The Runaway Heiress. Anne O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ of the coach again, leaned his head back on the cushions and closed his eyes. Within a few minutes his breathing had deepened and he appeared to be asleep, leaving Frances the opportunity to review the traumatic events of the past hour. Her uncle’s callous indifference. The decanter of port as spoilt and fractured as her dreams of love and happiness. She closed her fingers around the stained napkin on her wrist and fought back the tears that threatened to engulf her. You are just tired, she told herself. Tomorrow you will be free of all this. She turned her head and studied her heedless rescuer in the fitful moonlight. It was a handsome face, not classically fair like her cousin, but a face which compelled her attention. His skin was tanned from time spent outdoors in all weathers. He had a straight, masterful nose, a firm chin and hooded eyes, hidden now in sleep, but as uncompromisingly grey as a northern winter sea. Lines of cynicism were engraved between nose and mouth—that mouth, unsmiling now but with such beautifully sculpted lips. His hair was thick and dark with a tendency to wave, his brows equally dark and well marked. It was a face of flat planes, and strong angles, a face used to authority and command and to keeping its own secrets. It betrayed no softness—indeed, in repose his face was stern and austere. He would be a dangerous man to cross in spite of the indolent manner she had witnessed tonight.

      Her eyes dropped to his hands and she shivered at the memory of his touch. She had never been touched like that by any man. They were elegantly long fingered, but they had left her in no doubt as to their strength. She shivered again and clasped her arms around her for comfort as her spine was touched by an icy finger of fear. What had she got herself in to? She had left without 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 СКАЧАТЬ