The Runaway Heiress. Anne O'Brien

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