The Runaway Heiress. Anne O'Brien

considering the wisdom of her actions—anything to escape from Torrington Hall, a callously contrived marriage and the never-ending authority of her uncle. A means of escape had been offered and she had leapt to grasp it with both hands. But at what cost? Frances found that her tired brain could come to no conclusion at all. She touched her cold fingers to her mouth, which still burned from a stranger’s unwanted kisses.

      Chapter Two

      Aldeborough was woken by Webster, his valet, drawing back the heavy brocade curtains of his bedroom. The sun streamed in, indicating the hour to be well advanced, but the Marquis, in exquisite suffering, merely groaned and pulled the sheet over his head.

      ‘It is almost noon, my lord. I have brought your hot water.’ Webster ignored a second groan and set about collecting his lordship’s clothes from where he had carelessly discarded them on the floor.

      Aldeborough struggled back on to the pillows, clasping his hands to his skull. ‘Oh, God! What time did I arrive home last night?’

      ‘I couldn’t say, my lord. Your instructions were, if you recall, that I should not wait up for you. I presume that Benson put you to bed, my lord.’

      Aldeborough grimaced. ‘Yes. I remember.’ He winced at the memory of his coachman’s less than gentle ministrations as he had manhandled him through the door and up the main staircase. He sat up, gasping at the instant throb of pain behind his eyes. ‘What a terrible evening. What possessed me to spend it with Torrington’s set? If it hadn’t been for Ambrose’s powers of persuasion, I would not have gone back there.’

      ‘No, my lord. Very wise, if I might say so. Which clothes shall I lay out for you today, my lord?’ Webster had served Aldeborough for many years, since before his recent inheritance of the title when, as Captain Lord Hugh Lafford, he had fought with some distinction in the Peninsular Campaign, and thus his valet knew better than to indulge in trivial conversation after a night of hard drinking. Not that the Marquis had drunk quite so much or as often then, he mused. But things had changed, particularly since Lord Richard had died.

      The Marquis took a cup of coffee from Webster and sipped cautiously as his brain began to function again amidst the lingering effects of brandy. ‘I have appointments on the estate today with Kington. Buckskins, top boots and the dark blue coat, I think.’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’ Webster coughed discreetly. The Marquis, well used to his valet’s mannerisms, raised an eyebrow enquiringly, wincing at the effort.

      ‘Mrs Scott has instructed me to tell you that the young lady has breakfasted and is now waiting your lordship’s convenience in the library.’

      Webster enjoyed the resulting silence.

      ‘Who?’ Aldeborough’s voice was ominously calm.

      ‘The young lady, my lord. Who accompanied you home last night.’ Webster carefully avoided looking in Aldeborough’s direction.

      ‘My God! I had forgotten. The kitchen wench. I remember remarkably little about the whole of last night!’ he admitted ruefully, running his fingers through his dishevelled hair. But enough of his memory returned like the kick of a stallion to fill his mind with horror. ‘Is she still here?’

      ‘Yes and no, my lord, in a manner of speaking.’ Webster kept the smile from his face.

      Aldeborough frowned and then lifted a dark eloquent eyebrow.

      ‘Yes, she is still here, my lord. But, no, she is not a kitchen wench. She is quite unquestionably a lady.’

      ‘I see.’ There was a long pause. ‘I was drunk.’

      ‘Yes, my lord. Mrs Scott thought it best that the lady remain until you had risen. She was most intent on leaving the Priory, but had not the means.’

      Aldeborough flung back the bedclothes, ignoring the clutches of his towering headache.

      ‘Thank you, Webster. I know I can always rely on you to impart bad news gently! Kindly tell—I can’t remember her name!—the young lady that I will have the pleasure of waiting on her in half an hour.’

      ‘Yes, my lord,’ and Webster shut the door quietly behind him.

      Only a little after thirty minutes later the Marquis quietly opened the door into his library. In spite of the speed, he was immaculately turned out, from his impeccable buckskins to his superbly cut coat of dark blue superfine. His top boots were polished to glossy perfection and the arrangement of his cravat reflected the hand of a master. His hair was now brushed into a fashionable windswept disarray à la Titus. He was perhaps a little pale with a distinct crease between his brows, the only indication of the excesses of the previous night. For a moment he stood motionless, perfectly in control, his cold grey gaze sweeping the room.

      At first it appeared to be empty, but then he saw that the lady awaiting him was seated at his desk in the window embrasure. Her back was to the light, the sun creating a golden halo round her dark hair. It made a pleasing picture surrounded as she was by polished wood, richly tooled leather volumes filling the shelves, heavy velvet curtains and Turkey carpets in deep reds and blues covering the floors. The furniture was old, acquired by earlier generations of Laffords, heavily carved oak chairs and sidetables with no pretence to elegance or fashion. A fire crackled and spat in the vast fireplace to give an air of warmth and welcome. It was his preferred room at the Priory and he rarely shared it with anyone. But now he was faced with an uncomfortable interview with a lady who had somehow involved him in a scandalous escapade that was none of his making. The lady’s face was in shadow, but he could see that she had borrowed a pen and was concentrating on a sheet of paper before her. As he watched, the lady, still unaware of his presence, and completely oblivious to the magnificence of her surroundings, threw the pen down with a despairing sigh and buried her face in her hands.

      He closed the door quietly behind him and walked forward towards her. Hastily she raised her head and, with a guilty start, rose to her feet to stand slim and straight before him. Against his better judgement, he bowed slightly, and instantly regretted it.

      ‘Good morning, ma’am. I trust you slept well.’

      ‘Yes, my lord. Forgive me …’ she indicated the pen and paper ‘… I was only—’

      Aldeborough shook his head and drew in his breath sharply. ‘My housekeeper has looked after you?’

      ‘She has been very kind.’

      ‘You have breakfasted, I trust?’

      ‘Thank you, yes.’

      Aldeborough abandoned the banal in exasperation and some self-disgust. ‘Damnation, ma’am! This is a most unfortunate situation!’ He swung round to pace over to the windows, which opened onto the stone-flagged terrace, and stared out over the park with a heavy frown between his eyes. The silence stretched between them, but he could think of no constructive comment. He turned his head to see that she was still standing in the same place, very pale with faint shadows beneath her eyes and tension in every line of her body. And on her cheekbone flared the vivid discoloration of a bruise.

      ‘You are not Molly Bates,’ he accused her, the frown still in place. ‘My valet informed me that I had escorted a lady here last night and I see that he was quite correct. It is unfortunate that I did not come to the same conclusion before I allowed you to foist yourself on me! I confess that I remember little of what occurred last night with any clarity.’

      ‘Indeed, you warned me of that, sir.’

      ‘But … of course, I know who you are …’ his gaze focusing on the ugly wound marring her fair skin ‘… you are the wretched girl who showered glass and inferior port over everyone within ten feet of you!’

      She made no reply, simply waited with downcast eyes for his next reaction.

      ‘So, if you are not Molly Bates, whoever she might be, who are you?’ He failed to hide his impatience at her lack of response to a potentially explosive situation.

      ‘I