The Runaway Heiress Read Free Page B

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...
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