Читать книгу The Runaway Heiress - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 8

‘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.

Aldeborough saluted his mother’s cheek with filial duty and grace, but the lack of affection between them was as clear as her neglect in returning the embrace.

‘And who is this?’

‘I have been at Aldeborough, ma’am, as you are well aware. There was some necessary estate business.’ He turned back to Frances who had apprehensively come to a halt just inside the doorway. ‘I wish to introduce you to Frances, Miss Hanwell.’ He took her hand to draw her further forward into the room. ‘Miss Hanwell, ma’am, is now my wife.’

The silence in the room was deafening. Frances continued to cling to Aldeborough’s hand. She had rarely felt so alone as she did at that moment under the razor-sharp scrutiny. She made a polite curtsy and awaited events with trepidation as her ladyship’s features froze into perplexed disbelief. The temperature dropped to glacial.

‘Forgive me, Hugh.’ Her ladyship ignored Frances. ‘Perhaps I misunderstood? This is your wife?’

‘Indeed, ma’am. We were married three days ago at Aldeborough.’

‘But I had no idea. Who is she?’ Her cold eyes raked Frances in an icy sweep from head to foot and apparently found nothing in the exercise to please her.

‘Her guardian is Viscount Torrington. I met her at Torrington Hall.’

‘Really?’ Her lips thinned. ‘I am afraid that I find this difficult to grasp, Aldeborough. How could you have conducted your marriage in such a clandestine fashion? You might have considered my position. Think of the scandal … the gossip. How will I face Lady Grosmont at her soirée this evening?’ Her face paled with anger as she considered the repercussions. ‘Surely as your mother I could expect a little consideration?’

‘There will be no scandal, ma’am.’ Aldeborough remained coldly aloof and unemotional. ‘If anyone should comment, you will assure them that Frances and I had a … a long-term understanding and we were married quietly in the country for family reasons. The death of a distant relative, if you find the need to give a reason to anyone sufficiently ill mannered to comment.’

‘I will assure them? I do not wish to lend my support in any way to this unfortunate liaison.’

‘I had hoped for more of a welcome for my bride,’ Aldeborough commented gently, with a hint of warning in his quiet voice that his mother chose to ignore.

‘Richard, of course, would always have considered my opinion when making such an important decision in his life. He was always so thoughtful and conscious of his position as the heir. I might have hoped that you—’

‘There is no advantage in pursuing that line of thought,’ Aldeborough interrupted harshly. Frances saw a muscle in his jaw clench and his hold of her hand tightened convulsively, making her draw in her breath.

‘And what of Penelope? What will she think?’

‘What should Miss Vowchurch think? I cannot see what my marriage has to do with her.’ He was once more in command, his fingers relaxing their grip.

‘It has everything to do with her, of course. She has been expecting an offer from you. After Richard’s death it was understood—’

‘I am afraid that it was not understood by me. I have never given Miss Vowchurch any indication that I would make her an offer of marriage.’

‘It has always been understood between our families. You must know that after Richard died you took no formal steps to end the connection.’ Lady Aldeborough was implacable, refusing to let the matter rest. ‘And now you have married this … this person. Who is she?’

Frances looked on as if she were watching a scene in a play at which she was a mere observer with no role for herself. There was clearly little love lost between Aldeborough and his mother and she herself was now provoking another issue between them. A bleak wave of despair swept over her to add to the weariness. After she had spent three days alone at Aldeborough Priory, the Marquis had returned and she had been thrown into a flurry of activity. First her marriage, followed immediately by three days of exhausting travel to reach London. And now this. How foolish she had been to hope that Lady Aldeborough might accept this sordid arrangement with equanimity. Indeed, it was even worse than she had anticipated. She wished Aldeborough had given her some warning. Obviously he had seen no need to do so, which depressed her even further.

‘A penniless nobody who has trapped you into marriage.’ Her ladyship was continuing her diatribe as if Frances was not present. ‘How could you! Is there no way this marriage could be annulled? Or dissolved?’ Lady Aldeborough’s face was white with anger.

A delicate flush stained Frances’s cheeks. With the haste and inconvenience of the journey following immediately after their marriage, there had been neither opportunity nor, it would appear, inclination for intimate relations between herself and the Marquis. For which, all things considered, she was heartily relieved. But would he betray her to his mother?

‘No, Mother. It is not possible. Your suggestion is insulting in the extreme to both Frances and myself. I think you should consider what you’re saying before you speak again.’ Aldeborough turned towards Frances, his face a polite mask. ‘Forgive me, Frances. I wish I could have spared you this, but it had to be faced.’ He led her to a chair by the window looking over the square. ‘Perhaps if you would sit here for a little while …’

As he returned to shield her from further recriminations, her mind was free to travel back over the previous days. She remembered as in a dream standing in Aldeborough Church in the grey light of early morning with a special licence and a flustered vicar and with Sir Ambrose and the vicar’s wife as witnesses. No flowers. No music. Only the heavy starkness of Norman pillars and the air so cold that her breath had vaporised as she took her vows. She remembered the cold. No sooner had the vows been exchanged and her cheek dutifully kissed by Aldeborough than she had been installed in Aldeborough’s coach and the long, tedious journey had begun. Sir Ambrose had thoughtfully presented her with a tasteful posy of yellow flowers and kissed her fingers and called her Lady Aldeborough, a situation that she still found difficult to believe, but it had helped to strengthen her courage.

And Aldeborough had been as good as his word. Her lips curled in memory of the beautiful dress that he had brought back with him to keep his promise. A dress of which dreams were made. In the height of fashion with a high waist and disconcertingly low neckline and tiny puff sleeves over long undersleeves, the jonquil taffeta was far more elegant than any gown she had ever seen. The tucked bodice was a little large, but nothing that a small alteration here and there could not remedy, and the silk ruching round the hem helped to disguise the fact that it was a little long. A simple satin straw bonnet with jonquil ribbons that set off her dark hair completed the ensemble. She had abandoned her puce disaster and travel-stained cloak without a qualm.

And not only the dress, but fine kid gloves and matching kid heelless slippers. Not to mention the delightful package of shifts and petticoats and silk stockings. She blushed faintly that he should have purchased such intimate garments for her. And who had chosen the dress for her? She had found it difficult to thank him. He had merely brushed it aside as a matter of no importance. But Frances was now more than grateful for his foresight. Under Lady Aldeborough’s critical and unfriendly scrutiny, it was suddenly very important that she should be wearing a stylish blue velvet pelisse trimmed with grey fur and a pale blue silk bonnet, the brim fetchingly ornamented with one curling ostrich plume, both in the first stare of fashion.

She had thought herself fortunate in her new wardrobe but this house, now her own, threatened to take her breath away. Her first impression as they had arrived had been fleeting, but there was no doubting its style and magnificence. In Cavendish Square, one of the very best addresses, the brick and stone façade with its pedimented doorway, decorative columns and imposing flight of steps bordered with iron railings could not fail to impress. All was elegance and good taste. Aldeborough might take it for granted, but she could not.

She sighed as her attention returned to the heated words from the Marchioness and the cool rejoinders from Aldeborough.

‘What your father would have said I hesitate to think. And Richard—’

Frances would never know what Richard would have thought or done for at this timely moment, the door burst open and a young man erupted with more energy than grace into the room.

‘Matthew! Perhaps you might enter my drawing room in a more seemly fashion. Your brother and I were engaged in a private conversation.’

‘Forgive me, Mother. I heard Hugh was back.’ Matthew looked anything but sorry and shrugged off his parent’s blighting words. ‘Is it true?’ He grinned as he embraced his brother in a friendly and vigorous greeting. ‘I have just seen Masters in town and he has told me all.’

Aldeborough inhaled sharply in exasperation. ‘So just what has Masters told you? Perhaps, brother mine, this is not the best of times to elaborate!’ The warning was unfortunately lost in Matthew’s exuberance to discover the truth of the matter.

‘That you abducted Torrington’s niece from under his nose and forced her into marriage to get your hands on her inheritance.’

Lady Aldeborough lowered herself carefully on to the chair behind her. ‘This is even worse than I thought. What have you done, Aldeborough?’ Her tone might be faint with shock, but her expression was steely.

‘So, is it true?’ Matthew insisted.

‘Of course it is true. Would you not expect me to be capable of such dishonourable behaviour? Even you, it seems, Matthew.’

Matthew frowned at the bitter cynicism imprinted on his brother’s face, echoing in his harsh tones. ‘Well, no. I don’t believe it, as it happens. Are you jesting? And if it is true—where is she?’

‘Behind you. You will note her terrified appearance and the marks of coercion and cruelty about her person. I had to treat her most unkindly to persuade her that marriage with me would be an attractive proposition.’

Matthew grinned, shrugging with some relief as Aldeborough’s expression relaxed and the tension slowly drained from his body, but he still had the grace to look more than a little embarrassed as he swung round towards the window embrasure. ‘Exactly. You deserved that. You had better come and meet her. I dare not imagine what impression you have made on her,’ Aldeborough added drily, but with a trace of humour at his brother’s discomfort.

Aldeborough came to retrieve Frances from her seat by the window, taking her by the hand and leading her back into the centre of the room. ‘This, my lady, is my graceless brother Matthew, who believes that I beat you into submission. You have my permission to snub him completely if you wish.’

‘Please don’t. I had no intention of making you uncomfortable. I am very pleased to meet you.’ His engaging smile lit his youthful features.

Frances found herself smiling back at the genuine greeting from the young man who was very close to her own age. He was slim and athletic and looked to have just grown out of the ungainly lack of co-ordination of youth. He was fairer than his brother, with blue eyes and an open, laughing countenance that Frances instantly felt drawn to. His manner suggested that he stood in awe of neither his mother nor Aldeborough, and his clothing that he was experimenting with the more extremes of fashion. His cravat was a miracle of folds and creases and his striped waistcoat caused Aldeborough to raise his eyebrows in amused disbelief.

‘And what have you been doing with yourself, apart from rigging yourself out like a dandy?’ Aldeborough queried. ‘Up to no good as usual, I expect.’

‘Definitely not. No debts and definitely no scandals. I say, Hugh. You haven’t changed your mind about buying me a commission, have you?’

‘Certainly not!’

‘But it looks as if we shall have to continue the war against Bonaparte.’

‘Very true. But we shall have to continue it without you. At least until you are a little older.’

‘But it will all be over by then. Do reconsider.’

‘I will think about it. But don’t raise your hopes.’

This was clearly a frequently held exchange of views. Nothing daunted, Matthew changed tack. ‘By the by, the new horse you bought from Strefford was delivered yesterday. It is a splendid animal. Come and see it.’

‘I think it an excellent idea for you to go off to the stables if you are going to talk horseflesh,’ interposed Lady Aldeborough, determined to regain control of the situation. She rose to her feet again and disposed her shawl in elegant folds around her shoulders. ‘It will give me the opportunity to get to know your new wife a little better. We can have a cosy chat over a dish of tea. Do you not think so, my dear?’

‘Of course.’ Frances’s heart sank. She was not fooled by Lady Aldeborough’s sudden change of demeanour. Her civility was knife-edged and threatened to be deadly. It promised to be a difficult interview.

‘Will you be quite comfortable, my lady?’ Aldeborough allowed her the opportunity to play the coward, but she would not.

‘Certainly, my lord.’

‘Very well, Matthew. Lead me to the horse. And no, you cannot ride him, before you ask. I will return very soon.’ He gave Frances a brief smile of encouragement before following his brother through the door.

Frances was left alone with her mother-in-law. She could not allow herself to show any weakness or to be intimidated. Lady Aldeborough had the air of one who had spent a lifetime in achieving her own ends. And she would not be prepared to accept defeat on this occasion.

‘Miss Hanwell. Oh, do forgive me—I still cannot believe that you have actually entered into this alliance with my son.’ Her sugary tones set Frances’s teeth on edge. ‘Do come and sit here. I will ring for some tea. Perhaps you would like to tell me a little about yourself.’ The Dowager smiled, but achieved it only through sheer effort of will. Frances responded with as much equanimity as she could muster. She had nothing to lose. She knew at once that she would never win the good will, much less the affection, of this dominant lady and she wished fervently that Aldeborough had not forsaken her to such an ordeal.

The arrival of the tea tray gave Frances a much-needed breathing space. When everything had been disposed to her liking, Lady Aldeborough handed Frances a fine bone-china tea cup.

‘Now. Let us have a feminine gossip.’

Frances cringed inwardly, predicting accurately the direction it would take.

‘Who are your family? Do I know them?’

‘My uncle is Viscount Torrington—and he is also my guardian.’

‘So, are your parents then dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘How unfortunate. I do not think I have ever seen you in London. Or at any country-house parties. Perhaps you have never been introduced into society?’

‘I have always lived in the country on my uncle’s estate.’

A pause developed as the Dowager considered the information. ‘Perhaps you have other living relatives?’ The catechism continued.

‘The present Earl of Wigmore is my mother’s nephew, my cousin.’

‘Really?’ Elegant eyebrows rose in apparent disbelief. ‘I am somewhat acquainted with the family, of course, but I was not aware of your existence.’

‘We have not kept close contact.’ Frances was determined not to give any more cause for speculation.

‘I see.’ Lady Aldeborough placed her cup down with careful precision before fixing Frances with austere censure. ‘Let us be clear about this, my dear. I am very disappointed in the turn of events. So shoddy, you understand. And as for what the world will make of the rumours of an abduction—’

‘There was no abduction. I did nothing against my will.’

‘Whatever the truth of it, it is quite shocking. As Marquis of Aldeborough, my son should have enjoyed a wedding at which all the members of the ton were present. An event of the Season, no less. Instead of which …’ Her mother-in-law shrugged with elegant disdain.

There was no suitable response for Frances to make. She waited in silence for the next onslaught, raising her teacup to her lips.

‘It makes me wish once again that Richard was still alive.’

‘Richard?’

‘My son. My first-born son.’ The Dowager indicated with a melancholy sigh and a wave of her hand an impressive three-quarter-length portrait in pride of place above the mantelpiece. ‘It is very like. It was completed a mere few months before his death.’

‘I … I’m sorry. I did not know.’

‘How should you? He was everything a mother could wish for. Duty and loyalty to the family came first with him. Not at all like Hugh. He should never have died.’

Frances studied the portrait with interest as her companion applied a fine lace handkerchief to her lashes. The young man before her was very like her husband. Indeed, the Laffords all had the same straight nose and dark brows and forthright gaze. Richard was dark too, like his brother, but the portrait highlighted a subtle difference between the two. The hint of mischief in Richard’s hooded eyes and roguish smile were unmistakable. He sat at his ease in a rural setting with the Priory clearly depicted in the background, a shotgun tucked through his arm and a gun dog at his side. The artist was good, successfully catching the vivid personality and love of life—Frances had the impression that he could have stepped out of the frame at any moment. Even though she had never known him, it was difficult to believe that he was dead. What a terrible tragedy! No wonder his mother mourned him with such passionate intensity.

‘Was … was it an accident?’ Frances asked to break the painful silence.

‘Some might try to imply that it was—to hide the truth from the world—but his death was to Hugh’s advantage, a fact which must be obvious to all. It breaks my heart to think of it.’

Frances privately doubted that she had a heart to break.

Lady Aldeborough continued, long pent-up bitterness pouring out. ‘And Penelope, his fiancée. So beautiful and elegant. So well connected—so suitable. She would have made an excellent Marchioness. As if she had been born to it.’

‘I can see that she must have been greatly distressed.’

‘Penelope has remarkable self-control. And of course she still hoped to become my daughter-in-law in the fullness of time. But now it has all changed. I do not know how I shall have the courage to break the news to her. But, of course, Hugh would never think of that. He has always been selfish and frippery. His taking a commission in the Army to fight in the Peninsula was the death of his father.’

As Lady Aldeborough appeared to be intent on holding her son to blame for everything, Frances felt moved to defend her absent husband.

‘I have not found him to be selfish.’

‘To be the object of an abduction or an elopement—or whatever the truth might be, for I do not think the episode has been explained at all clearly to my satisfaction—I can think of nothing more degrading.’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘That smacks of selfishness to me.’

‘That was not his fault, in all fairness. My husband’ —Lady Aldeborough winced at Frances’s deliberate choice of words— ‘has treated me with all care and consideration. He saw to my every comfort on our journey here. I accept that our marriage is not what you had hoped for, but Aldeborough has shown me every civility and courtesy. I cannot condone your criticism of him.’

‘Be that as it may, there is much of my son that you do not know. But you have married him and will soon learn. I hope you do not live to regret it. Now, tell me. Have you a dowry? Have you brought any money into the union? At least that would be something good.’

Frances took a deep breath to try to explain her inheritance in the most favourable light when the door opened on the return of Aldeborough and Matthew. She grasped the opportunity to allow the question to remain unanswered and turned towards her husband with some relief.

They were obviously in the middle of some joke and Frances was arrested by the expression on Aldeborough’s face. She had never seen him so approachable. His eyes alight with laughter and his quick grin at some comment were heartstoppingly and devastatingly attractive. She had much more to learn about her husband than she had realised. And the unknown Richard.

The smile stayed in Aldeborough’s eyes as he approached across the room. ‘I see you have survived,’ he commented ironically, showing recognition of her predicament. ‘I knew you would.’

‘Of course.’ Frances raised her chin and looked directly into his eyes. ‘Your mother and I have enjoyed a … an exchange of views. I already feel that we understand each other very well.’

Aldeborough’s raised eyebrows did not go unmarked.

He came to her that night.

Immediately upon a quiet knock, he entered the Blue Damask bedroom, where Frances had been temporarily accommodated until the suite next to the master bedroom could be cleaned and decorated to her taste. The door clicked shut behind him. He halted momentarily, his whole body tense, his senses on the alert, and then with a rueful shrug and a slight smile he advanced across the fine Aubusson carpet.

‘Don’t do it, Molly. I trust you are not contemplating escape yet again. It is a long way to the ground and I cannot vouch for your safety. Paving stones, I believe, can be very unforgiving.’

Frances stepped back from the open window where she had been leaning to cool her heated cheeks. The blood returned to her face in a rose wash, her throat dry and her heartbeat quickening. As ever, he dominated the room with his height, broad shoulders and excellent co-ordination. And, as always, he was impeccably dressed notwithstanding the late hour. He made her feel ruffled and hopelessly unsophisticated.

‘No, but you could not blame me if I was! And I would be grateful if you did not call me Molly!’

He reached behind her to close the window and redraw the blinds, allowing her the space to regain her composure.

‘Your maid did not come to help you undress? You should have rung for her.’ He indicated the embroidered bell pull by the hearth.

‘I sent her away.’ Frances hesitated. ‘I did not want her tonight. I have never had a maid, you see.’

She caught her reflection in the gilt-edged mirror of the dressing table. She looked exhausted. Beneath her eyes were smudges of violet, her pale skin almost transparent. And Aldeborough’s unexpected presence made her edgy and nervous. She rubbed her hands over her face as if they could erase her anxiety. They failed miserably.

‘I told you that it was a mistake for you to marry me.’ Her voice expressed her weariness in spite of all her efforts to control it. ‘Your mother hates me. And she will find great pleasure in telling all your family and friends that I am a fortune hunter with no countenance, style or talents to attract.’

He crossed the room deliberately to take her by the shoulders and turn her face towards the light from a branch of candles. He then startled her by lifting his hand to gently smooth the lines of tension between her eyebrows with his thumb. He frowned down at her as if his thoughts were anything but pleasant.

‘I am sorry. It has been a very trying day for you. Perhaps in retrospect I should have seen my mother alone first, but I don’t think it would have made much difference. I was proud of you. You were able to conduct yourself with assurance and composure in difficult circumstances. It cannot have been easy for you.’

Frances blinked at the unexpected compliment. ‘If you are kind and sympathetic I shall cry.’

His stern features were lightened by an unexpectedly sweet smile. ‘Thank you for the warning. I would not wish that on you. If it is any consolation to you, my mother doesn’t like me much either.’

‘No, it is no consolation,’ she responded waspishly. ‘I did not expect to be welcomed, but I did not think I would be patronised and condemned with every deficiency in my background and education laid bare in public over the dinner table. And if I have to listen once more to a catalogue of the skills and talents of Miss Penelope Vowchurch I shall not be responsible for my actions.’ She proceeded to give a remarkably accurate parody of Lady Aldeborough. ‘Can you sing, Frances? No? Of course, Penelope is very gifted musically. It is a pleasure to hear her sing—and play the pianoforte! Perhaps you paint instead? No? Penelope, of course … Does she have any failings?’

A shuttered look had crossed Aldeborough’s face, but he was forced into a reluctant laugh. ‘Don’t let my mother disturb you. I don’t believe that she means half of what she says.’

‘I am delighted to hear it—but I don’t believe you. You could have warned me.’

‘Don’t rip up at me.’ His fingers tightened their grip.

She suddenly realised that he looked as tired as she felt, with fine lines of strain etched around his mouth, and his words were a plea rather than a command. For a second she felt a wave of sympathy for him—but quickly buried it. The situation, after all, was of his making.

‘Why not?’ She pulled away from his grasp, too aware of the strength of his fingers branding her flesh, but then regretted her brusque action. ‘I … Forgive me, I am just a little overwrought. I shall be better tomorrow. I am really very grateful for all you have done,’ she explained stiffly.

‘I don’t want your gratitude.’ His voice was harsh.

She turned her back on him and stalked towards the mirror where she began to unfasten the satin ribbons with which she had inexpertly confined her hair. She was aware of his eyes on her every movement. A silence stretched between them until her nerves forced her to break it.

‘It is difficult not to express my gratitude when you have given me everything that I have never had before.’

‘I have given you nothing yet.’

‘My clothes. All of this.’ She indicated the tasteful silver and blue furnishings, the bed with its opulent hangings, the comforting fire still burning in the grate. ‘Wealth. A title. Respectability. What more could I want?’ Bitterness rose in her that he should take it all for granted.

‘Next you will tell me that you would rather be back at Torrington Hall with Charles as your prospective husband.’ Aldeborough’s heavy irony was not lost on her.

‘No.’ She sighed, lowering her hands to her lap. ‘In all honesty I cannot.’

‘I like your honesty,’ he commented gently. ‘I would like you to have this. It is a personal gift.’ From his pocket he withdrew a flat black velvet box. He handed it to her. It was much worn at the corners, and the clasp had broken loose. In the centre was a faded coat of arms stamped in gold. ‘A bride gift, if you like. My mother still has all the family heirlooms and jewellery. I will arrange for you to have the ones that suit. There are some very pretty earrings, I believe, and a pearl set that you would like. But this belonged to my grandmother. She left it to me to give to my wife. It is a trifle old fashioned and not very valuable, but it has considerable charm and I hope you will wear it until I can give you something better.’

Frances opened the box to reveal a faded silk lining. On it rested an oval silver locket on a fine silver chain. The workmanship was old and intricate with a delicacy of touch. Its surface was engraved with scrolls and flowers, the centres of which were set with small sapphires. She opened the locket. Inside she found the empty mountings for a miniature with the words engraved on the opposite side My Beloved is Mine.

‘It is beautiful,’ she said softly, tracing the delicate scroll work with a finger, unable to meet his eyes. ‘I have never been given jewellery before.’

He took the locket from her and moved to clasp it round her throat. ‘The roses seemed appropriate, Fair Rosalind.’

The brief touch of his fingers on her neck as he fastened the clasp sent a shiver through her tense body. Her eyes, wide and dark, met his fleetingly in the mirror. He nodded.

‘It suits you very well. There is a sapphire necklace the exact colour of your eyes.’ He hesitated, lost in their depths for the length of a heartbeat. ‘But I fear that my mother will refuse to part with it this side of the grave.’

The locket lay on her breast, the tiny sapphires catching the light like pinpointed stars with her heightened breathing.

She would have moved away from him, but he took hold of her wrist in a firm grasp, using his free hand to tilt her chin upwards. With one finger he traced the outline of her lips, his featherlight touch delicate and reflective. Her breath caught in her throat as she read the intention in his eyes. His arm slid around her waist, drawing her closer, and he bent his head to press his mouth to the pulse fluttering at the base of her neck, just above where the locket gleamed in the candlelight. Her immediate instinct was to raise her hands and push against his shoulders. Sudden fear engulfed her, surprising her in its intensity.

He raised his head. His eyes were devastatingly clear and possessive. ‘Don’t fight me, Frances.’

‘I am not fighting,’ she managed to gasp as he renewed his assault on her throat. ‘I did not expect—’

‘Of course. A business arrangement—that was what we agreed.’ There was no mistaking the sneer in his voice. ‘And it will be. You have my wealth and my name. And as long as you are discreet, I will not interfere with your … amusements. Neither will I impose myself on you overmuch.’ Her heart sank at this cold assessment of their future. ‘But I need an heir. And there must be no room for an annulment if your uncle decides to be uncooperative and you wish to escape from the clutches of Cousin Charles.’

‘Yes, my lord. I know my duty.’ Her reply was as cold as his, masking the misery in her heart.

‘That sounds very cold comfort. I believe it is possible to derive some pleasure from a wifely duty.’ A faint smile accompanied the mockery in the lines around his thinned lips. ‘Am I so unpalatable to you as a husband?’

‘No, my lord.’

He bent his head again to claim her lips with his own, at the same time releasing her hair from its ribbons in a perfumed cascade on to her shoulders. He wound his hand into the silken length of it to hold her in submission as he increased the pressure on her mouth. Against her will her lips opened tentatively under his. Shock swept through her as, withdrawing a little, his tongue traced the outline of her lips before invading again. He released her, but only so that his hands could deal with the fastenings of her gown.

‘It seems that I must be servant as well as lover tonight,’ he murmured against her throat.

He left a trail of feathery kisses from her jaw along the curve of her throat to her shoulder as his fingers expertly worked their way through the tiny buttons and laces. Frances was only aware of the heat spreading throughout her body from her toes to her hairline as the white sprigged muslin slipped into a pool at her feet. Her breathing was shallow and she gasped as his hard mouth returned to possess her lips once more. All she could hope for was that he would be understanding of her ignorance and lack of experience.

Aldeborough was acutely aware of her anxiety in the tension in every part of her body, in the rapid beat of her pulse beneath his lips. ‘Do you trust me?’

She stood rigidly in his embrace.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied honestly, her eyes wide with apprehension.

His answering touch was gentle, holding her captive, pressing her soft curves to the length of his body. He moved his hands to caress the sides of her ribs through her fine chemise and allowed his palms to brush the soft swell of her breasts. Then, as she heard his own breathing change, he let his hands fall and stepped back—but only to kneel at her feet with elegant grace to remove her garters. His fingers stroked the satin skin of her thigh, calf, ankle, as he smoothed her stockings down to her delicately arched feet.

At last he rose, pausing to snuff the branch of candles to allow her the anonymity of darkness.

He stood and looked at her in the flickering shadows cast by the one remaining candle. Her eyes were dark and fathomless like bottomless pools. Her skin ivory, flushed with rose, but icy, her whole body held in check as if her one desire was to flee from his touch.

‘I am afraid,’ she whispered.

‘But there is no need.’

He stooped to lift her into his arms effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing, and then laid her on the high bed. He was touched by compassion. He would do his best for her, to make it an acceptable experience. He stayed only to divest himself of his clothing before stretching his body beside her and began to kiss her. Gently at first, them more urgently, her mouth, hair, face, then along her throat to her shoulders, his lips burning on her cool skin. She had never imagined that her cool self-possessed husband could generate such fire. She shivered as he pushed aside her chemise and allowed his hands to drift down her slender body, brushing her nipples and stroking her flat stomach. Frances felt a response awaken deep within her when she become acutely aware of his arousal, strong and hard against her thigh. He continued his exploration of her body, discovering tantalising curves and hollows that fit so naturally against his palms, teasing her nipples with his tongue until they became erect. She gasped at the electric effect, the heat in her blood, and hid her face against his shoulder, conscious of his own disciplined breathing as if holding his actions on a tight rein.

Then he changed his position so that he could part her thighs with his knee and stroke the impossibly soft flesh. For a long moment she held her breath, her whole body trembling at the touch of his fingers in such an intimate caress. Her brain refused to allow her to respond to the incredible sensation of his naked body pressed against hers, cool skin against cool skin. He lifted himself above her, taking as much of his weight as he could on his elbows.

‘Trust me,’ he repeated breathlessly. ‘I will try to hurt you as little as I can. Now!’

With a firm thrust he penetrated her. She cried out against the unexpected invasion that filled her, stretched her, causing her to struggle for the first time against the intrusion.

‘Lie still,’ he ordered, but his voice was infinitely gentle. And he remained motionless himself except to brush his lips over her hair and eyes and then finally her mouth, parting her lips with his tongue as he had invaded her body. She allowed her taut muscles to relax again and as soon as he sensed it he began to move within her. Slowly at first. She tensed her muscles again momentarily against his total possession of her body, but his smooth controlled movements did not lessen. His thrusts became deeper and more urgent so that she clung to him, fingernails buried in his shoulders as there seemed to be no other alternative. Then, as desire finally overset his iron control, he shuddered into his climax, pinning her to the bed with the weight of his body. Frances lay in emotional and physical emptiness, sensation ebbing, leaving her devastated, drained of coherent thought. Why had she found it impossible to respond with any warmth—even the merest hint of pleasure? She knew in her heart that he had taken her with care and compassionate tenderness—so why did she feel that she had in some way failed him? And yet she had sensed something there for her in his touch far beyond her reach.

Aldeborough slowly withdrew to lie beside her, leaving one arm thrown possessively across her body. He had found her most appealing, slim and firm with small high breasts. Her skin was like water over silk. He smoothed his hand along the satin length of her back to her waist and over the curve of her hip. He had found no difficulty in becoming aroused and consummating their marriage. But in spite of physical satisfaction he was disturbed by a ripple of unease. True, she had not repulsed him, but he had been unable to break through her intense reserve. For the most part she had remained rigid and unresponsive.

He had not expected this, in spite of her ignorance. Aldeborough knew that she had a courageous, vital spirit beneath her quiet demeanour, and except for that one occasion in the library at the Priory, she had never flinched from him. Nor had she ever attacked him with tears or recriminations. He had thought that she would take some pleasure from their coupling, or at least accept it with equanimity. But not this withdrawal, rejection even. He was surprised by an unexpected twinge of failure for all his experience. He had not done his best for her. He could have taken more time to awaken her emotions and senses, but he had believed that it would merely have prolonged the agony of anticipation for her.

Aldeborough sighed and, drawing away from her, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, hunting in the dark to retrieve his discarded clothing. He was halted by the hesitant touch on his arm. He turned back to her where she lay, lost in shadows except for the gleam of the moonlight on her chemise.

‘My lord …’ her voice was barely a whisper ‘… did I displease you? I am sorry if you found me … unattractive. But I didn’t know—’

‘Frances.’ It struck him like a physical blow that she believed he had abandoned her in disgust. And how hard it must have been for her to turn to him. ‘You must never think that. I simply thought that you might like some privacy. That you might wish to sleep alone.’

‘Of course. Forgive me.’ The words tumbled out in an agony of embarrassment. ‘I did not mean to imply … I did not intend to impose on you.’ She turned away so that all he could see were her rigid shoulders.

He sighed. He should have been more careful with her. With all his experience he had frightened her and there was now little he could do to remedy it. His conscience pricked him with a full-blown blast of guilt. He rolled back on to the bed. ‘Come here,’ he said gently.

‘Please don’t be angry with me.’

Which was a strange thing for her to say. ‘Why should I?’

He pulled the chemise modestly down around her ankles and rearranged the lace neckline so that it lay becomingly around her shoulders. He pushed her hair away from her face, running his fingers through the tangles until she cried out in protest. Her eyes were closed, but he was relieved that there were no tears. He drew her gently into his arms so that her head rested on his shoulder and tucked the sheet comfortingly around them both—as if she was a child in need of reassurance. She made no resistance.

‘Are you comfortable?’

He felt the tiniest nod of her head against his chest.

‘You must never think that you disgust me, Frances. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘You are allowed to call me Hugh.’ She could hear the smile in his voice, but she had suffered enough intimacies for one night and simply turned her face into his shoulder.

Silence fell between them.

He felt no inclination to break it.

‘Go to sleep, Frances Rosalind,’ he murmured. Virgins were the very devil, he mused. Not that he had much knowledge of them. Letitia Winter’s practised embraces were far more predictable and never disappointing. For a moment he enjoyed the image of Letitia’s ample breasts and shapely hips, and remembered the touch of her clever fingers as she roused him to heights of mutual pleasure. And then he closed his mind to it. He stroked his wife’s hair until she relaxed against him and her breathing deepened. She was warm and soft and pliable in his arms. He felt a surprising feeling of contentment steal through his limbs. Eventually he followed her into sleep.

She awoke as the first light of dawn crept into the room to find him gone. Her body felt sore as she turned over in bed and sat up, her muscles complaining. The imprint of his body and head were still clear beside her, but she had no memory of his leaving. Her gown and petticoats had been neatly folded on to a chair with her stockings on top and her shoes beneath, but his clothes were gone. She was not sorry. Shyness overcame her as she remembered the demands of his body on her own. And shame that she had been so frozen into unresponsive rigidity. But she also remembered his kindness and the gentle tenderness that she had not expected. She raised her hand to her mouth. She fancied that she could still taste his kisses and sense the imprint of his lips on her throat as if they had left actual marks on her fair skin. She swung her legs out of bed, hoping that she might regain her composure with her clothing before she had to confront him again.