Anne O'Brien - The Runaway Heiress

Frances could not answer the bitter mockery or the banked anger in his eyes but simply sat, head bent against the wave of emotion. When he made no effort to break the silence that had fallen, she glanced up at him. The anger had faded from his face, to be replaced by something that she found difficult to interpret. If she did not know better, she might have thought it was a moment of vulnerability.

‘Well, Miss Hanwell?’

‘Very well. I think I must accept your offer, my lord. I will try to be a conformable wife.’ She could hardly believe that she was saying those words.

‘You amaze me. So far all you have done is argue and refuse to listen to good sense.’

‘But … I never meant …’

‘There is no need to say any more. Come here.’ She stood and moved towards him. He turned her to face the light from the candles at his elbow and looked at her searchingly for perhaps the first time, turning her head gently with his hand beneath her jaw. Her skin, a trifle pale from the emotions of the past hour, had the smooth translucence of youth. Her eyebrows were well marked and as dark as her uncontrolled curls. Her remarkable violet eyes expressed every emotion she felt—at the moment uncertainty and not a little shyness. But equally he had seen them flash in anger and contempt. She had a straight nose, a most decided chin and softly curving lips. She was not a beauty, he thought, but a little town bronze would probably improve her. It could turn out to be not the worst decision he had made in his life. She dropped her eyes in some confusion under his considered scrutiny.

‘Look at me,’ he demanded and when she automatically obeyed he wound his hand into her hair and his lips sought hers. It was a brief, cool caress, but when Aldeborough lifted his head there was an arrested expression on his face. Frances had steeled herself against his kiss, but was now aware that his grasp showed no intention of loosening. She drew in a breath to object, but before she could do so Aldeborough placed his hand gently across her lips and shook his head.

‘I must request your pardon if you are displeased. Are you displeased, Frances Rosalind? It seemed to me that we should seal our agreement in a more … ah … intimate manner, even if it is to be a marriage of convenience. What do you say?’

Frances was unable to say anything coherent or sensible and was overcome with a sudden anger both at Aldeborough’s presumption and her own inability to respond with a satisfactory reply that would leave him in no doubt of her opinion of men who forced themselves on defenceless women, even if they had just agreed to marry them.

‘Let me go!’ was all that she could manage and thrust at his shoulders with her hands as she remembered the humiliation of his embrace in the coach. It was to no avail. Her confusion obviously amused Aldeborough for he laughed, tightened his hold further and bent his head to kiss her once more. But this was different. Aldeborough’s mouth was demanding and urgent, melting the resistance in Frances’s blood whether she wished it or not. It was as if he was determined to extract some reaction from her beyond her previous reluctant acceptance. And 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!’

‘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.