterested but informative footman that Mr Hanwell was not at home, but was expected back later that evening. No, he thought that Mr Hanwell had no specific invitation for that evening. Perhaps he intended to dine and then visit his club?
Aldeborough stopped off first at White’s, his own club. He was hailed by a number of acquaintances, but refused an invitation to join in a hand of whist when he saw that Charles was not present. Ambrose was, having lately returned from his uncle’s estate, and he elected to accompany Aldeborough. He received no satisfactory explanation as to why Hugh needed to find Charles Hanwell so urgently, knowing nothing of the events of the previous day, but he was not deterred. He was struck by the controlled passion in Aldeborough’s eyes and decided that it did not bode well for Hanwell. On the off chance that he might have put in an appearance at Brooks’s, they strolled across St James’s Street, but again with no success. They tried Boodle’s, where Charles might have decided to dine, but again they drew a blank. This left a number of gaming establishments, notorious for their high stakes and wild play. Aldeborough sighed and began what looked like an exhausting and frustrating night.
At Storridge’s in Pall Mall, one of the first people he saw at the faro table was Matthew. Aldeborough raised an eyebrow in some surprise, moving quietly to stand behind him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘I will not ask what you are doing here,’ he murmured in his ear and stayed to watch as his brother finished the hand somewhat self-consciously and promptly lost.
‘I was winning until you arrived,’ Matthew retorted as he threw down the cards in disgust, but had the grace to look a little sheepish.
‘How much have you lost? No, don’t tell me. Perhaps I should let you go to Spain. I would worry about you less. Have you seen Charles Hanwell tonight?’
‘No. I suppose you have tried all the usual places? I will not ask why you want him, although I think I can guess.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Have you tried the new establishment a few doors along? Very discreet. And expensive, I am told. Too rich for me.’
‘Despite his lack of funds, it sounds the sort of place Hanwell would frequent. Will you come?’
The hour was late when they were shown in to the discreet establishment by a black-clad footman. The club was still quiet, but there were sufficient gamblers to allow games of Macao and faro to be under way.
There, involved in a game of whist, was Charles Hanwell. He looked pale and hollow-eyed, but otherwise none the worse for wear considering his injury of the previous night. Any bruising from Frances’s well-aimed statuette was hidden by his hair. He was laughing, indulging in some light witticisms with his partner, Lord Belmont, a glass of port at his side. Sir John Masters, always a keen gambler, threw down his hand of cards in disgust, and on seeing Aldeborough approach, raised his hand in greeting.
‘Come and join us, Aldeborough. You might change my run of bad luck.’
‘I doubt it.’ Aldeborough picked up the discarded cards and grimaced at the poor hand. ‘I would call it a night if I were you.’
Charles Hanwell raised his eyes to fix them on Aldeborough standing before him, flanked by Matthew and Ambrose.
Perhaps he grew a little paler, but he clearly decided to brazen out the situation. He greeted Aldeborough with false conviviality.
‘Good evening, Aldeborough. Come to play a hand of cards?’ His lips twisted in sardonic malice. ‘Or perhaps you prefer dice?’
‘I have no preference.’ Aldeborough replied lightly but his eyes were bleak and icy as they rested on his wife’s abductor. ‘Other than who I play with, of course.’
‘I cannot pretend to understand you, my lord.’ Hanwell looked at Aldeborough speculatively, considering the direction of the conversation. Aldeborough was obviously here for a purpose but he would be prepared to gamble on the fact that the Marquis was unlikely to do or say anything to harm his wife’s reputation.
‘I am sure you do. Unless you have a very short memory for events of last night?’
Charles inhaled sharply. So. He had been wrong. This was to be a confrontation. On the attack, he took up the challenge with his next words.
‘I am surprised that I am worthy of your interest, Aldeborough. I have little money. You saw to that when you abducted my cousin, who should have been my wife, and so ruined myself and my father.’ The deliberate venom behind the words had the other gamblers around the table shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Aldeborough circled the table to take a vacant seat opposite Hanwell as if his intention were indeed to play.
‘I have reason to believe that your cousin is more than satisfied with the outcome of that night.’ His tone was still light, conciliatory. ‘Your father was certainly not wise in his gambling on her inheritance to put your estate to rights. Perhaps you will be more successful.’ Aldeborough shrugged. ‘But perhaps I should warn you. My luck is in at present.’
‘I know. I backed against your horse at Newmarket!’ Sir John Masters added with a grimace. ‘And lost.’
‘You have the devil’s own luck, haven’t you?’ Hanwell sneered.
‘Yes. I believe I do.’
‘Perhaps it is time it ran out.’ Hanwell lifted the wine glass to his lips, his expression set as he determined to push events to a definite conclusion one way or the other. He disliked the impression of cat and mouse, with himself as the tormented rodent.
‘Why would you think that? Are you ill wishing me? We are family, after all. Are we not, Charles?’
Aldeborough raised his hand to summon a passing footman with a tray of claret, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on Hanwell.
‘I think you are the one out of luck,’ he continued. ‘I spoiled your plan for keeping the heiress for yourself, for marrying her against her wishes and against her best interests. And, as I understand, she played her own imaginative role—only last night—in escaping from your clutches.’
A fascinated audience now concentrated on every word, watching the faces of both men.
‘But does your wife realise,’ Hanwell took a rapid decision in an attempt to deflect any further detrimental revelations, ‘that since her marriage to you her life has been put at risk? There have been too many incidents, haven’t there, Aldeborough? Is it your intention to get rid of her? After all, your brother met an untimely death too, didn’t he? And that was an accident. Or was it? We are all aware that the unfortunate occurrence was very much to your advantage.’
Silence fell on the room, all ears tuned to the outcome of such provocation, horror registering on many faces. But a sense of relief flashed momentarily into Aldeborough’s eyes. Charles had taken the bait.
‘No … look, man … you can’t say things like that! … Richard Lafford’s death was an accident … He broke his neck … There is no blame …’ A dozen voices broke the lull.
‘Well, Charles?’ The smile on Aldeborough’s face was not pleasant.
‘It is common knowledge that Richard Lafford’s death handed a title and a fortune to Aldeborough, isn’t it?’ Hanwell looked round the circle of incredulous faces for support.
‘I would suggest that an accident would seem far too coincidental.’
‘No! You will withdraw such slander.’ Matthew, previously a silent spectator of his brother’s campaign, leaned across to grasp Hanwell by his cravat and almost drag him from his seat.
Aldeborough stretched out a hand to restrain Matthew. ‘Leave it, Matthew,’ he ordered gently. ‘Let me finish this.’ He turned back to Charles with deliberate intent, and lowered his voice.
‘It is true. I certainly gained financially from my brother’s death. But I would find no advantage in my wife’s death, would I? I trust you know the terms of her mother’s will—of her inheritance? Of course you do! There is only one person here who would gain if my wife died now. And that is you in the long term. Her fortune would go by default to your father, and thus to you. I think the incidents, as you term them, have more to do with you than with me.’
‘How dare you! How dare you try to blacken my reputation with ill-founded accusations?’ Charles’s voice rose as panic crept in, but he kept his eyes fixed on Aldeborough like a rabbit on a hunting eagle.
‘It was your choice to discuss
this unsavoury affair in public.’
‘Pushed into it by you!’
‘Then let me push a little harder, Cousin Charles.’
Aldeborough picked up his untouched glass of claret as if to raise it to his lips—and flung the contents in Hanwell’s face. As the blood-red liquid dripped from Charles’s furious and shocked features on to his coat and shirt, he leapt to his feet, prepared to fling himself at his tormentor, only to be restrained by those who stood nearest.
‘You will meet me for this, my lord Aldeborough,’ he snarled.
‘Do you think so?’
Matthew put a restraining hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘No. Don’t take the challenge. He’s too drunk to know what he’s saying.’
‘Are you too drunk, Hanwell?’ Aldeborough enquired gently. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘No. You know I am not. Do you accept the charge of cowardice and murder? Or do you accept my challenge?’
‘Of course I take your challenge.’ Aldeborough’s lips curved to show his teeth in a smile, all the more deadly because of its complete absence of humour and the satisfaction that his plan had worked. ‘You know I never refuse a challenge. I will meet you with utmost satisfaction. Perhaps your seconds would care to discuss arrangements with mine. Matthew? Ambrose? If I might suggest, Hanwell, it would be wise to choose your seconds from the gentlemen present.’ He looked round the expectant faces, anticipating the nods of acceptance. ‘It would not be politic to broadcast the content of our … disagreement.’
‘It shall all be arranged.’ Ambrose shook off his astonishment at the rapid turn of events—he must discover from Matthew what exactly had occurred in his absence—and found his voice again. ‘With all speed. This affair should be settled quickly to prevent further gossip.’ He had never known his friend to act with such deliberate provocation.
Aldeborough nodded in agreement. ‘Until tomorrow, then. Seven o’clock. The Archer’s Field.’
He inclined his head abruptly to Hanwell and the assembled company and left, well satisfied with the events of the night, oblivious to the reaction that immediately erupted behind him.
