At best I was treated as a poor relation, at worst as the lowest of the servants. There was never any love in my upbringing. Only duty. And why should Charles consider marrying me if my reputation is so besmirched?’ A slight frown marred the smoothness of her brow. Aldeborough was moved by a sudden inclination to smooth it away with his fingers. He resisted the temptation. Matters were difficult enough.
‘That is not something for you to worry about. It is no longer necessary.’
‘You are very kind. And, indeed, I am honoured, but you need not marry me. The mistakes of a night—my mistakes—should not be allowed to blight the rest of your life.’
‘I was thinking of the rest of your life, Miss Hanwell.’
Frances raised her eyes to search his fine-featured face, touched by the compassion in his voice, but seeing little evidence of it in his expression. No man had the right to have such splendid eyes, she thought inconsequentially. Dark grey and thickly fringed with black lashes. But they held no emotion, certainly no warmth or sympathy, merely a cold, calculating strength of will.
She shook her head. Before she could reply, Rivers entered the drawing room again on silent feet and coughed gently.
‘Sir Ambrose Dutton, my lord.’
Aldeborough turned to greet his friend, instantly recognised by Frances as one of her uncle’s guests from the previous night. Her heart sank even further, if that were possible.
She could not face such an embarrassing encounter yet with someone who had witnessed her shame.
‘Excuse me, my lord. Sir Ambrose.’ She dropped a curtsy and followed Rivers from the room with as much dignity as she could muster, the enormity of her situation finally hitting home as she became uncomfortably aware of the cynical and knowing amusement curling Sir Ambrose’s lips at the very moment he saw her unmistakably in deep and intimate conversation with his host.
‘Well, Ambrose? Was I expecting you to drop by this morning?’ Aldeborough’s expression was a hard won study in guilelessness.
Ambrose’s brows rose. So that was how he wished to play the scene. So be it. ‘Yes, you were. How’s your head, Hugh?’ He cast his riding whip and gloves on to a side table. ‘You don’t deserve to be on your feet yet after Torrington’s inferior claret.’
‘If it’s any consolation, my head is probably worse than yours.’ He grimaced and threw himself down into one of the armchairs. ‘I hope I don’t look as destroyed as you do!’
‘You do, Hugh, you do!’ He paused for a moment—and then plunged. ‘Forgive me for touching on a delicate subject. But why is Miss Hanwell apparently in residence at the Priory? It would appear that you had a more interesting night than I had appreciated.’
‘You do not know the half of it!’
‘So are you going to tell me?’ Exasperation won. ‘Or do I have to wring it out of you?’
‘Why not?’ Aldeborough took a deep breath, rubbed his hands over his face as if to erase the unwelcome images, and proceeded to enlighten Sir Ambrose on the events of the night.
‘And so,’ he finished, ‘I brought her here, too drunk to think of the consequences. Although I am not sure of the alternatives since we were halfway to the Priory before I discovered her. I suppose I could have turned round and taken her straight back to Torrington. Still …’ There was more than a little self-disgust in his voice as he glanced up and frowned at Ambrose. ‘It was not well done, was it?’
‘No.’ Ambrose, as ever, was brutally frank. ‘It is always the same—too much alcohol and you can be completely irrational. And as for the girl, throwing herself in your way so obviously. Was she worth it?’
‘Show some respect, damn you!’ Aldeborough surprised his friend by surging to his feet, rounding on him in a sudden whiplash of temper. ‘Do you really think I would seduce an innocent young girl?’
‘Probably not. Probably too drunk.’
Aldeborough relaxed a little, bared his teeth in the semblance of a grin, admitting the truth of it. ‘You should know—I have asked Miss Hanwell to marry me.’
Ambrose paused as the significance of this statement sank in. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t realise. But, Hugh!’ He rose to his feet, took a hasty turn about the room and returned to stand before the fireplace. ‘Don’t let them trap you into marriage. You wouldn’t want to be connected with the Torrington set. And apart from that, she would not seem to have much to recommend her. She is no beauty.’
‘No, she is not. But I believe that she needs a refuge. I can provide one.’ Aldeborough turned away with weary resignation. ‘What does it matter? As my loving mother would tell you, it is high time I took a wife and produced an heir to the Lafford estates. Any girl would marry me for my wealth and title. At least Miss Hanwell is not a fortune hunter.’
‘What makes you so sure? Torrington would be more than happy to get his hands on your money through his niece. He probably put her up to it.’
Sardonic amusement flitted across Aldeborough’s face. ‘I am certain that Miss Hanwell is no fortune hunter, because so far she has refused my offer.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ Ambrose stared in amazement.
‘Oh, it is true. And, I might tell you, it has been quite a blow to my self-esteem to be turned down!’
The third stair from the bottom creaked loudly under her foot. Frances froze and held her breath, listening intently to the silent spaces around her. Nothing. Clutching her cloak about her with one hand and a bandbox containing her few borrowed possessions with the other, Frances continued her cautious descent. The splendidly panelled entrance hall, its polished oak floorboards stretching before her, was deserted—she had planned that it was late enough for all the servants to have retired. A branch of candles was still burning by the main door, presumably now locked and bolted, but it made little impression on the shadowy corners. If she could make her way through to the kitchens and servants’ quarters, surely she could find an easier method of escape—an unlocked door or even a window if no other means of escape presented itself.
After her rapid exit from the drawing room earlier in the day, she had remained in her room, pleading a headache, and submitting to the kindly ministrations of Mrs Scott. It had become clear to her through much heartsearching that she must not only make some decisions, but act on them before she was drawn any further into the present train of events over which she appeared to have less and less control. She had allowed herself a few pleasant moments of daydreaming, imagining herself accepting Aldeborough’s offer to allow her to live a life of luxury and comfort. She pictured herself taking the ton by storm, clad in a cloud of palest green gauze and silk. When she reached the point of waltzing round a glittering ballroom with diamond earrings and fashionably curled and ringletted hair, in the arms of a tall darkly handsome man, she rapidly pulled herself together and banished Aldeborough’s austere features and elegant figure from her mind.
He has no wish to marry you, she told herself sternly. He is only moved by honour and duty and pity. She had had enough of that. And since when was it possible to rely on any man when his own selfish interests were involved? It would be far more sensible to find somewhere to take refuge for a few short months until she reached her twenty-first birthday and the promise of her inheritance.
There was only one
