The Runaway Heiress Read Free Page A

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 a 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