The Runaway Heiress (13 page)

'I
don't flirt!'

'And
neither does Frances. If we were anywhere else, I would plant you a leveller.'
Ambrose smiled, enjoying his success in provoking his friend. 'It is a pity you
can't see what's under your nose.'

'And
who gave you permission to call my wife Frances?'

'You
did!'

Aldeborough's
fury grew as he knew he was in the wrong. 'Go to the Devil.' He turned on his
heel to stride after his wife.

Ambrose watched them
leave the ballroom. Hugh was exhibiting all the symptoms of a jealous and
possessive husband if he did but know it. Ambrose shrugged and went in search
of some convivial company with whom he might play a hand of cards, a thoughtful
expression in his eyes. He hoped Frances had the courage to stand up to the
irate Marquis. The outcome might be interesting. Ambrose thought that Hugh
might just have met his match.

She
knew that it was not in his nature to allow the matter to rest or his anger to
grow cold and she was afraid. She did not know what he and Ambrose had said to
each other, but her husband had left the Taverners' town house in a towering
fury. The atmosphere in the carriage was white hot with a tension that all but
crackled in the air. The Dowager had appeared oblivious, filling the silence
with inconsequential but often malicious comment on those present at the ball.
Frances answered as required, all the time aware of Aldeborough's brooding
presence. Juliet prattled about dresses and dancing.

Her maid removed her
exquisite gown with care, unpinned her hair, replaced the pearl set in its
velvet case and wished her mistress goodnight. Frances, troubled by all she had
learned that night, paced the floor, the silken lace folds of her robe swishing
round her feet. She kept her own anger stoked inside her, reliving her first
sight of her husband pressing his lips to
that
woman's
jewelled fingers, refusing to acknowledge the underlying
shimmer of nerves across her skin.

He entered with his usual
feline grace, but without his usual courteous knock. He closed the door
quietly, far more sinister than if he had slammed it, and turned the key in the
lock. It spoke of an iron determination not to be gainsaid and made Frances
catch her breath. He had taken time to divest himself of his evening finery and
was now clad in a sumptuous blue satin dressing gown. The expression on his
face was not a pleasant one.

She was left standing in
the centre of the room in mid-pace, feeling foolish. This determined her not to
be put at a disadvantage so she turned to face him, feigning a confidence which
she did not feel.

'I see that you were
expecting me, Madame Wife!'

'Yes.' She raised her chin
higher.

'I did not expect to have
to say this. I will not have you flirting with other men. Do you understand
me?'

'I do not flirt with
other men '
She was swept with a sense of
outrage that she certainly did not have to pretend to. 'I have never flirted in
my life. Your accusations are groundless.'

'So what exactly was
Hanwell doing, holding your hands, kissing your fingers? And then I find you in
a secluded conversation with Ambrose! It seems that I misjudged the woman I
married.'

Her face paled at the
injustice of it all. 'How dare you! Ambrose danced with me when
you
would not! You seemed to be far too involved
admiring Miss Ingram—and I was only holding Ambrose' s hand for... for
comfort.'

'If it is comfort you
want, try me.' He held out his hand imperiously, hiding the bitter jealousy
that lodged in his gut. It was riding him hard, to his disgust, but his control
faltered as he remembered Frances, her eyes dark with pain that he had caused,
offering her hand to his friend, who had had no compunction in taking it. The
fact that he knew Frances to be totally innocent made not one bit of
difference. She was his, and he would share her with no one.

'Give me your hands,' he
repeated.

'No!' Frances hid her
hands behind her back and shook her head. His arrogance spurred her on to the
offensive.

'I am surprised that you
had the time to notice what I was doing,' she reflected in a clear voice,
shaking inside at her impetuosity. The result could be like rousing a sleeping
tiger. 'How could you possibly drag your attention away from the charms of Mrs
Winters?' Frances held her breath. What had possessed her to challenge him so
openly?

Aldeborough stiffened as
if she had struck him. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Mrs Winters was pointed
out to me by any number of people,' she explained, with more intent than
honesty, meeting his daggerlike gaze.

'What do you know of
Letitia Winters?' His usual smooth tones had the edge of a blade to them.

'Very little,' she
admitted. 'Is there more I should know? It appears to be common knowledge that
you enjoy her company more than a little.' Frances turned her back on him and
moved towards the fireplace, her shoulders tense as she awaited his reply,
aware that she was playing with fire, but reckless enough not to care, carried
along on a relentless wave of righteous indignation.

'She has nothing to do
with our marriage. She is not your concern.'

"Then you have no
right to question my behaviour, even if it was improper—which I do not to any
degree admit! Charles and Ambrose have never treated me with anything but
perfect propriety. You have no right to stand in judgement.'

'I have every right. You
are my wife. And so you belong to me, body and soul.' He strode across the
room, seized her shoulders and shook her with a barely suppressed anger and
clenched teeth. 'If it is romantic dalliance you crave, then I will provide it.
I have more expertise than Ambrose,' he added with an arrogance that took her
breath away.

He tore at the ribbons on
her wrapper, pushing the fragile material from her shoulders so that it fell
with a whisper of silk to the floor. He felt her flinch, saw her eyes become
flat and distant, and was instantly flooded with a terrible mingling of anger
and desire. It swept away civilised behaviour and the manners of polite society
and returned him to the basic primeval need of a man to possess the woman who
was his.

'You seem unwilling to
respond to my caresses with anything but tolerance. Perhaps I have not tried
hard enough.'

She cried out
involuntarily as the tangled emotions, kept at bay for so long, attacked her
senses, but he silenced her by crushing her mouth under his, holding her lips
captive with one hand twisted in her hair. He imprisoned her with his other
arm, her body pressed firmly against his. He parted her lips, invading with his
tongue, his mouth hot and hard. Here was no delicacy or gentle persuasion, no
courtesy or consideration for an untutored bride, but intimate, demanding
possession. The touch of his fingers burned through the fine lawn of her chemise
and she was supremely conscious of the power of his body as he crushed her
against him, breast to breast, thigh to thigh.

He unlaced her chemise and
pushed it from her shoulders so that it caught at her elbows. His hot kisses
blazed a molten trail, startling her in their intensity. She shivered. His
hands ranged, carelessly, greedily, over her shoulders, her breasts, her back.
He raised his head, eyes blinded with passion, to rake her pallor, and would
have taken possession of her mouth once more when he caught a fleeting
reflection of them in the mirror of her dressing table. He froze, eyes
narrowed, fingers rigid. And then he startled Frances by abruptly releasing
her, stepping back and away. Confusion swirled in her brain. Would he walk away
and leave her in this tangle of emotion that she did not understand? She
watched as Aldeborough walked to the side table and picked up a branch of
candles.

'Turn round.' His voice
was expressionless. He had his emotions well in hand, but it was still an
order.

She backed away with a
little shake of her head. She could not bear for him to see her shame and made
to draw her chemise over her shoulders again.

He stretched out a hand to
stop her. 'No. Turn round.' She could no longer disobey the stern command and
turned, hesitantly, head bent, knowing what would be revealed by the
unforgiving light from the candles.

He raised the light high,
pushing the soft material down from her shoulders, exposing her back to the
candles' flames. The soft light glimmered on the welter of pale silvery stripes
across her ivory skin, from shoulder to waist. The scars were well healed but
evidence, undoubtedly, of beatings that had broken the skin. And on more than
one occasion.

For one long moment he
said nothing, did nothing, unable to take in the enormity of it. Then he
touched the marks with fingers suddenly exquisitely gentle, tracing the lines
of the scars as they criss-crossed the skin, no longer satin smooth as it
should have been. How could he have missed such brands before? Probably because
you never looked, never expected anything so vile, he admonished himself in
disgust. All anger, all unwarranted resentment against her drained out of him,
to be replaced by infinite tenderness and compassion. On impulse, he bent his
head and pressed his lips to the ugly traces of cruel treatment.

'Who did
this to you?' he asked in a low voice. But he knew the answer.

She shrugged as if it were
a matter of small consequence. 'My uncle.' But he was not fooled. He had heard
the catch in her voice and he had felt the trembling beneath his lips.

Slowly, carefully,
fighting to gain mastery over the fury that surged through his blood, he put
down the candles on the dressing table, readjusted her chemise over her back
and shoulders, refastened the ribbon ties with extreme precision and took her
by the hand. He led her to the cushioned couch at the foot of the bed where he
seated himself and pulled her to sit beside him. She followed him, biddable as
a child.

'Can you tell me about
it?'

She shook her head, biting
her bottom lip, and pulled her hands away to clasp them tightly in her lap. For
some reason that she could not analyse, the scars were degrading, as if the
fault had been hers. She did not wish Aldeborough to know about them: she
feared that he would feel less of her for causing them. It was bad enough that
he should know, that whenever he touched her in future he would be aware of the
ugly, disfiguring scars.

'Tell me!' he persisted,
determined not to allow her to withdraw, shocked by the deep flash of fear in
her eyes.

When she still remained
silent he took possession of her hands again. 'Frances, not all men are like
your uncle. I will not beat you. I will never wittingly hurt you. Tell me about
the beatings.'

She found her voice, a
little husky and uncertain, but firm enough. 'I did tell you, if you remember.
My uncle...when I tried to run away. He tied me to the bed post and...well, as
you can see.'

'But this is more than one
beating, isn't it?'

'Yes.' She sighed.

'He hurt you.' He frowned
as his mind failed to grasp the outrage of it.

She merely nodded, her
teeth buried in her bottom lip.

'But why?'

'I don't think he needed a
reason. But it is true that I was not always very co-operative. Probably I
deserved it—I was always made to believe so. Once I was late home—my horse had
gone lame, but he thought I had tried to escape again and... I don't want to
talk about it.'

He was
horrified at her calm acceptance of the punishments.

'Nothing
you did could have made such treatment accept able! Was there no one for you to
turn to? Your aunt or your cousin?'
         

Her
gaze lifted to his, filled with mockery. 'It was easier for them if they
pretended it did not happen.'

He
caressed her fingers, considering his next words.

'Did...did
your uncle touch you in any other way?'

She
shuddered under his hands as his meaning became
clear. 'No,' she whispered.

Relief
washed over him.

'Was
there never anyone to show you any love, any affection, Frances?' He knew the
answer and could not bear it.

She
shook her head, hiding her face from him.

'You
don't like men very much, do you? And, in God’s
name, who could blame you?'

'I
have had no cause to.'

He
released her to rub his hands over his face. 'I suppose I haven't helped any.
What can I do?' He did not expect
an
answer, but her resilience surprised
him.

'You
have nothing to blame yourself for. How could you? You rescued me from a life
worse than you can imagine, giving me a home of my own and all this.' She
gestured to
the
room and her clothes. A delicate colour had returned to
her face and
sparkle to her eyes. 'I have a life of luxury. And
I am no longer afraid. I do not wake up
every morning, fearing that...that I might do something wrong which would merit
punishment. How could you ever realise how important that is to me? How could I
possibly have any recriminations against you?'

'But
yet you still flinch from me. You accept my love-making, but without pleasure.
I think that you still believe that I might beat you given any provocation. Do
you find my touch so objectionable? Be honest with me, Frances.'

'No.'
It was a mere whisper.

'Look
at me, Frances.' She raised her eyes, dark with painful memories and suppressed
tears that she would not allow
to fall. 'I promise on my honour that I will never hurt
you.' He smiled to try to lighten the tension. 'I will never beat you or strike
you or any of the other dreadful things you might
envisage. Do you believe me? Do you
trust me?'

She
looked into his eyes, compelled by the brilliance she saw there. 'Yes,' she
answered simply.