The Runaway Heiress. Anne O'Brien

your fortune!’ Torrington’s lips curled into an unpleasant snarl.

      ‘Very true.’

      ‘You were very fortunate in your inheritance, my lord.’

      ‘Indeed.’

      Tension vibrated in the room, raw emotion shimmering between the Marquis and his host. It could be tasted, like the bitter metallic tang of blood. Aldeborough appeared to be unaware of it. He searched in his pockets and drew out a pretty enamelled snuff box with gold filigree hinges and clasp, which he proceeded to open with elegant left-handed precision, apparently concentrating on the quality of the King’s Martinique rather than Torrington’s barbed words.

      ‘Of course, we were devastated by your brother’s death,’ the Viscount continued in silky tones.

      ‘Of course.’ Aldeborough replaced the snuff box and picked up his wine glass. Sir Ambrose, watching the developing confrontation, found himself clenching his fists as he contemplated the possibility of the Marquis dashing the contents in Torrington’s face and the ensuing scandal.

      Instead the Marquis calmly raised the glass to his lips and turned his head, suddenly aware of the girl standing so still and silent by the door, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on him. He noted her extreme pallor, catching her gaze with his own, to be instantly struck and taken aback by the blaze of anger in her night-dark eyes. Was it directed at him? Unlikely—yet the tension between them was clear enough. Why should a dowdy servant or poor relation display such hostility, such bitter disdain, especially when he had been sufficiently concerned for her welfare to pick her up off the floor? But her hands had been so cold, her eyes filled with such intense emotion … Even now he caught a faint sparkle on her cheek. He shrugged. Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps he had drunk more than he thought—his imagination and the guttering candles were playing tricks. He had had enough of Torrington’s company, his shabby hospitality and his scarcely veiled innuendo for one night. It would be wise to leave now, before he so far forgot himself as to insult his host beyond redemption. Although the temptation to do so was almost overpowering.

      He abruptly pushed his chair back from the table and rose to his feet.

      ‘Much as I have enjoyed your company, gentlemen, I believe that it is time I took my leave.’ He moved with elegant grace, giving no hint of the alcohol he had consumed, unless it was the slight flush on his lean cheeks and his carefully controlled breathing.

      Ambrose rose too to grasp Aldeborough’s shoulder urgently before he could reach the door.

      ‘You can not go like this, Hugh. It is the middle of the night, for God’s sake. Are you driving your curricle? You will most likely end up in a ditch.’

      ‘Do you think so?’ For a moment Aldeborough froze, the expression on his face anything but pleasant. Memory of a curricle, overturned and broken, its driver sprawled lifeless beside it, lashed at him, the pain intense. And then, by sheer force of will as Ambrose winced at his own thoughtless and insensitive remark, the Marquis relaxed. ‘No. I have the coach with me. And there is a full moon. I shall be at Aldeborough Priory in less than an hour.’ He smiled cynically. ‘Your concern for my safety does you credit, my dear Ambrose.’

      ‘Hugh, you know I did not mean … I would never suggest …’

      Aldeborough shook his head and managed a brief smile as he turned away.

      He paused by the door to view the assembled company and bowed with a graceful mocking flourish. ‘I wish you goodnight, gentlemen,’ and then, with a sudden frown, ‘I am heartily sorry for your niece, my lord Torrington. She deserves better.’

      Without a further backward glance, and no thought at all to the unfortunate dark-haired girl who had incurred Torrington’s wrath, he left Torrington Hall. Indeed, by the time he made his farewell, she had vanished from the room.

      Frances Hanwell blinked, brought sharply back to her present surroundings by the sound of Aldeborough’s harsh voice.

      ‘But if you are Torrington’s niece, his heiress, why in heaven’s name were you playing the role of kitchen drudge?’ In a flare of emotion, exacerbated by his throbbing head, the Marquis promptly abandoned the polite words of social usage and spoke from the heart to interrupt his own and Frances’s bitter recollections. ‘And why in hell’s name did you need to hide yourself in my coach and take flight from your home?’

      ‘I do not wish to discuss the matter, my lord, except to say that I believed that I had no option in the circumstances.’

      ‘What circumstances?’

      She merely shook her head.

      ‘You are not making this easy! What is your name?’

      ‘Frances Rosalind Hanwell, sir.’

      He took a turn about the room and returned to confront her, so far forgetting himself as to run his fingers through his hair. ‘I should have taken you back, Miss Hanwell. Returned you to your uncle.’

      ‘I would not have gone. I will never go back. I would have thrown myself from the coach first.’ The dramatic words were delivered with such calm certainty that for a moment he was robbed of a reply and simply stared at her in icy disapproval. In spite of her outward composure she had picked up the quill pen again, clasping it in a nervously rigid grip so that he saw there was ink on her fingers. She was taller than his recollection. And why had he not remembered her eyes? They were a deep violet and at present even darker in the depths of anger and despair.

      ‘Have you no idea, Miss Hanwell, of the potential scandal you have caused? The obligation you have put me under? The harm you may have done to your own name?’ The edge to his voice was unmistakable, but she did not flinch.

      ‘Why, no. You are under no obligation, my lord. I merely used your coach—a heaven-sent opportunity—as a means to an end. No one will know that I am here.’

      ‘I wager that your butler does! Akrill, isn’t it? Don’t tell me that you did not ask him to help you to leave the house undetected. I would not believe you.’

      She bit her lip, her face even paler as she recognised the truth in the heavy irony.

      ‘Servants gossip, Miss Hanwell. Everyone at Torrington Hall last night will know that you left with me and spent the night unchapearoned under my roof. What has that done for your reputation? Destroyed it, in all probability. And what sort of garbled nonsense Masters and Hay will spread around town I do not care to contemplate.’

      ‘I did not think. It was just—’ she sighed and dropped her gaze from the brutal accusation in his fierce stare ‘—it was simply imperative that I leave.’

      ‘You have made me guilty of, at best, an elopement,’ he continued in the same hard tone. ‘At worst, an abduction! How could you do something so risky? Apart from that, you do not know me. You do not know what I might be capable of. I could have murdered you. Or ravished you and left you destitute in a ditch. You were totally irresponsible!’

      ‘If I leave the Priory now, no one need ever know.’ Anger spurted inside her to match his. ‘I do not deserve your condemnation.’

      ‘Yes, you do. And you cannot leave. Where would you go?’

      ‘Why should you care? I am not your responsibility!’

      ‘It may surprise you to know, Miss Hanwell, that I have no wish to be seen as a seducer of innocent virgins!’ The muscles in his jaw clenched as he tried to hold his emotions in check.

      ‘I am so sorry.’ Frances turned her face away. ‘I did not mean to make you so angry.’

      Aldeborough poured a glass of brandy and tossed it off. His anger faded as quickly as it had risen. She needed his help and probably suffered from enough ill humour at Torrington Hall. The stark bruise and Torrington’s obvious lack of restraint told its own story.

      ‘Do not distress yourself.’ He took a deep controlling breath and released it slowly in a sigh. ‘Let us attempt to be practical.’ And then,