Anne O'Brien - The Runaway Heiress

The Runaway Heiress

Anne O’Brien

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To George:

who encourages me with humour,

wit and understanding

‘Miss Hanwell, my lord.’

Akrill bowed stiffly and stood aside to allow the young woman to enter the room. She hesitated momentarily, aware of being the focus of attention from those awaiting her. In spite of her fiercely beating heart, she walked forward and willed herself to appear calm. From experience, she was too well aware of the many opportunities for humiliation in her uncle’s house; she could not believe that she would escape unscathed from this situation, whatever the cause of the peremptory summons.

‘Akrill said that you wished to see me, Uncle.’ She kept her voice low and expressionless, proud of her skill in hiding the fear that had already begun to sink its sharp claws into her flesh.

‘Come here, girl.’ Viscount Torrington gestured impatiently. ‘Come and stand here.’ He pointed to the space before his desk.

She stood tall and straight before him, defiantly meeting his hard stare. She was unaccustomed to seeing him seated at his desk—he had neither liking nor aptitude for matters of business—and he appeared ill at ease as he shuffled the spread of papers before him. Aunt Cordelia sat in a straight-backed chair by the fireplace, her face stony, unsmiling, but with a glint in her eye of—what? Greed? Anticipated fulfilment? Frances could not tell. By the window, his back to her, stood Charles, her cousin. His rigid stance and deliberate distance from the proceedings promised her no comfort.

‘You took your time, girl.’

‘I came as soon as your message was delivered, my lord.’

‘Then you should know,’ Torrington continued without preamble, ‘that it is all arranged.’ He cast a quick glance towards his wife, who chose to remain aloof. ‘In two days’ time you will marry my son.’

To Frances the words seemed to reach her from a great distance. They made no sense at all. Her lips were dry and she found it difficult to form any words in reply.

‘Marry Charles?’ she managed eventually.

‘It is a sensible and desirable family arrangement with financial advantages on both sides.’ The Viscount frowned at the litter of bills and receipts. ‘There will be no fuss. No guests. It will not be necessary. All the legal ends will be tied up within the week.’

‘Charles?’ Frances turned her eyes to her cousin in sheer disbelief. ‘Do you want this?’

‘Of course.’ He turned from his contemplation of the bleak, unkempt gardens. His face was bland, his voice pleasing and unruffled. He allowed himself to meet her eyes fleetingly. ‘It is a good settlement for all parties, you must realise. You must have expected it, Frances.’ There was a hint of impatience as he registered the shock on her face.

‘No. No, I did not … How could I?’ A cold hand closed its fingers inexorably around her heart. ‘I had thought that …’ She clenched her fists in the folds of her skirts to prevent her hands trembling. ‘When I reach my majority next month I will come into my inheritance—I can be independent. My mother’s gift will allow me to—’

‘Your inheritance is owed to your family,’ the Viscount interrupted with an abrupt gesture towards one of the more official documents before him. ‘Your marriage to Charles will benefit all of us.’

‘No! I will not.’

Viscountess Torrington rose to her feet and approached her niece with pitiless eyes. ‘You should be on your knees in gratitude to us, Frances. We have given you a roof over your head, food, clothing for the whole of your life—and with no recompense. Your mother’s high-and-mighty family wanted nothing to do with you.’ She almost spat the words as she walked to stand behind her husband, in unity against Frances. ‘You owe us everything. What right have you to refuse your uncle’s bidding? Now it is time for you to repay us for our care.’

Care? Frances would have laughed aloud if the horror had not begun to creep through her bones, her sinews, to paralyse every reaction. All her hopes, all the plans that had helped to sustain her, had been destroyed by her uncle’s words.

‘But I shall be tied here for ever,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot bear it.’

‘Nonsense, girl,’ Torrington blustered and swept the papers together to signal the end of the discussion. ‘The matter is now settled. You will not, of course, make any more ill-considered attempts to leave the Hall.’ His fierce glance pierced Frances. ‘You are well aware of the penalties for such disobedience.’

She closed her eyes briefly to shut out the brutal memories and her uncle’s implacable face. ‘Yes. I am aware.’

‘Then get back to your work. Akrill will give you your tasks. We have guests tonight.’

Frances turned away, the nausea of panic lodged securely in her throat. In two days she would be trapped forever in this living hell.

Aldeborough lounged at his indolent ease in the corner of his travelling coach, braced effectively against the violent lurching with one foot on the opposite cushion, as he covered the short distance to Aldeborough Priory. He closed his eyes against the lurking headache.

A dense shadow, darker than its surroundings, stirred on the floor in the far corner of the coach. The moon fleetingly illuminated a flash of pale skin.

Was he asleep? Frances was pinning all her hopes on it. In spite of her impulsive flight from the Hall, without possessions except for the clothes she stood up in, and certainly without any forethought, she had chosen the coach with care. It had just been possible for her to make out the shield on the door panel in the glimmer from the flickering lamps—to distinguish a black falcon rising, wings outspread in flight, a glitter of golden eyes and talons on a vibrant azure field. It had to be Aldeborough—and he would be the means of her escape from Torrington Hall for ever. She shifted slightly to ease her cramped limbs, trying to breathe shallowly, to still the loud thudding of her heart that seemed to echo in her ears. If only she could remain undiscovered until they arrived at the Priory, she would have a chance to make her escape. And no one would be the wiser. No one would follow her and force her …

The Marquis moved restlessly. Frances shrank back into her corner, tensed, rigid, until his breathing relaxed again. She wriggled her spine against the edge of the hard cushion. It promised to be a long journey. She closed her eyes in the dark.

Suddenly a hand shot out with astonishing speed to grasp the folds of her cloak and pull her violently from floor to seat where the grip transferred itself like a band of steel to her arm. She gasped at the pain from that pressure on her previous injuries and failed to suppress a squeak of shock and outrage at such manhandling.

‘What the hell …?’ Aldeborough drew in his breath sharply, reining in his impulse to strike out at the intruder with vicious blows to head and body as he realised his initial mistake, and he tucked a pistol back into its pocket behind the cushions. He laughed softly. ‘Well, now. Not an opportunist footpad after all. A lady, no less. I knew my luck was still in. What are you doing in my carriage at this time of night—or morning, as I suppose it now is?’

‘Running away, sir.’ It would be safer, Frances decided, to stick to the truth as much as she was able. Her voice held a touch of exhaustion, which she could not disguise, strained with other tensions that he could only guess at.