Читать книгу The Runaway Heiress - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 6

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 am Viscount Torrington’s niece, my lord.’

‘His niece? The heiress? I find that very difficult to believe.’ His eyes surveyed her slowly from head to foot, taking in every imperfection in her appearance. They were, Frances decided, as cold and predatory as those of the hunting falcon on his coat of arms.

‘It is true!’ Frances clenched her teeth, lifting her chin against the arrogant scrutiny. ‘Viscount Torrington is indeed my uncle. The fact that you thought I was one of the servants has nothing to do with it.’

‘You clearly have an excellent memory, ma’am.’

‘The entire episode is etched on my memory for ever, sir. I need hardly say I did not enjoy it.’ Her flat tones did nothing to hide the barely controlled emotion as the horror of the previous night reasserted itself. The memories flooded back.

As they did for the Marquis, in terrible clarity.

It must have been very late. Certainly after midnight. The fire had long since disintegrated into remnants of charred wood and ash and no one had thought to resurrect it from the pile of logs on the hearth. Candles flickered in the draughts, casting the far corners of the dining room at Torrington Hall into deep shadow, but failing to hide threadbare carpets and curtains and a general air of neglect. That is, if any of those present had been interested in his surroundings. Half a dozen men in various stages of inebriation and dishevelment were seated round the central table where the covers had been removed some time ago and empty bottles littered the surface, testimony to a hard drinking session.

They had spent a bone-chilling but successful day, hunting across Torrington’s acres, and had accepted an invitation from their host to eat at the Hall. They had dined meagrely—Torrington kept a poor table—but drunk deep so the company was past the stage of complaint. Lord Hay was asleep, his head slumped forward onto his folded arms. Sir John Masters studied his empty wine glass with the fixed intensity of a cat contemplating a tasty mouse. Sir Ambrose Dutton exchanged reminiscences of good runs over hard country with Torrington and his son, Charles Hanwell. The Marquis of Aldeborough, somewhat introspective, lounged completely at his ease in his chair, legs stretched out before him, booted ankles crossed. One hand was thrust deep into the pocket of his immaculate buckskin breeches, the other negligently twirled the stem of his wine glass, half-full of liquid that glinted ruby red in the guttering flames.

Burdened with a heavy tray of decanter and bottles, Frances entered the room in Akrill’s wake. She had no interest in the proceedings, in the affairs of the men who completely ignored her presence. Exhaustion from her long hours in the kitchen imprinted her delicate skin with a grey wash and she was still frozen into her own world of hopeless misery, resulting from the shattering plans for her future.

Torrington, eyes glittering, the candlelight etching deep lines of thwarted ambition on his ageing face, raised his hand to indicate a refill of the empty glass at his elbow. Akrill nodded. Frances lifted the decanter to carry it from sideboard to table where her uncle waited, arm still outstretched in demand. She reached his chair and leaned to pour liquid into his glass. To her horror, without warning, the heavy decanter slipped from her tired fingers to explode in a shower of crystal shards and vintage port at her feet, splashing herself and Torrington indiscriminately with blood-red drops.

He turned on her with the venom of a snake. ‘You clumsy fool, girl. Look what you’ve done. You’ll pay for this!’

He lashed out in frustrated anger, the back of his hand making contact with her cheek in a sharp slap that brought the room to silence. Frances flinched, silently, swallowing the sudden flash of pain, and would have retreated, but caught her heel in the worn carpet and fell amidst the sparkling ruin at Aldeborough’s feet. For a long moment, no one reacted, gripped by the exhibition of very public and casual cruelty, as Frances slowly pushed herself to her knees, hoping that the encroaching shadows would hide the worst of her embarrassment and humiliation. If she could only reach the door before her uncle drew any further attention to her …

A cool hand took hold of her arm and pulled her gently but firmly to her feet. ‘Are you hurt?’

She shivered at his touch. ‘No. I am quite unharmed, my lord.’

Aldeborough surveyed the girl before him with a faint stirring of pity as she tried ineffectually to brush the stains and slivers of glass from her skirts. Not a kitchen wench, he presumed from the gown she wore, despite its lack of style and elegance, but a poor relation, destined to a life of charitable poverty and dependence in the Torrington household. An unenviable destiny. His fleeting impression was of dark lashes, which veiled her eyes and cast shadows on her pale cheeks, and dark hair carelessly, hopelessly confined with a simple ribbon, falling lankly around her neck. Her fingers, he noted as he raised her to her feet, were ice cold and, although her voice was calm, carefully governed, her hand trembled in his and her cheek already bore the shadow of a bruise from Torrington’s ill temper. Aldeborough became aware that he had been staring fixedly at the girl for some seconds when she pulled her hand free of his grasp to step backwards away from him. He continued to watch her, sufficiently sober to register that she appeared quite composed. Perhaps she was unaware that her fingers, now clasped so tightly together, gleamed white as ivory in the gloom.

‘There is blood on your wrist and hand.’ His eyes might be hard, grey as quartz, but his voice was gentle with a compassion that she had never experienced in her life and the firm touch of his fingers steadied her. ‘I believe that you may have cut yourself on the glass. Akrill—’ he gestured to the hovering butler ‘—perhaps you could help the girl. She appears to have injured herself.’

He thinks I am one of the servants! Frances fought back the hysterical laughter that rose in her throat and threatened to choke her. That is what I will be for the rest of my life. How can I escape it? For the first time she raised her eyes to Aldeborough’s, desperately, in a silent plea, for what she did not know, but he merely released her into Akrill’s care before resuming his seat at the table and refilling his glass from a bottle of claret.

‘Well, Aldeborough. What did you think of my grey hunter? A better animal than any in your stables, I wager.’

Torrington’s words caught Frances’s attention as she stood patiently for Akrill to wind and secure a napkin as a temporary bandage around her bleeding wrist. Aldeborough! Oh, yes! She had heard of him in spite of her seclusion in Torrington Hall away from fashionable society. Titled. Wealthy. Owner of magnificent Aldeborough Priory. A reputation for hard drinking and gambling and, with his title and fortune, one of the most eligible bachelors on the Matrimonial Mart. But a man at whom mothers of unmarried daughters looked askance, for he was not above breaking hearts with cruel carelessness.

‘Most impressive, my lord. Excellent conformation. Good hocks. He took the hedges in style. I do not suppose you would be prepared to sell him?’

‘At a price I might!’ Torrington slumped back in his chair, fast sinking into morose despair as he faced his own private disaster. ‘I am near ruin, cleaned out, everything gone except the entailed property. We shall have the local tradesmen knocking at the door, demanding payment before long.’

‘Father!’ Charles intervened, grasped Torrington’s arm with a little shake as if to bring him to his senses and awareness of their guests. ‘This is neither the time nor place to discuss such matters.’ His attractive features carried lines of strain around eyes and mouth. His embarrassment was evident in his clipped tones.

‘Everyone knows!’ Torrington shook off the grasp impatiently. His clenched fist hammered on the table. ‘Not a secret any longer. The horses are my only hope.’ Then a sly smile curved his lips. ‘But I shall come about. You’ll see.’ His words slurred as he slopped more wine into his glass and drank deeply.

‘What’s this, Torrington?’ Sir Ambrose raised his eyebrows. ‘Hopes of a fortune to rescue you from dun territory? Or is it the wine talking?’ The mockery was evident in his smile.

‘That’s it. A fortune.’ The Viscount rubbed his hands together in greedy anticipation. ‘I have a niece—an heiress. She will restore our fortunes and then we shall come about. She will marry Charles—this very week. No one will look down on the Hanwell family then!’

‘I congratulate you.’ The sneer on Aldeborough’s face was unmistakable. ‘It must be a great comfort to you to see your restitution.’

‘You would not understand—with 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, ‘I remember the dress,’ he remarked inconsequentially.

‘I can understand that you would,’ came a tart rejoinder. ‘It is hideous and once belonged to my aunt—many years ago, as you can probably tell.’ Her gaze was direct, daring him to make any further comment on the unattractive puce creation with its laced bodice and full skirts. ‘And I believe it looks even worse on me than it did on her!’

‘Quite. Never having had the honour of meeting Viscountess Torrington in that particular creation, I feel that I am unable to comment on the possibility.’ He retraced his steps across the library to his desk and held out his hand towards her in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Please sit down, Miss Hanwell. As you must realise, it is imperative that we broach the matter in hand and discuss your future.’ She ignored his gesture and instead fixed him with a hostile glare; he leaned across the desk and took her hands to remove the pen from her. Her hands, he noted, apart from being ink splattered, were small and slender but rough and callused, her nails chipped and broken. Around her wrists—so delicate—were cuts and abrasions where she had fallen on the glass. He released them thoughtfully and flung himself into the chair on the opposite side of his desk.

‘What were you writing?’

‘A list of my options.’

He picked up the sheet of paper and perused it. It was depressingly blank. ‘I see that you have not got very far.’

‘If that is a criticism, I am afraid my thoughts were all negative rather than positive possibilities. But I will not return to Torrington Hall.’

‘We have to consider your reputation, Miss Hanwell.’ He looked down at the pen, a frown still marring his handsome features. ‘You do not seem to understand that the scandal resulting from last night’s events could be disastrous.’ He abandoned the pen with an impatient gesture and leaned back to prop his chin on his clasped hands. ‘I believe I can accept your reluctance to return to your uncle’s house,’ he continued, ‘but have you no other relatives to turn to?’

‘No.’ She raised her chin in an unaccommodating manner. ‘My parents are dead. Viscount Torrington is my legal guardian.’

‘Then we must take the only recourse to protect your reputation.’ His face was stern and a little pale. ‘It is very simple.’

‘And that is, my lord? I am afraid the simplicity has escaped me.’

‘You must accept my hand in marriage, Miss Hanwell.’

‘No!’ Her reaction was immediate, if only more than a whisper.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. Most young ladies of his acquaintance would have gone to any lengths to engage the interest of the Marquis of Aldeborough. But not, it seemed, Miss Hanwell.

‘It is not necessary for you to sacrifice yourself, my lord,’ she qualified her previously bald refusal. Paler than ever, there was only the faintest tremor in her voice. ‘I am sure there must be other alternatives. After all, nothing untoward occurred last night, my lord.’ She blotted out the memory of his drunken kisses. ‘You were overcome by the effects of too much of my uncle’s brandy.’

‘Be that as it may, Miss Hanwell,’ he replied with some asperity, ‘I am afraid that my reputation is not such that polite society would give me the benefit of the doubt. And besides, as you have admitted, you have no other relatives who would give you shelter.’

She turned her head away. She would not let him see the tears that threatened to collect beneath her eyelids. ‘I could be a governess, I suppose,’ she managed with hardly a catch in her voice.

‘Are you qualified to do that?’ he asked gently, uncomfortably conscious of her unenviable position.

‘I doubt it. I am simply trying to be practical.’

‘But unrealistic, I fear. Can you play the pianoforte? Speak French or Italian? Paint in water colours? All the other talents young ladies are supposed to be proficient in? My sister frequently complains of the unnecessary trivia that appears to be essential for a well brought-up young lady.’

She could not respond to the hint of humour in his observation. Her situation was too desperate. She might, against her wishes, be forced by circumstances to return to Torrington Hall. It was too terrible to contemplate. ‘No, I cannot. Or embroider. Or dance. Or … or anything really. My own education has been … somewhat lacking in such details.’ The tears threatened to spill down her cheeks in spite of her resolution to deal with her predicament calmly and rationally. ‘There is no need to be quite so discouraging, my lord.’

‘I was trying to be helpful. What can you do?’

‘Organise a household. Supervise a kitchen.’ Frances sighed and wiped a finger over her cheek surreptitiously. ‘How dreary it sounds. Do you think I should consider becoming a housekeeper?’

‘Certainly not. You are far too young. And who would give you a reference?’

Frances sniffed and moved from the desk to sit disconsolately on the window seat. ‘Now you understand why my list had not materialised.’

‘Miss Hanwell.’ Aldeborough came to stand before her. ‘I hesitate to repeat myself or force myself upon you—something which you apparently find unacceptable—but there really is only one solution. Will you do me the honour of marrying me?’

She was surprised at the gentleness in his tone, but still shook her head. ‘You are very considerate, but no.’ She closed her mind to the despair that threatened to engulf her. ‘I have an inheritance that will be mine in a month when I reach my majority. That will enable me to be independent so that my life need not be dictated by anyone.’

‘How much? Enough to set yourself up in your own establishment?’ Aldeborough’s eyebrows rose and his tone was distinctly sceptical.

‘I am not exactly sure, but it was left to me by my mother and I understand it will be sufficient. My uncle’s man of business has the details. It was never discussed with me, you see.’

‘But that still does not answer the problem of the scandalous gossip which will result. Your reputation will be destroyed. You will be ostracised by polite society. You must marry me.’

‘No, my lord.’ She pleated one of the worn ribbons on her gown with fingers that trembled slightly, but her voice was steady and determined. ‘After all, what does it matter? I have never been presented, or had a Season, and it is not my intention to live in London society. How can gossip harm me?’

Aldeborough sighed heavily in exasperation, surveying her from under frowning black brows, allowing a silence charged with tension to develop between them. In truth, she was not the wife he would have chosen, brought up under Torrington’s dubious influence, incarcerated in the depths of the country with no fashionable acquaintance or knowledge of how to go on in society. And yet, why not? Her birth was good enough in spite of her upbringing. Certainly she lacked the finer points of a lady’s education, by her own admission, but did that really matter? She appeared to be quick and intelligent and had knowledge of the running of a gentleman’s establishment, albeit threadbare and lacking both style and elegance. Aldeborough watched with reluctant admiration the tilt of her head, the sparkle in her eye as she awaited his decision, and fancied that she would soon acquire the confidence demanded by her position as Marchioness of Aldeborough. She had spirit and courage in abundance, as he had witnessed to his cost, along with a well-developed streak of determination. And, he had to admit, an elusive charm beneath the shabby exterior. The Polite World would gossip, of course, on hearing that a mere Miss Hanwell, a provincial unknown, was to wed the highly eligible Marquis of Aldeborough, but since when had he cared about gossip?

Besides, as his mother took every opportunity to remind him, perhaps it was time that he took a wife. As he knew only too well, life was cheap—he owed it to his family to secure the succession. If Richard had lived … He deliberately turned away from that line of thought. It did no good to dwell on it.

But far more importantly, he could not in honour abandon this innocent girl to the consequences of her ill-judged flight. He frowned at her, his expression severe. It was all very well for her to shrug off the social repercussions, but a young girl could be damaged beyond remedy by the cruel and malicious tongues of the ton. It was in his power to save her from social disaster, and duty dictated that he should. It was really as simple as that. Her vulnerability as she sat silently in his library, refusing his offer of marriage, contemplating the prospect of a bleak future alone, touched his heart and his conscience. He had made his decision and he would do all in his power to carry it out. But he feared that to convince the lady in question of the necessity of this marriage would prove a difficult task.

‘I do not accept your argument.’ He finally broke the silence, his voice clipped, his tone encouraging no further discussion. ‘You have not thought of the implications and in my experience they could be, shall we say, distressing for you. But I have a meeting with my agent that I must go to—I have already kept him waiting. We will continue this conversation later, Miss Hanwell. Meanwhile, my servants will look after your every need. You have only to ask.’ He lifted a hand to touch her cheek where the dark bruise bloomed against her pale skin, aware of a sudden urge to soothe, to comfort, to smooth away the pain. He drew back as she flinched and wished that she had not.

‘No further discussion is necessary, I assure you, sir. I would not wish to keep you from your agent.’ She tried for a smile without much success, hoping that her pleasure from his touch did not show itself on her face.

‘You are very obstinate, Miss Hanwell. How can you make any plans when you have nothing but the clothes you stand up in?’

She could find no answer to this depressingly accurate statement, and merely shook her head.

‘I must go.’ Aldeborough possessed himself of her hand and raised it to his unsmiling lips. He left the library in a sombre mood. He did not expect gratitude from her, of course—after all, he had to admit, apparently, that he had some role in the disaster—but he did expect some co-operation. His sense of honour demanded that he put right the desperate situation that he had so unwittingly helped to create.