by Anne O'Brien
Frances was taken aback by such candour. ‘Indeed, Charles, there is no need—’
‘But there is,’ he interrupted. ‘Are you happy?’ he asked brusquely.
‘Well, I …’ She pulled her hand from his clasp in some confusion. How should she answer?
‘Forgive me if I seem too forward. But does Aldeborough treat you well? I know that he has a reputation—and his name has been linked with any number of ladies in the past. You do not deserve to be slighted or neglected by an inattentive husband.’
Frances stepped back from her cousin. She might appreciate his concern for her well being, but she would not discuss her husband with him. ‘You must not say such things to me,’ she responded, a cool note apparent in her voice. ‘He is very kind and I can have no criticism of his behaviour towards me.’
‘There, I have disturbed you, which is something I wished most to avoid.’ Charles smiled ruefully, quickly attempting to heal the small rift that had appeared. ‘I simply hoped that he does not neglect you. It can be very lonely in town if you do not have a wide acquaintance.’
‘Indeed, I am not lonely.’
‘Of course not. But I saw Aldeborough at Newmarket this week and noticed that you were not with him.’
‘No. But he has his own life to lead. And I mine. There is no need for your concern.’
‘And I am sure that you are finding much to entertain you. It would not be expected that you would live in each other’s pockets. And I doubt you would approve of all of his interests.’ He smiled to remove any hint of criticism. ‘He lost a considerable amount of money at Newmarket—but I suppose that when you are in possession of such a vast fortune, losing so much is of little consequence.’
‘No.’ Frances frowned, uncertain of Charles’s intentions.
‘And with the problems in the Lafford family in the past, it really is a case of still waters. But as long as you are content, then I am satisfied.’
Frances felt a sudden urge to ask about these unspecified problems of the past, but a reluctance to encourage Charles kept her silent. And, after all, he would not be an impartial observer.
‘Your solicitude is very touching.’
‘But of course. You are my cousin.’
For a long moment Frances considered his words, studying his handsome face and compassionate eyes. Memories of her existence at Torrington Hall flooded back, forcing her to respond to the kind words with brutal honesty.
‘Forgive me, Charles. I have to admit to some surprise. I do not remember you being quite so considerate of my feelings when I lived at Torrington Hall. You never enquired as to my happiness then.’ She could not prevent the sting of censure as she tried to match Charles’s present words with her past recollections of him. True, he had never shown the careless indifference, cruelty even, of her aunt and uncle, but neither had he shown her any affection, or championed her against the neglect. And he had not stayed his father’s whip. For that she found it difficult to forgive him.
‘Frances. That is untrue. You know how difficult it is to take a stand against my father. Even the slightest resistance or criticism pushed him to further excess. I always did what I could. But short of removing you from the household, I could not remove you from his jurisdiction. And, after all, he is your legal guardian. But perhaps I deserve your poor opinion.’ A smile with a touch of sadness and regret lit his face and admiration gleamed once more in his eyes. ‘I am pleased to see that things have worked out so well for you. I am only sad that we two could not have made a match of it as my father had planned. It was my dearest wish.’
Charles held her eyes with his own intense gaze for a long moment and then, as if embarrassed by this declaration and daunted by Frances’s silence, he gathered up his hat and gloves and made to leave.
‘I must go. Perhaps I have said too much, but my concern for you is immeasurable. Will you promise me one thing?’ His face was set and serious. ‘If you ever need help of any kind, please don’t hesitate to ask me. I would count it a privilege to be at your service, my lady. And perhaps have the opportunity to put right some of the wrongs of the past. I am sure that you understand me.’
He raised her hand again to his lips and once more bent to salute her cheek, his eyes meeting hers with an intimate warmth that surprised her. She found herself returning the smile, relieved that she and her cousin should part on such good terms. Perhaps she had misjudged him in the past. She did not pull her hand away when he smiled so warmly at her.
Upon which the door opened to reveal the Marquis of Aldeborough on the threshold. With slow deliberation he took in the scene before him, eyes narrowed, expression enigmatic.
Frances looked at him in some consternation, angry at the sudden flush that stained her cheeks, but her gaze was steady and direct.
‘Good afternoon, Aldeborough,’ she said with calm composure. ‘Here is Cousin Charles, who is in Town for a few days.’
‘Of course. It appears to be becoming a habit of mine to interrupt meetings between your family and my wife, sir.’ He executed an impeccable bow.
‘I was about to take my leave, my lord,’ Charles responded as affably as possible under that flintlike stare.
‘Then do not let me detain you.’
Charles made an apologetic inclination of the head in Frances’s direction. ‘I trust that I will have the opportunity to see you again before I return to Torrington Hall, my lady. Perhaps at the Taverners’ ball. My lord.’ With a curt nod to Aldeborough, he left the room.
Frances turned to face her husband. ‘You were not very friendly, my lord.’
‘I do not feel very friendly. What was he doing here?’
‘He only came to wish me well and hoped that I was happy.’
‘I noticed.’ His voice was cold with condemnation. ‘He was kissing your hand. And your cheek. There is no knowing what liberties he would have taken if I had not come into the room at that moment.’
Frances was almost speechless at such an unwarranted accusation. ‘Liberties?’ she gasped. ‘He is my cousin!’
‘Be clear on this, Frances. I will not have you kissing other men, cousin or no.’
‘Really!’ A flash of anger lit her eyes as she rejected this high-handed attitude from her husband, who had absented himself at Newmarket for the past three days and left her to her own devices. And who, it seemed, not only had the reputation of being an accomplished flirt, but kept a very attractive mistress! ‘How dare you dictate how I should respond to my cousin!’
‘Very easily. And, let me remind you, you were very keen to escape from his presence some weeks ago. There seemed to be no warmth in your relationship then. Obviously I have missed something here.’ His eyes were cold and searching.
‘What are you suggesting? Besides, you said that we should live our own lives. As you are clearly doing!’
‘With discretion!’ he flung back. ‘Kissing Charles in the withdrawing room is not discreet.’
‘Are you really suggesting that I would do anything improper?’
‘You might not, but I have little confidence in the rest of your family.’
‘I really do not think that is fair when you—’
Frances bit back the words before she could say more, fortunately, she felt, as they were interrupted by the arrival of Juliet, who chose to be oblivious to the heated atmosphere in the room.
‘Hello, Hugh. We’ve missed you. How was Newmarket?’ He glared at her cheerful presence, but she ignored him. ‘Was that your cousin I saw leaving just now, Frances?’
‘Yes.’
‘What a pity I did not join you earlier. I didn’t realise that he was so attractive. You could have introduced me to him.’
Aldeborough looked from one to the other, his face suddenly expressionless, words beyond him.
‘There really is no accounting for taste,’ he snarled at last and with a gesture of disgust flung out of the room.
‘What’s happened to put him in such a bad humour?’ Juliet stared after h
im in some surprise. ‘His horse won at Newmarket so I thought he would be in a good mood. I don’t suppose you asked him if he would accompany us to the Taverners’ ball tonight?’
Frances sighed. A chill settled round her heart.
Chapter Seven
The Taverners’ Ball was the event of the Season. Although early and London still shy of the haute ton, the crush in the flower-decked, silk-hung rooms of Viscount Taverner’s magnificent town house testified to society’s desire to put itself on show. And, of course, the Marquis of Aldeborough and the new Marchioness would be present.
For Frances, fashionably turned out in her favourite jonquil silk with cream and gold ribbons, decorated with knots of silk primroses, it was an occasion that combined pleasure, fear, satisfaction and jealousy in a subtle but complicated weave. Afterwards she was to remember it as a series of brilliant jewel-like cameos, one imposed on another, swamping her mind and senses with images that she would never forget—and one that troubled her heart and her dreams and allowed her no peace.
To her delight and intense relief, Frances found herself accepted and drawn into the Wigmore fold. Aldeborough took the opportunity of the Ball to introduce her to the Earl of Wigmore, a young, fair-haired man with an open smiling countenance. The Earl called on the help of his Countess who was, as he explained, a veritable expert on the ramifications of the family tree. Frances was soon identified as the daughter of Aunt Cecilia about whom No One Ever Spoke, not after she had been so misguided as to run off to marry such an unsuitable young man and his grandfather had put his foot down. The Earl, of course, had been far too young to remember the events in detail or to be involved in such undoubtedly unfair banishment from the family’s embrace. The old Earl had been a stickler for family pride and advantageous marriages. And for Cecilia to flout his authority and deliberately set herself against his dictates …
Well, that was all in the past now and should be forgotten: and the Earl was sure that the Hanwells were most respectable—although they did not mix socially with Viscount and Lady Torrington, you understand—and he was pleased to make his unknown cousin’s acquaintance, particularly since she was now Marchioness of Aldeborough. He could not fail to miss the cynical smile from Aldeborough as the Countess invited Frances to take tea with her later in the week when they might discuss their bloodlines at leisure. Cynical the Marquis might be, but Frances could not deny her satisfaction at their casual acceptance.
The country dancing presented Frances with a challenge that she was able to meet without drawing too much attention to her inadequacies, at least when her nerves allowed her heart beat to quieten and her pulse rate to slow. Matthew, beginning the initiation, proved to be as graceful on the dance floor as he was on horseback, as well as an easy conversationalist, as he led her into a cotillion. She had some experience of the intricate changes and figures from her youthful days of basic education with the daughters of the Rector of Torrington.
‘All you need is a little confidence,’ Matthew encouraged her, aware of her pallor and anxious glances at what her feet might be doing. ‘That wasn’t too bad, was it?’ as he led her from the floor. ‘Here.’ He hailed Ambrose, unusually elegant in dark coat and satin knee breeches. ‘Let Ambrose lead you through a quadrille. And remember, you are allowed to converse with him. Your feet can manage quite well without being watched and you don’t need to count so feverishly—or aloud!’
Ambrose grinned; Frances smiled and relaxed, enjoying the tempo of the music, the patterns of the measures, the butterfly hues of the dancers around her. She glimpsed Aldeborough further down the set, holding the hand of a vivacious brunette as she twirled delightfully beneath his raised arm. Her dress was the rose-embroidered white muslin of a débutante and she was smiling shyly up into his face.
‘Who is the lady dancing with Aldeborough?’ Frances asked as the movement of the dance brought them together. Ambrose strained round the adjacent pair to look.
‘Miss Ingram, one of this year’s leading débutantes,’ he informed her. ‘She is regarded as a diamond of the first water.’
‘Yes, she is.’ Frances managed to catch another glimpse of the feminine figure, fair ringlets and large, deep brown eyes.
‘She has had a number of offers already,’ Ambrose continued helpfully. ‘Above my touch, of course, even if I was considering getting shackled, which I am not. Her mama held out high hopes of Hugh. So did a few others with eligible daughters after he set up a flirtation. That is … until—’ He stopped, catching Frances’s interested and faintly horrified expression with some remorse. Then the demands of the quadrille parted them again. As it ended and he bowed over her hand, leading her from the floor, he apologised.
‘Forgive me, Frances. I should not have said what I did. Not to you.’
Frances sighed, relieved that her relationship with Ambrose was now sufficiently relaxed to allow her some honesty.
‘Why not, if it is the truth?’ She smiled reassuringly at him, ignoring the ache in her heart. ‘We both know I am not the bride he would have chosen. I would rather know the truth than live in a fantasy.’
‘Yes, I suppose you would.’ His face was grave, a frown between his brows. ‘Hugh does not realise how lucky he is! And I suppose I should not have said that either.’ He lifted her hand to his lips again with more than a mere polite salute, jolted by the depth of sadness in her eyes. As Frances turned her head to hide her emotions from his sharp gaze, she was struck by the sensation of being under scrutiny. She looked up to see Aldeborough watching her from across the room. She held the gaze for a long moment, unable to interpret it, and then turned back to exchange a conversation with Juliet who had joined them, charming in maiden’s blush pink, but not before she had noted the frown in Aldeborough’s eyes and the tightening of his lips. She would not show that she cared.
Aldeborough detached himself from Miss Ingram to lead Frances into a waltz. His set expression and the cold quartz-like glint in his eyes did not auger well, but Frances set herself to ignore the drop in temperature. If he felt that duty forced him into soliciting a waltz from his wife, then she would oblige. And if he was still ruffled over Charles’s visit, there was nothing she could do about it. She achieved a bright smile and swept a graceful curtsy.
‘I think I should warn you that I have never waltzed before,’ she informed him as his arm encircled her waist in what she could only describe as an intimate embrace. ‘The Rector of Torrington did not consider it a proper dance for his daughters to participate in, so I have never learnt the steps.’
There was nothing intimate in his reply or his tone.
‘I realise that. You have trodden on my feet at least three times since we began in spite of all my efforts to lead you. Perhaps your mind is on other things.’ His expression and tone of voice gave her no encouragement.
‘How unfair! I did tell you that I had no talents, if you remember,’ she remarked, sounding, even to her own ears, waspish, but without remorse.
‘I do remember. You were very accurate.’
‘And you are in a very bad mood!’ She jettisoned any attempts to be conciliatory and glared at him. ‘You are spoiling my first ball.’
‘Fortunately you are not short of partners who, it appears, are perfectly willing to be in a good mood.’
She could think of no way to answer this and finished her first waltz in glacial and dignified silence.
It was true that she did not lack for partners. Unfortunately, in the circumstances, Charles was one of them. As he put himself out to be charming, they encircled the floor with some grace, Frances’s feet becoming more obedient to her will. He smiled and conversed like a man of sense, putting her at her ease, but all the time she was aware of Aldeborough’s critical regard.
‘Forgive me, Frances. I did not intend to give Aldeborough the wrong impression this afternoon or give him a weapon to use against you. I was only showing a cousinly concern.’
‘There is no problem, Charles. Aldeborough and I understa
nd each other very well.’ She would not discuss her relationship with her husband, but she found it difficult not to respond to Charles’s warm smile and expressions of concern, so different from the Marquis’s chilly arrogance. She found herself returning his smile and laughing at his light conversational remarks. She would ignore the waves of disapproval from the man whom she was learning had the reputation of being nothing less than a rake.
The evening ended for Frances in an abyss. She furthered her acquaintance with Miss Vowchurch, but did not enjoy the experience or realise the repercussions that would spread like ripples from a pebble tossed carelessly into a pond. As that lady was chaperoned by the Dowager Lady Aldeborough, resplendent in maroon satin and nodding ostrich plumes, she had no choice but to exchange pleasantries between dances. Penelope looked enchanting in a white organdie gown with an overslip of spangled gauze and the cotillion which she had danced with Aldeborough made Frances very much aware of how well they were suited. She was all grace and elegance; she would have made an excellent Marchioness.
‘How charming you look tonight.’ Penelope could afford to be gracious. ‘I see that you have been improving your dancing skills.’
‘Indeed. Matthew and Ambrose have kindly allowed me to practise on them. Their feet have suffered but they have been most complimentary.’
‘Aldeborough dances so well. I saw him waltzing with Miss Charlesworth. How delightful they looked together. And at the moment—ah—I see he is waltzing with Mrs Winters. Have you been introduced? I admit to being surprised to see her here, but then she is received everywhere, although my mama would not consider inviting her to one of our select soirées. Aldeborough, of course, knows her very well. Perhaps he will introduce you.’
Penelope, demure expression intact, was invited to join a set with Lord Hay, a smile of satisfaction on her lips and the coldness of a serpent in her eyes, leaving Frances to assess the deliberate intent in that kind observation. Alone for a moment, she was able to take a closer look at the lady who had acknowledged her in Hyde Park. Mrs Winters’s demeanour on the dance floor in the Marquis’s arms proclaimed her experienced in the art of flirtation. The flame of desire in the lady’s sparkling eyes could not be dismissed. Nor could the overt attraction of her voluptuous bosom and stylish figure, superbly enhanced by her low-cut gown. Her jewellery was tasteful, drawing attention to her long fingers and delicate wrists. Her golden curls, artfully arranged so that they fell from a high knot on to her pale shoulders, framed a charming face with much character. It was such a pity, Frances thought, that her green eyes were quite so predatory. Her own fingers curled into admirable catlike claws as she observed the lady casting flirtatious glances at Aldeborough, laughing at his comments. At the same time Aldeborough bent to catch something she had said, his cheek almost brushing her hair, an intensely intimate gesture. Frances’s nails buried themselves painfully into her soft palms.